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Groaning, I fall forward against the bed, fumbling for my phone as another orgasm rips through my body. Sweat covers my forehead as I close my eyes and clench my thighs, my vagina throbbing as I struggle to breathe. Panting, I resume my search for my phone, finally finding it hiding between the pillows. I somehow manage to get Becca’s name up on the screen. I sigh, relieved, because this is not the time to be calling the wrong number.
“Hello?”
“Get over here,” I sputter. “Now.”
“What? Where are you? What’s going on?” she asks.
“Becca,” I cry, barely able to focus on what I need to say to her. “Get. Over. Here. Now.”
“Okay, I’m coming.”
Apparently, so am I.
I wheeze and drop the phone, crying out as the toy plays me like a violin.
I crawl across the floor in the direction of the living room. She’s got to be at least ten minutes away, but that’s probably how long it’ll take me to get over there. I can barely manage a few slithers at a time because it’s at the point where it just hurts. The orgasms themselves feel incredible, but those few minutes in between are just pure torture. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take. On top of everything else, I’m completely exhausted. This has to be the most intense workout I’ve ever had.
#
Becca pounds on the door just as orgasm number six tapers off. I can barely move by this point, but I made it to the door to unlock it before number six and that’s the main thing. Now all I need is for her to get this thing out of me.
“It’s me,” she calls out. “Are you going to let me in?”
“It’s open,” I manage to get out.
She walks in, her eyes widening at the sight of me hunched over the couch, thighs clenched, rocking back and forth on the floor. At least I’m not naked. I managed to half squirm my way into a dress that I found lying on the floor in my room—though I must look a mess—with only one arm through the hole and the skirt bunched up around my waist. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure why I even bothered. She sprints over to me, crouching down beside me.
“Jesus, are you okay?” She glares at me as I let out a strangled sob. “Tell me what’s wrong?” she says. She looks me over, her eyes wide with concern. “Were you attacked? Did someone break in and rape you? Talk to me, Laura. Should I be calling an ambulance? The police?” Her dark eyes study mine as I struggle to form words to answer any of her questions. “For God’s sake, Laura. Say something.”
“No ambulance,” I mutter.
I groan and clamp my legs together, gasping as my body begs for relief. This is a nightmare. I point to the bedroom, where the box is still lying on the bed. Becca stalks through to my room, returning a few seconds later with the box in her hands. Her eyes widen, to the point where they’re nearly ready to fall out of her head.
“No fucking way,” she hisses.
I nod, sweat pouring out of places I didn’t know sweat could form. She clasps her hands over her mouth and stifles her laughter, before quickly kneeling down next to me.
“What do you want me to do? Dig it out? I’ll do that for you,” she says as I glare at her. “Wait… I should’ve asked before offering. Front or back?”
“Becca,” I growl, my voice high noting at the end.
“What? I’m sorry, it was a legitimate question,” she cries, holding her hands up in defense. “You know I don’t handle poop. How on earth did you manage to get it stuck in there in the first place?” she asks, shaking her head.
“Can we discuss this later, after it’s been removed from my vagina?” I beg her.
“Yes, yes, I’m sorry. Okay, let’s get you down to my car.”
“Car?” I say, alarmed. “What happened to you offering to help me—”
“You seriously want me digging around in there like I’m looking for loose change down the back of the couch?” she asks seriously. Then she giggles, but she stops when she sees my expression. “Sorry. Disturbing mental image. You understand this is pushing the friendship boundaries, right?”
I nod weakly. Oh, I understand it, all right.
She sighs and helps me climb up properly onto the couch while I try to steady myself as my body begins to convulse. God, not again. I wipe a layer of sweat off my forehead and rock back and forth, riding out the orgasm as I whimper into the cushion. Then I gasp, clenching my thighs again, until it passes.
“You’re coming already? But I haven’t even worked my magic hands on you yet,” she jokes, flexing her fingers. “Hey, do you have any kitchen gloves, or—”
