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In the darkness, I can make out the shape of each vibrator, standing together like soldiers ready to advance. I lick my lips, imagining what it would feel like to use one of them to ease the ache.
I shouldn’t. It’d be like taking advantage of someone downstairs without their knowledge.
It’d feel shady and wrong.
An invasion of privacy.
But it’d also feel good.
I can almost imagine it. The slickness between my thighs covering the smooth head. The gentle vibrations stimulate me until I cry out with release. I could bring myself to orgasm, wash it and pretend nothing happened. No one would have to know. I could even see what it would feel like to be penetrated by something so big. It’d be my first time feeling that delicious spreading sensation I’ve read about in romance novels and Tom talked about downstairs. The first time I would discover why women have such a fascination with well-hung men. It’d be strictly about educating myself in this field of study I find myself engaged in.
Is it a waste for it not to be with a real man, in the flesh, with all the associated feelings?
Maybe.
But maybe it’d take me a step closer to feeling brave enough to let go with someone in real life. And it would definitely give me a perspective on this article without having to do something crazy with anyone downstairs.
Even if I wanted to, how would I choose between them?
I snake my arm from beneath the sheet, reaching out for the nearest vibrator, not wanting to know who it belongs to, knowing I wouldn't be able to look them in the eye tomorrow if I did.
Wriggling out of my shorts and panties, I spread my legs and run the head of the vibrator over my clit and lower, gathering enough slickness to make easy progress. I turn the little dial at the top just slightly, leaving it on the lowest setting, cringing at the low hum but confident the men downstairs won’t be able to hear. The first buzz of it against my clit is like the fizz of sour candy on my tongue. The head of the cock is so big, it’s like running the end of a baseball bat between my legs. I shift my hips, rocking a little to adjust the pressure and position, closing my eyes to imagine what it would be like to have a man looming over me, big cock in hand, sliding it between my labia, teasing and teasing until I’m at the point of no return.
I imagine myself begging.Please. Please.
Men’s faces enter my mind. Carson, Theron, Gabe, Oliver, Jonas, Clay, Stefan, Jimmy, Tom and Russell. They flick through my vision like one of those old-fashioned spinning image creators that turned static pictures into something jerkily resembling real life. The nerve endings in my pussy ignite to the point of sweet, torturous pain as I imagine how he must have looked and felt, creating this vibrator for me.
Frantically, I push the vibe lower, pressing it against my entrance, relishing the force of anticipated penetration.
How would each of the men in this house fuck me? Who would be gentle and who would be brutal? Who would hold me down and who would give me freedom to move and take my own pleasure? Who’d enjoy licking me and who’d want my mouth on them? Who’d whisper deliciously dirty things in my ears and who’d fuck punctuated by harsh breaths and grunts?
I want to know.
Being on the outside of this conversation with them is like staring into a candy shop window and not being able to open the door and taste what’s inside
Pushing harder on the vibrator, my flesh begins to give way and I arch my neck, eyes still pinched firmly closed, body pulling tight like a drawn bow. Am I really going to do this? Am I really going to push this huge thing inside me?
When I use my finger to circle my clit, the answer becomes immediately obvious. Yes. Yes. Oh fuck, yes!
I’m so slick that once it’s inside just an inch, forcing it further is like slicing chocolate cake with a warm knife. I can’t believe how good it feels. Rocking into the penetration I bite my lips to hold in the groan that wants to escape. It goes deep, deep enough for me to take the whole thing, and I’m shocked. Isn’t a dick this size supposed to bottom out? From the way the men downstairs spoke, all the women they’ve been with before have struggled to take them all the way.
The slick sounds of my arousal are louder than the vibrator, but I don’t care.
There’s a single thought in my mind, a pinprick of focus, as I chase my way over the hill to orgasm.
Size does matter. It does. It really does.
And the release is good. So, good. Better than anything I’ve ever achieved at my own hand.
After, I hold the vibrator still, keeping it inside me while my muscles ripple around it, faces flashing through my mind again, a loop of gorgeous men who could do this for me in real life.
How much better would it be to feel them lose themselves in me, too? To feel that release. To know the power of the man behind the ten inches of cock that rocked my world, and the other men who could do the same.
I want to know, but I can’t.
I have to clear my mind of all these inappropriate thoughts, but how can I when I know a little of what it would be like to just let go and take what I want?
When I’ve finally come down from the precipice of pleasure, I gently ease the vibrator from inside me, hating the emptiness it leaves behind. My skin is slick with sweat, which cools as I slide from beneath the sheets and pad to the bathroom. Standing on the cold tiles, I soap and rinse the purple rubber until all evidence of my lapse in control is washed away. Looking at myself in the mirror is hard because I come face to face with a flushed cheeked, wide-eyed version of myself I don’t recognize. Is this what women look like after good sex? Or am I just so inexperienced at this kind of thing that my body has reacted more extremely? Maybe it’s just the shame of what I’ve done?
