“Of course.”
The three of us enjoy the sights, then go our separate ways. I brainstorm ideas to make my emergence from pastry more amusing. This calls for restraints, a whip, and the biggest, blackest strap-on I can find.
Hustler Store, here I come.
Chapter Four
Love is friendship set on fire. – Jeremy Taylor
I’m greeted at the door of the Hustler Store by a lovely young lady wearing an apron. She asks if I need help.
Lots.
Do I dare ask about the apron?
No.
It’s a vast store, with stripper wear on the first floor and stairs leading up to the loft of kinkery.
“My name is Nelly. Do you have anything special in mind?”
“I don’t even know where to begin, Nelly.”
“Well,” she asks, “is it for a man or a woman?”
“For this man’s woman.”
“Excellent. What does she enjoy?”
“Overtime goals and zucchini.”
“Um ...”
“Right. You can see my predicament.”
She leads me along a wall of dildos and vibrators. I’m not one to blush, but this place has me crimson.
“What does this do?” I ask while attempting to read the price without touching the U-shaped device.
“Ah, this one is very popular. You have a good eye, sir.” She sounds like she’s selling me a BMW. “This vibrator stimulates the woman, both inside and out.”
I stand perplexed.
“Her clitoris and her G-spot.”
“Of course. I’d like one in purple. Oh, and someone stole my Fukuoku Glove, so I’ll need one of those too—in black, please. Anything else you can recommend?”
“Lotions?”
“Do you have bacon-flavored?”
“...”
“Kidding. Something minty will do.”
“Excellent. Anything else? Perhaps more advanced devices for the adventuresome?”
“Bring it.”
She leads me over to the corner with triangular dildo-ish toys and strings with different sized beads and a ring that reminds me of the merry-go-round ride of my childhood.
“Do you know what these are?”
“Dog toys?”
“No, silly, these are for anal play.”
Ouch.
“These are butt plugs and these are anal beads. They’ll both go well with your minty lube. Have you used either before?”
“Of course, I have. I’m a skilled plugologist.”
“Great. Then, you’ll require his and hers.”
“Whoa, Nelly—only hers.”
“Ever tried it?”
“No.”
“How about a pinky?” she gestures.
“What?”
“You know, during a blowjob. It heightens the sensation.”
“Exit only.”
“Don’t be like that. It doesn’t mean you’re gay. The anus is quite sensitive and erogenous.”
“Yes, it is,” adds a boy-stander I’m unaware is standing by me. “You must try the beads too. They all go in except the ring, and just when you’re ready to pop, have your lover yank them out with the ring. Heavenly!”
My virgin butt hole puckers as I try to digest their suggestions.
“Fine. Double bag them. Here’s my card.”
Lovergirl has me outmatched, but I plan to prove I can hang. I’ll whip out my new arsenal and wear her ass (
tee, hee
) out before she leaves for her girls’ night.
Shit! I almost forgot.
“I also need a big black strap-on.”
“Will the Cockasaurus Rex do?” she asks while dangling something resembling a toasted Genoa Salami in front of me.
“I believe it will.”
Chapter Five
Let there be such oneness between us, that when one cries, the other tastes salt. – Rossabelle Believe
Bea accepts my offer to cook dinner—stuffed artichokes and filet kabobs. When she arrives, I’m on my second glass of wine. I’ve left the sex toys in the plain paper bag between our place settings.
“What’s in the bag?”
“Dessert, my love. No peeking!”
“You’re no fun.”
“Oh, just you wait.”
“I’ll go upstairs and freshen up. Be right back.”
I continue cooking with wine, my unconventional way. Sure, I’m a little heavy on the garlic salt, but it makes everything better, as long as both lovers partake.
“Sweetie?”
“Yes.”
“Can you come up here a minute?”
“Sure.”
Uh, oh. What did she find?
When I step into my master bath, she’s wearing one of my button-downs and her lace panties, standing sideways in front of the full-length mirror.
“Look!” she glows, showing the first signs of a baby bump.
“Hm. I’ve got two words for you: salad bar.”
“Hey.”
“Light beer?”
“Stop it.”
“Can you feel that lunch burrito kicking?”
“Ha, ha. Not yet. I’m just over four months, so this is about right. No more top buttons for me,” she pouts.
“So cute. Can I take a picture and post it as little Pippino’s first update on Facebook?”
“No, Gordon will not have a Facebook account until he is sixteen.”
“Gordon?”
“You can call him Gordie.”
“You can call him Pip.”
“I have a suggestion: Let’s settle this child-naming thing with a contest.”
“I’m listening.”
“A sort of sexual Olympics,” she offers.
“Ooh, I love a challenge. You’re going down, woman.”
“And so are you. The first event is the sideways sixty-nine sprint to orgasm.”
“Huh?”
“The first one to bring the other to orgasm wins.”
“Now?”
“Go turn off the stove and grill, and get your butt back up here.”
“Italy shall have its first gold medal of this Olympiad,” I tease, as I sprint downstairs and turn down the heat. “Dun, DUN-duh, dun dun DUN dun ...”
“That sounds more like ‘Rocky’ to me.”
“Shut it.”
I sneak into the Hustler bag and arm myself with the
We-Vibe
vibrator—dual sensation with penetration.
I can’t be defeated.
Bea’s already on the bed. I dive next to her and tickle her toes, then remove her panties as she frees Little Mormon from my jeans.
Lovergirl is quite skilled. At this angle, she’s able to bury me deep into her throat. I run through baseball statistics to avoid the inevitable. I draw the alphabet and flip on the
We-Vibe
.
Fuck! I must hurry ... I’m so close!
Once I have the vibrator in place, she gasps and squeezes my head tightly between her thighs.
Ouch! She’s the best chiropractor I ever met.
I hear her muffled ecstasy.
“Oh ... my ... effing ... GOD!” she arches toward climax.
“Booyah, motherfucker,” I beam with pride.
She lets loose a thunderous orgasm and finishes me off seconds later. Being the mature type, I do my touchdown dance around the bedroom with my glazed love éclair and purple weapon.
“What is that, and where did you get it?”
“This, Lovergirl, is yet another weapon in my arsenal. Make that Italy one, Canada nil,” I bow. “Raise the flag, fuckers! Pippino must be so proud of his poppa.”
“You’ve won the battle, Uncle M, not the war. Now, go finish my dinner.”
“Yes, dear.”
We laugh through dinner as Bea inspects the bag of badness. I’ve impressed my love, but I suspect she’ll step up her game.
Chapter Six
Opportunity dances with those who are already on the dance floor. – H. Jackson Brown, Jr.
After dinner, we dunk warm Toll House cookies in milk and catch up on
Nurse Jackie
episodes.
Zoey rules!
Bea’s appetite—both for food and for sex—is growing, and I’m keeping up, so far.
“One more cookie, Lovergirl. I bet my boy is smiling,” I tease as I pat her belly.
“Uncle M, you constantly impress me. You bake?”
“I slaved all night making sure the batter was just right.”
“Swoon!”
“Oh, and please ignore the Nestlé bag in the garbage.”
“Cheater.”
“I need to take it easy, with all those heavy medals soon to be hanging around my neck. My poor back.”
“Speaking of, I believe it’s time for another event.”
“I’ll do some deep knee bends and change into my track suit.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“What’s the event?”
“The Grip Test. I noticed two plugs in the bag of fun.”
“But ...”
“Exactly.”
“Let me chug this wine first.”
*Gulp*
“OK, what are the rules?” I ask as Bea removes the intimidating butt plugs and tube of mint lube from the Hustler bag.
“We each insert one of these and then get it on, missionary-style. Whoever knocks the plug out of the other person’s butt, without using hands, wins.”
“So embarrassing.”
“You can forfeit if you like.”
“You may take my pride, but you’ll never take my butt plug!”
Lovergirl hands me the plugs and lube, and goes into the kitchen.
“What are you doing?”
“We need this, too,” she replies while showing me the pepper shaker.
“Pepper?”
“You’ll see, Uncle M.”
We disrobe, pull down the comforter, and place two towels on the bed.
Shit. How intimidating!
“My virgin butt is going to need lots of foreplay, kind words, and a thick layer of lube.”
“You can still back out.”
“No way. I’m tight, y’all.”
Lovergirl lathers the lube onto the plugs and hands me one.
“I don’t think I’ve had anything up there since a thermometer in the sixties.”
“Kinky.”
“How do we do this? I can’t put it in myself,” I protest while noticing hers is already in place.
“Gimme.”
Yikes!
“Be gentle,” I mewl.
She manages to get it in and then mounts me. I concentrate on squeezing my cheeks without pushing as she slams away on top of me.
“Do you like it, Uncle M?”
“It’s ... different. Stop trying to distract me,” I insist.
I bite my bottom lip as she slams harder and harder. All this concentration is delaying my orgasm, so there’s one benefit. She orgasms twice, but her plug is cemented; mine is slipping.
Bea covers my eyes and reaches toward the bedside table.
What’s she up to?
I hear shaking and, suddenly, I smell pepper.
“Aaaaaah CHOO!” I sneeze, which sends my butt plug flying.
Rats!
“Bless you.”
Canada has her first gold.
Chapter Seven
Don’t let what you cannot do interfere with what you can do. – John Wooden
It’s Bea’s big night with her friends. Eric and his partner have been helping plan my surprise. I get the call saying she has left the office, so I drive there. As I pull up, I notice a pickup truck with a large present on wheels in the bed. Eric and Daniel are strapping it down.
“I thought I was jumping out of a cake?” I ask out my Jeep’s window.
“The cake was booked, Mormon. This will do just fine,” Eric assures me.
“If you say so.”
I reach under my passenger seat and extract the second Hustler bag, kept secret from my Lovergirl.
“What have you there?” Daniel asks.
I whip out the Cockasaurus Rex as their eyes light up. I’m not sure if it’s envy, arousal, or fear.
“In the words of Otter Stratton, ‘She’ll take
this
seriously,’” I exclaim while dangling the largest strap-on known to man (or horse, for that matter).
“Oh, my,” the boys gasp in stereo.
“Sorry, fellas. Rex is unavailable this evening. He is to ride securely next to my leg, making all the ladies dewy with desire.”
“Come inside and try on your outfit, Officer Clydesdale,” Daniel suggests.
Why haven’t I learned to trust my instincts? Naturally, the police uniform is specifically designed for parades at which I would not dare leave the curb. The pants are faux leather with both ass cheeks cut out. There’s matching navy, T-back underwear. The belt contains handcuffs and a whip, not a gun. The shirt pockets have flaps with nipple clamps. A somewhat normal cap and mirrored Ray-Bans are all I have left to hide beneath.
When I emerge from the bathroom to model the costume, Eric and Daniel nearly convulse in laughter.
“Turn around, Mormon.”
“No.”
“Oh, come on,” Daniel encourages.
“I have hair on my ass, Daniel. This won’t do.”
“We could shave you,” suggests Eric.
“Stop, Lover. It’s sexy, Mormon,” Daniel insists. “Men are supposed to have hair. I see the salami fit perfectly.”
“Yum, yum,” Eric teases. “Pass the Poupon.”
“All right, knock it off before I change my mind. What’s the plan?”
Eric informs me that a limo bus is taking the women barhopping downtown, and it will be best to do my thing at the restaurant they’re meeting in for Happy Hour. He insists it won’t be crowded. Daniel has a Bose wireless speaker linked to an iPod to provide music for my routine.
“Climb into the box and we’ll be on our way.”
“What? Why can’t I ride with you?”
“You’ll be seen. Get in. It’s only ten miles or so.”
“Fine. Fetch thee my tequila for the ride. It’s in the bag.”
I sit Indian-style in the box. I barely fit. Luckily, the ride isn’t too bumpy. When we come to a stop, I lift the top to look around. I see the limo bus. Eric pushes the lid back down.
“Hey! No peeking. You’ll be seen.”
“Fuck. Fine. Hurry up.”
Eric lifts the top a sliver again.
“What?”
“How much of that did you drink?”
“Three fingers, if you must know.” I take another pull. “Make that four.”
“Stay down until you hear the music begin. Shh.”
“Got it.”
Eric and Daniel drop the door on the truck bed and lift out the large gift box. They roll me across the parking lot while I take one more swig. Their whispering and giggling is making me nervous. Once inside, I hear various muffled voices.
“Ladies, can I have your attention,” Eric begins. “Miss, will you please have a seat right here. Thank you. And now ...”
Joe Cocker’s “You Can Leave Your Hat On” begins blaring—my cue to begin. I stand and throw the lid off the box. I hear gasps.
Oh, fuck!
It’s a bingo hall filled with senior citizens and seated in the chair in front of me, instead of my Lovergirl, is Grandma Aspinwald.