I have a lot of sex toys. Some I use regularly, some are saved for special occasions, some were used once and are sitting at the back of the bottom drawer. I have vibrators that pulse to the beat on my iPod, vibes with sixteen types of vibratory variations, industrial strength vibes and mild mannered pocket sized vibes. I have dildos that look like dicks and some that look like works of art. Metal, glass, plastic, silicone, it's all been up there (I'm still waiting for those
wood ones). I've gotten used to reaching for some sort of implement when rubbing one off, so I planned ahead and brought along a little travel sized bit of fun when I went home for the holidays.
I forgot the acoustics in my folks house are horribly unforgiving. It's also why I always pack earplugs. Since the guest room / mom's office had been taken over by file folders, I was annexed to the sofa bed in the living room where I could hear everything that happened above me. So, it's safe to assume my folks could hear everything below them.
I laid there on the sofa bed, staring at the darkened Christmas tree, not quite ready to fall asleep but too drowsy to read. My mind wandered. I replayed some particularly juicy bits from a date a few days before and felt that sudden, almost painful twinge in my clit. The vibe was packed away somewhere in the depth of my suitcase and even though it's quiet, I didn't think it would be quiet enough. My folks know enough to know what the sound of a muffled motor means and I've had enough awkward masturbatory near misses with those people. Besides, I was too lazy to move so I would just have to take care of this myself.
I love that feeling from going from a bit damp to flowing. It's so satisfying. I rubbed my clit in little circles the way I like it, every once in a while slipping in a couple of fingers inside, two then three. The light from the street illuminated the shape of my spread legs under the comforter. I could see the little lump of my hand moving faster and faster along with my breath.
In so many ways, visiting my parents turns me back into a 15 year old and this was no exception. I turned over on my stomach, my ass rising and falling. In my head, I went back and forth from being the fuckee to the fucker. I pressed my face into the pillow, breathing heavily through my nose trying to make the least amount of noise as possible. I closed my lips tight, fighting the urge to grunt as I rubbed harder and faster. I'd freeze for a moment thinking I heard the creak of stairs. My pussy gave a little spasm in protest, so I went back to work. I silently mouthed, "Take it, you fucking cunt" and other such things, the pillow getting damp with my spit. My fingers were damn near wrinkled from the wet as I pressed myself into the mattress.
I remember those orgasms. They're tighter, tenser than the ones I have now. I'm forcing my body to be still when it wants to buck and grind. I'm holding my breath to keep from yelling out loud. I imagine that I'm bound tight, strapped down, and gagged. But I'm not. The restraints are all in my head. I allow myself one long, slow audible exhale and I bring my hands up to my nose like I always do and inhale my scent. All is quiet upstairs.
I'm not giving up my vibrators. I'm all for technological developments in the art of the orgasm, but I think I've fallen in love again with my right hand.
