by Joanna Angel
“Sometimes heels make some women feel sexy,” I said. “It turns them into superwomen.”
“Well, not me,” she replied.
“Have you ever even worn high heels?” I asked.
“My mom made me when I was in a dance recital in the fifth grade! I fell flat on my face. And then just a few weeks later I came out of the closet.”
Well, well, well. Finally, something I had more experience in than Amanda had. It was time for a lesson.
I grabbed a pair of red, patent-leather heels that we had in stock. I sat on the floor, slipped off my Converses, and put the heels on. My toes bunched up and stuck out of the open-toe shoe, daggers of sharp black hairs jutted out of the area around my ankle that I buckled the strap around. I should really shave more meticulously if my sex life was going to remain active like this. I now actually looked like a younger version of Sandy with giant red heels, a purple corset, and cotton leggings. I walked around the store like it was a catwalk, my ass and calves felt tighter, and my posture felt incredibly statuesque.
“How do I look?” I batted my eyes at her.
“A little ridiculous, and kinda hot!” she answered. She kissed me, in the middle of the empty store, and we did a middle school slow dance to the loop of generic keyboard sounds playing on the porn DVD behind us. I could see the Tampa morning sun peeking in through the crack under the door and knew that soon enough she would be going back to the airport.
“I don’t want you to leave,” I whispered into her ear as we danced.
“Well, I have something for you—to keep us together even when we’re apart,” she said. She went over to the counter, kneeled down, and reached inside of her backpack. What was happening? The rational part of my brain knew there was no way she could be proposing to me, but the rational part of my brain also visibly saw her kneeling on one knee, and reaching inside of a bag. What else was I supposed to think?
She pulled out a very sleek-looking box. I thought she might be giving me a new unreleased version of the iPhone (which would have come in handy since she was indirectly the reason why my screen was now broken) but it said “We-Vibe” on the front.
“What is that?” I said.
She opened the box and pulled out this purple, curved, mini U-shaped thing. It reminded me of a clip my mother used to use on bags of potato chips to make sure they wouldn’t go stale.
“Put this on,” she said.
“Uh, ok?” I stretched it apart and put it on like a bracelet.
“No, no—stick it IN you,” she said with delight.
I was skeptical, but I complied, pulling my pants down around my ankles and moving the lace panties to one side. I felt like I was balancing on stilts, with the new shoes I was wearing and my pants limiting my movement. I channeled my inner porn star getting fucked by a staircase and held my balance.
“The skinnier side goes inside, the thicker one is for the outside.”
Tentatively, I slid it inside me. It fit quite snug, like a magnet pressed against my pussy. She then pulled out her phone and pressed a few buttons, and, what the fuck! Out of nowhere, I felt a strong vibrating sensation against my clit. Amanda laughed maniacally.
“What did you just do?” I asked.
“This is the future of novelties. Welcome. I can control this from anywhere in the world, from my phone,” she said.
“What?!”
“Seriously—look!”
She walked outside the door, into the Pasco County morning sun. There was nothing but silence in the store, I thought this was an evil trick to leave me without saying good-bye. But moments later, I felt it. A strong sensation, pulsating on my pussy. It went harder, and softer, then it turned off, then it jolted back on, to what I think was the highest decibel it could possibly go, and it made me fall straight to the floor in my wobbly heels. She walked back into the store, holding her phone with confidence, like it was a detonator to a nuclear bomb.
“See—I told you!” She came back and found me laying on the ground, embarrassed, bruised from my fall, and almost about to cum from the feeling of this neat little toy. I was her personal remote-controlled car, which wasn’t far off from how things usually were but now a piece of sexual technology made that dynamic more official.
She kept pushing buttons on her phone like she was playing an instrument. The vibrations inside me got stronger, and softer, and pulsated at different speeds, like it was changing radio stations to find the perfect song to play inside my pussy.
“Amanda,” I yelled. She held my hand standing up while I sat on the ground. I looked in her eyes, shining wickedly. It was like being on some kind of drug. She kneeled down and grabbed me by the throat. She stuck her fingers down my new panties that were now soaked in moisture (ironic, since these panties were purchased for the sole purpose of replacing my other cum-soaked panties).
She tickled my pussy lips anywhere around the vibe she possibly had room, and kissed me as she held onto my throat. I waved my arms and grabbed onto her tits, her pussy, her face, anything I could latch onto while I bounced up and down and looked deep into her brown eyes.
“Are you gonna cum?” she asked. I nodded slowly. This was incredible. And then, right then and there, she shut her phone off.
“Oh my god! Turn it back on, you monster!” I gasped.
She threw me up against the register and pulled my pants completely off. She licked my thighs, she licked my asshole, she licked everywhere around my vagina that wasn’t being smothered with a vibrator. The curved purple toy stayed snug inside me. She pushed a few buttons on her phone and it vibrated once again, at a strong steady pace inside me while she sucked on my clit and playfully slapped my thighs. I came so hard inside her mouth.
I felt at peace. Like this is everywhere my body has ever wanted to be, up against a cash register, looking at Amanda between my thighs in her sexy suit. I felt juices gushing out of me. I kept yelling her name. I quivered and fell to the ground. We both lied down on the cold, dirty concrete floor; I held her closely. My pussy was still swollen from her sucking. It belonged to her and her mouth.
“Well, that was amazing,” I said, breathing deeply to reclaim the blood that had flown to my crotch.
“I want you to keep it. Charge it and leave it in you at all times and you’ll never know when I decide to play. It might be in the morning, it might be in the evening— you’ll never know! But I’ll be with you all the time.”
“Am I ever going to physically see you again?” I asked, almost afraid of the answer.
“You will!” she said. “But you know my work takes me all over. I’ll come back when I can.”
“I suppose I won’t know when that will happen, either!” This must be what it felt like to come down off a drug: The downward spiral of reality setting in, making you crave another hit. My shift was almost over, and I didn’t know when I would ever feel her again.
“Are you even coming to the event I put together? I will have no clue what I’m doing, and it was all your idea!” I said.
“I can’t promise to come, but I can promise to try,” she responded. “I want to. I do. But—work comes first.”
A heavy silence hung between us, even as we held each other. I could tell she meant what she said, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.
“I should head back to the airport. I gotta go through security all over again and shit,” she added, after several moments of complete silence, other than the sound of a girl getting fucked really hard and repeating, “Ohhh, Make Me Creamy, baby.” (I must say I truly respected the way the actresses had so much passion for the title of the movie.)
Amanda stood up, straightened herself, put her blazer back on, kissed me, and walked out the door. I was alone in the store, the place that in recent memory had held my greatest joys and my greatest heartaches. It was a little after 8:00 A.M. One more hour to go.
I spent the last part of my shift in a half-post-orgasm glow, half-mopey sadness. Only once did a customer come in; he purchased a Fl
eshlight and I directed him to the appropriate water-based lube to go with it. No vagina in a can will go ruined on my watch ever again.
And just as I was in the register gathering him the appropriate change, the vibrator inside me went off. I squirmed and giggled and jumped around. It was the perfect last good-bye kiss for the night I desperately needed. Oh, wait. She just set it off one more time. Let’s see if I can successfully sweep the floor while I continue to vibrate.
Continue with Taryn in this fantasy, Click Here.
Over the next two weeks my post on the swingers’ message board gained over a hundred new replies, and I had about eighty official RSVPs. Cherise and Chuck wrote a very favorable review of Dreamz as one of the responses to the post. They said it was comfortable and laid back, with a good selection of products and private, very affordable ROOMZ, and they politely mentioned the incredibly accommodating staff without getting into any details.
I kept my We Vibe charged up and left inside me as much as I possibly could. In true Amanda fashion, she set it off with no routine schedule at all. I never knew when it was coming (or, more accurately, when I would be cumming). She had power over my vagina at any time of the day. Her cell phone was like an erogenous Voodoo doll, but causing pleasure instead of pain.
One evening before I went to work, we Skyped with each other and she essentially jerked me off from the other side of the country. She knew exactly what setting to put it on to make me go insane. It’s like she had figured out an exact algorithm to make my pussy climax. She laughed when I orgasmed. She was truly sadistic with her love for toying with my emotions and body, and I was truly masochistic for enjoying it. The other day it went off while my landlord was over trying to show me how to reset the hot water heater. I immediately had to excuse myself, and as a result, he never finished explaining it to
me. My shower has unfortunately remained cold.
Amanda never gave me a definite answer on whether she was coming to my event or not. I had no idea how someone could be wishy washy about plans when they are happening in a different state.
On the day of the event, I eagerly awaited a text or call from her saying, I’m on my way, or I’ll be there soon, or Taryn, I love you so much I can’t wait to fuck you in front of a whole bunch of people tonight. But the hours passed by, and my eagerness turned to frustration as I wallowed in the radio silence from my lover. By 5:00 P.M. , I decided that enough was enough and I texted her.
“Are you at the airport?” I stared at the message, willing a response to show. Please let a response show soon!
Five minutes later, she replied.
“Yeah, but I’m always at the airport ;)”
She was so frustrating. Every time I felt like I was close to sending some kind of dramatic text with an ultimatum on our relationship and her behavior, she would make a remote orgasm happen and I would forget why I was ever angry in the first place. But not this time, damn it! This was my night, and I wasn’t going to let my anger at Amanda ruin it, and I wouldn’t forgive her for missing it. I was still hopeful she’d show, but if she didn’t, well, I wouldn’t be having any more technologically transmitted orgasms, that’s for sure.
I continued getting ready for the event. Sandy made her signature “punch,” with apple-pie flavored moonshine and some kind of cranberry drink. I researched what foods were the best aphrodisiacs and the internet kept telling me oysters, but there was no way I was going to bring raw fish into Dreamz. Semen is one thing, but raw fish sitting out for a long time had to be against our health code. I settled for a giant bag of heart shaped chocolates I found at CVS, and Sandy brought a giant tub of imitation Cheetos (the generic brand that is just called “cheese puffs”) that she loves so much. I’m not entirely sure what is in Sandy’s diet other than moonshine and cheese puffs.
I put up signs all over the store, hand printed signs I made with markers and scrap paper, posting sales and package deals on toys, lingerie, and ROOMZ. I put Make Me Creamy on the TV. I had actually played it almost every night; I had every last sex position memorized by this point. It reminded me of Amanda and I felt a warm nostalgic comfort when cum spilled out of those vaginas.
I wore a little pastel pink dress; it was tight up top and flowy on the bottom, shaped like a bell. Underneath I wore a pair of black high-cut lace panties. Since I last saw Amanda, I had developed a small collection of bras and panties that served some fashion and not purely just a function. Most importantly, my direct telecommunicator to Amanda was fully charged and sat comfortably inside me, clipped on my inside and outside like a paper clip.
I wasn’t sure what would happen tonight. I didn’t have an itinerary, just free snacks and half-priced dildos, but from the little I’d learned about this culture of sexually advanced couples I think that should suffice. Sandy was putting her fire-engine red lipstick on. About sixty percent of it was on her actual lips.
“So, who is coming in here tonight?” Sandy asked me.
“Oh! Well, hopefully, a bunch of couples who wanna have threesomes and trade partners and stuff,” I said.
“They’re called swingers,” Sandy said. I don’t know why I assumed Sandy didn’t know the proper terminology.
“Yeah, I uh, I just learned that recently!” I said.
“My ex-husband and I used to be in the lifestyle! And when we first opened we had a lot of parties here.”
“Oh really? I had no idea!” I did wonder sometimes what the old Dreamz was like. Knowing this information made me feel slightly less guilty about having sex while on the clock. Even though I didn’t actually feel that guilty in the first place.
“What happened? Why did you stop?” I asked.
“Well, I got divorced. And things got a little complicated, and now my friends from that scene are just too old. You don’t want them coming in here and having sex!” She laughed. I didn’t think about couples who got divorced in the lifestyle. Can you get promoted (or demoted?) from a swinger to a unicorn? Watching your husband have sex with your friends could be fun—watching your ex-husband have sex with your friends would be a different story. But I didn’t need to think about these things right now. Tonight was going to be filled with lots of sex, fun, cheese puffs, and possibly Amanda.
A few hours later, the store began to fill up. I watched as couple after couple came into the store, some beautiful, some really not, some that looked so mismatched I couldn’t picture them having sex if I tried! Then, of course, there were the couples who were like gods on earth: so incredibly hot, each bone perfectly placed, skin gleaming, eyes sparkling in a way that said I’ll be the best fuck you’ve ever had.
I couldn’t believe all of these people were here because of me! In my head, I quickly gave myself a congratulatory pat on the back, then went to mingle and sell things.
It was interesting to overhear the conversations that went on. Different types of couples meandered around the store, scoping each other out, making professional arrangements as to who should have sex with whom, and what their limitations were. Some couples insisted on their “swap” being in the same room. Other preferred to be separated. Some were simply looking for another couple to have oral sex with, without any “below the belt” penetration. One couple asked me if they could have sex somewhere in the store, because they wanted everyone to just watch but they didn’t want anyone else interacting with them; I told them that they could make an announcement and let people watch them on the ROOMZ monitor. They happily agreed and purchased one of the ROOMZ. One couple eagerly awaited for a single man they had prior arrangements with to double penetrate his wife, but he was nowhere to be found. The wife wasn’t pleased. I tried to sell them an extra-large dildo to solve the problem and they seemed moderately insulted. It was their loss, I knew first-hand that it was a truly good dildo.
There was one unfortunate disgruntled couple who came in—everything about their synergy was just off. The man clearly didn’t want to be there; he huffed and puffed the whole time. He was short and scrawny, with dar
k hair that looked like a Brillo pad on top of his head, swimming inside his jeans and his oversized flannel. His wife was a very tall, blonde woman with large, broad shoulders that made her look like a linebacker.
“My husband can’t give me orgasms anymore. What the fuck do we do about this?” the woman abruptly came up to the counter and asked me.
“Oh! I am so sorry. My name is Taryn! Maybe I can recommend some toys to help you guys out?”
“Hi, I’m Jen,” she shouted. She was a little rough around the edges, and struck me as someone who might have a slight case of Asperger’s. Her husband looked petrified and didn’t speak.
I picked out a few things from around the store that I thought would help. I mean, they still wouldn’t be orgasms her husband was giving her but he could hold the toy while it did the job for her. A Hitachi wand, a vibrating egg, and a rather expensive eight-inch curved metal wand with circles on it that were supposed to hit your G-spot. It was a product that I thought was a little too advanced for the Dreamz customer base but Amanda swore by it and made me order it wholesale. I felt like this big angry woman needed a big solid toy to make her cum. They purchased a room together without attempting to invite anyone else in.
“Good luck!” I shouted to them.
Sandy mingled with everyone—casually grabbing guys’ cocks, and kissing girls on the lips (leaving their faces stained red). She served her punch in plastic cups, and carefully arranged the snacks on paper plates as if it was some kind of charcuterie board (I learned what that was at the “gastropub” I went to with Amanda).
The couples were all starting to split off, some making out in dark corners, some purchasing time in ROOMZ, or buying toys and leaving to partake in sexual excursions elsewhere. There were plenty of people here, even some single men who had come to provide additional services. I did not see any single girls there to be a third party to the couples. I guess unicorns really are rare.