tagToys & MasturbationI Bought You a Present

I Bought You a Present

byMissOh©

'I bought you a present,' he says and immediately I am suspicious, rattled at his presumptuousness. So I'm leaving for another city, so what? Girlfriends get farewell gifts and that's not a title I ever want to claim for myself. I take the box from him and let him pour me a glass of wine. His reflection in the blood red liquid breaks up, becoming blistered in the bubbles like a photograph held over a flame. He watches me as I negotiate the inexpert wrapping and there is a glimmer in his eyes, a serpentine smirk sneaking onto his face that I just don't trust.

I'm not shocked to find a vibrator nestling in the garish pink tissue paper. There's a tedious inevitability about this: it seems so obvious, so crude. Like an unimaginative hen night gift, supposed to be met with scandalized screeching and gleeful cackles. Though I can never be accused of being uptight about my sexuality I've always viewed masturbation as an intimacy experienced in seclusion, a secret between my body and myself. And so I feel affronted by this presentation of something so synthetic and dispassionate. A violet coloured moulded plastic cock does not, to me, scream sensuality.

But I smile politely and thank him accordingly. I allow him to brush the hair back from my forehead -- a trite gesture which has always irked me. I turn my face towards him and receive his kiss. I'm leaving in the morning and a decent fuck will guarantee a good night's sleep.

I've always liked the way he fucks. He's methodical, thorough. Some people might find the careful precision with which he executes his moves cold or lacking raw passion but it works for me. He always starts by kissing my neck, my cleavage, pinching my nipples through my clothes. He pulls me close and kisses my mouth, his tongue teasing mine as he unbuttons my shirt, unhooks my bra and exposes my breasts. I feel the fabric of his shirt against my erect nipples and I breathe in sharply, letting him know it's time for him to move on to the next stage. He takes one nipple in his mouth, licking, sucking, grazing it with his teeth. He treats it as if it were my clit, his flickering tongue changing speed, his sensitive ear listening out for the soft mewl that evidences my pleasure. As soon as he hears his cue he slides his hand down between us, between my parting thighs, slipping it under the fabric of my knickers and easily sliding it into the well of nectar his actions have inspired from me. His finger, now wet with my juices, moves up to coat my nipples in the sticky fluid. He applies it with such care before licking it off, savouring the taste. I remember when he first told me how much the taste of me turned him on. It's possibly the most erotic compliment I've ever had.

Now he's licked me clean it's time for me to stand in front of him and slowly remove the rest of my clothes, my gaze locked with his. I ask him the question I always ask:

'What do you want to do to me?'

And he replies with the usual:

'I want to lick you out.'

He's lying on the bed and I climb over him, straddling his face. I look down to see the look of lustful expectation in his eyes. He's breathing in the smell of me and it's making him harder. He can see my glistening, plump cunt lips and my obscenely engorged clit and I know he's hungry for it but I always make him wait, make his body go tense with longing, make a growl of desperation rumble from his throat. And then I grab him by the hair and bury his mouth in my mound. His tongue navigates my clit with practiced ease, teasing, flicking making me grind myself onto him and moan and squeal. I exclaim like a porn star, turning the air blue with my language and when he feels me getting close, when I'm writhing on his face like a woman possessed, he slips a finger inside me and pushes me over the edge. My contracting muscles squeeze around his finger and my scream can probably be heard in the next flat. Some people may like spontaneity but I think there's definitely something to be said for following a proven formula.

Of course he ruins it all when he fucks me. Instead of taking me with his usual force, fucking me hard as I moan beneath him, he deviates from the routine. He moves slowly, frustratingly gently and keeps eye contact the whole time. I have a horrible feeling he's trying to make love to me. In the last few moments an animal instinct thankfully overtakes him and he drives his cock into me but he finishes before me, rolls off then pulls me into a hug. He hasn't even noticed I didn't come.

*

I've been living in Brighton for 5 weeks now and though I'd, of course, expected the pace of life to be different, I hadn't realised the sense of freedom I'd feel being in a seaside town rather than the labyrinthine oppression of London. Though autumn is fast approaching I go to the seafront every Sunday morning to breathe in the salt, the spreading distance of the sea and fill my ears with the screeches of the spiraling seagulls.

He's been keeping in touch which I have appreciated but as I snuggle down more comfortably into my new life I greet his emails with less enthusiasm. He can tell and my withdrawal has made his writing more whiney, desperate. My newfound peace of mind must have made me more susceptible to emotional blackmail than before because this Sunday I must tear myself away from the crashing waves, brooding skies and wheeling birds to speak with him on Skype. I've let my guilt at my distance manipulate me and I grudgingly leave the beach to speak to a man I don't really care about anymore.

'Hello.'

'Hello.' The first few moments of this conversation are as stilted as the stop-motion image of him the dodgy internet connection gives me. We discuss work, family, new friends and old. We skirt the real issue, both of us knowing how this conversation is likely to end. We keep reaching sticking points where the real words try to tumble out but our ingrained English civility allows us to avoid it for now. Eventually, however, we run out of things to say and I take a deep breath, the fateful sentences stringing themselves in my mind but before I can even form a word he jumps in.

'Do you remember that present I bought you? You know, before you left?'

My head is so full of platitudes and apologies and all the clichés of break up patter it takes me a while to work out what he's talking about. And then I remember. I picture it, that immobile pink phallus lying benignly in its meretricious pink nest and a wave of irritation sweeps over me as I remember how affronted I felt at its presentation, at how little he knew me. And I remember that he didn't notice that I didn't come.

'The vibrator? Yes, of course I remember.' But he doesn't notice the bile in my voice, his mind is somewhere else.

'Go and get it for me.'

At first I'm angry at a demand he has no right to make but there's a quiet authority in his voice that gets to me. A commanding tone always kicks my libido into gear and sets it on a track that my rational mind has few hopes of derailing it from.

I go to my new bedroom, dig through the one box still left unpacked and find the long, slender box. I check for batteries that he has thoughtfully inserted for me. Somehow I already knew he would have.

I sit myself back in front of the computer, attempting to maintain an aura of decorum but the filthy side of me has been charged by the thought of performing for him. The weight of the tawdry device in my hand is getting me wet.

'I've got it,' I state obviously.

'Good girl,' he says. 'Now take off your knickers for me.' I slide them down over the tops of my stockings, glad that the cold weather and a ladder in my only pair of tights forced me to wear them today. He watches me drop my under wear to the floor. 'Hitch up your skirt, baby,' I always hated him calling me that. 'Spread your legs. I want to see that tight little cunt of yours.' I'm amazed at the control his voice is having on my actions. He's more than fifty miles away and manipulating me like a marionette.

I put my feet either side of the laptop screen giving him a direct view of my pixilated pussy. I don't know if the picture will be good enough for him to see my swollen lips and tumescent clit but I know he has the perfect picture in his minds eye from all those times I made him stare into me and ache with appetence.

'Are you wet for me, baby? Reach down and stroke yourself, tell me how it feels.' The fingers that now apparently belong more to him than to me trail down my thighs and slip into the inevitable pool of desire. I'm wetter than I thought I would be and my sharp gasp tells him this. 'Come on, baby, tell me how it feels.' I really wish he'd stop calling me that.

'I'm soaking,' I tell him. 'I didn't think I would be.'

He laughs at that. 'I knew you would be. You're a filthy little bitch.' His arrogant tone rankles me but, shamefully, turns me on even more.

'Is this the first time you're using the vibrator?' I nod. 'Well, I'm glad you saved it up for me.' And I wonder why he makes this statement that we both know isn't true.

'Switch it on.' The buzz of it is embarrassing in its volume and I suddenly feel uncharacteristically prudish. He must notice my hesitancy because he ups the assertive tone in his voice. 'Run it over your tits, get your nipples nice and hard for me.' How can I say no? 'Now get them out.' There's a slightly awkward pause where I wrestle with the various autumnal layers and then I can feel the vibrating plastic irritating my already hard nipples. 'That's it. Tease them just like I used to do with my tongue, remember?' How could I forget? I let out a mewl of pleasure and I know what should come next. Before he can tell me to my hand is moving down, between my spreading thighs to coat my fingers in my juices and apply them to my nipple. The wet finger could be his tongue as it circles and flickers. My hips are canting and I'm ready to move on to the next stage. I run the vibrator down my stomach, over the folding of my hitched skirt and it skids lightly over my clit before I plunge it inside me. It feels cold and alien but also glorious to be filled this way. I push myself onto it and fuck myself for while, hips moving, incoherent sounds escaping my lips. I'm aware that his eyes are on me, that he's watching my face for the paroxysms of pleasure that distort it. I move the vibrator up to my clit and the sensation makes me scream softly. It's such an intense feeling for a second I wonder if I can take it and then I realise I'm grinding against it, my body greedy for it. I slide my index finger inside myself and kick up the speed a notch. The pleasure increases with the tempo and I'm soon writhing and moaning, impaled on my own finger. Through the haze I'm still aware of him watching me but he isn't making a sound, I don't even think he's touching himself. It's like he's storing this up for later, for the time when he is no longer able to see me like this. But I prefer him silent, a calm observer of my wild passion. I turn the vibrator up one more time and this is it, my orgasm engulfs me. My cunt contracts so tightly it's hard to force my finger inside me and it's painful in its crushing intensity. I scream his name but it's bittersweet on my tongue.

I turn off the vibrator, hard silence descends into which I pant feverishly, trying to catch my breath.

'Are you OK?' he asks.

'Yes,' I say, 'that was amazing.'

'Thank you for doing it for me.'

*

We don't discuss our relationship that day but I send him an email a few days later which I know he knows is coming. In a few weeks I start seeing someone else, less casually this time which is a novel experience for me and around the same time I find at that he is too, a nice girl that I used to work with. I haven't used the vibrator since that day but, for some reason, I haven't yet got around to throwing it away.

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