Jessica's Insertions

To be honest, Jessica lost track of how many times, how many women, how many insertions came in and out of her. She did notice that the catheter had been left open and that she was peeing without any control whatsoever. And what is most important, Jessica lots count of how many orgasms she had that night, long ones, short ones, powerful ones, meager ones, and even some that she did not realize she was having until she was way into them!

She slept well into noon the next day. She did not even have to get up during the night to pee: Mike had left the catheter open all along. And when she did finally wake up, she stood up, legs wobbling, walked over to Mike, who was reading the paper on the sofa, thanked him for her lovely orgasms, and cuddled up next to him.

They chatted, she rested, he fed her a light soup, she drank lots of tea and peed all afternoon, and they just stayed at home so that she could rest and recover. At dusk he replaced her catheter with a new one, a slightly larger model and shut it off. She was back in pee-control mode. Somehow she felt better that way, more poised now that she did not have the pee stream constantly flowing out. They went out to dinner, nothing important to mention, returned home and fell asleep after she had taken him in her mouth one last time that day.

Sunday was another matter. Jessica struggled feebly to protest her forced enema, which happened anyways because Mike wanted it. A run in the park, a light lunch, and an afternoon of fun helped her regain all her strength. She was back to being his Peaches. And she loved being that!

Returning home, Mike led her straight to the hobby room. It was impeccable: even Jessica had to admire the young waitress and her girlfriends how perfectly they had cleaned up the place after all, and all the toys were neatly arranged once again on the velvet covering the table. "Waitresses are good guests!" Jessica laughed.

"And lovers, too?" Mike inquired.

"The best, second only to you!"

They laughed and kissed.

Mike quickly fastened Jessica to the hoist. She was not expecting anything more than their usual friskiness. He massaged her tummy: her bladder was now uncomfortably full but Jessica knew and accepted that he would let her empty it as much as and whenever he wanted. She felt comfortable, hoisted up; legs and arms spread apart, her gaping vagina and lovely ass wide open, her clitoris exactly at the height of Mike's expert tongue.

But then she started to panic.

Mike was inserting, one by one, every single one of his creations, singles, doubles and multiples into her respective holes.

That was not bad.

What made it all worse was that he was taking pictures and videos!

That, she did not like.

"Mike, please, no pictures."

"Peaches, keep quiet and take this one in." As he inserted it, he took a series of pictures and some videos.

She protested, trying to force it out. His finger tapped it back in again, "Peaches, you can hold it in."

Jessica struggled.

To no avail

"Mike, please, not that, no pictures, no videos," she pleaded.

Mike ignored her, and kept inserting his toys and clicking and whirring away.

Jessica struggled mightily. She was crying. She did not want pictures. She did not want to be filmed. After all she had done for and with Mike, she loudly screamed she deserved some respect.

Mike ignored her, and kept inserting his toys and clicking and whirring away without cease.

Jessica panicked.

She screamed.

She yelled.

She struggled.

She lost control.

"AMANDA!" she screamed.

Mike froze. He could not believe his ears! That was their safety word. She had said it.

Quietly, he took out the card from the digital camera and tossed it into the fireplace. An acrid smoke came up. He did the same with the card in the digital video camera.

She realized what was happening, what she had done. She started to cry desperately, "Mike, I am sorry. I did not mean to. I did not know what I was saying. Mike, please understand. I did not want pictures. Mike, please, please, try to understand. Please?"

Mike was quiet. Efficient and matter-of-fact, he let her down from the hoist, gently letting her fall to the floor. He started putting everything away. Jessica was crying, clinging on to him, and pleading with him.

He opened her legs, removed the catheter and let her pee on the floor, a wet puddle where she was lying down. He reached over for a towel and dried the floor.

"Get dressed and leave."

His voice was as cold as his eyes.

She cried.

She dressed, turning away from him. After all she had let him and encouraged him to do with and to her, she felt strangely uncomfortable. She felt like a slut, like a tramp who did not deserve the honor of being Mike's friend. She was modest, shy and embarrassed to let him see her frontal nudity.

She finished dressing and walked to the door. He was sitting on the sofa. He seemed so far away. He seemed hurt. No, wounded was a better term.

She took one last longing look at him. She reached into her purse, fished out something, left it on the table, and walked out of his life.

Never again did he call her.

He never wrote her again.

And she was too remorseful to ever reach out to him.

She had ruined a perfectly solid sexual relationship and had thrown it all to waste just because she had been so stupid to invoke the safety word without thinking.

They never spoke, met, or wrote again.

And all that Mike has was the little something she had fished out of her purse before leaving him for good.

It was an actual picture of her, a small one, one that told him exactly who she was, tall, thin, pretty, modest and very shy.

He put it in his wallet and has kept it there ever since.