tagHumor & SatireWhat Will They Think of Next?

What Will They Think of Next?

bytrobson808©

Being a woman has many advantages and not least among them is that our organs of pleasure are better arranged than those of the male of the species. For one thing they are far more discrete, neatly tucked away between our legs rather than dangling around looking untidy. For another, our state of arousal does not dramatically affect the size of our genitalia. Sure, if you look closely, there are tell-tale signs that we are turned-on but nothing as obvious as the ridiculous erection you men seem prone to any time a nice looking girl with a short skirt and a low-cut top catches your eye.

Given these advantages and the inexorable march of technology, it was surely only a question of time before someone invented a gizmo with which a girl can have a bit of high-tech but discrete fun. So it should not have been a surprise that one turned up last year, courtesy of St. Valentine and his earthly agent, my boyfriend Steve.

He presented me with the small, beautifully wrapped box while were sitting on the sofa in my apartment, relaxing over a pre-dinner glass of wine. I could tell by the look on his face that this was not going to be the piece of jewellery or chocolates that would be his usual choice of gift. After kissing him briefly in gratitude I untied the narrow ribbon and removed the paper. Carefully arranged in the box were two shiny black plastic objects, one a small circular dish, like a miniature flying saucer, and the other shaped like a letter 'C' with a small egg-shaped ball at one end and a larger one at the other. I removed the C-shaped thing from the box and held it up, turning it around in my fingers. It was shiny, black and beautifully smooth with a silver band round its middle but I had absolutely no idea what it was.

"Ok, you'll have to help me out here Steve. What is it?" He laughed at my obvious puzzlement.

"It's a Lelo Tiani," was his reply. He might as well have been speaking Martian.

"Er... that doesn't exactly help," I said, "what is a Lelo whatever-you-call-it?"

"Tiani. T...I...A...N...I," he spelt it out for me. "It's the latest thing from Sweden. I saw it in a design magazine in the hotel in Stockholm and managed to get hold of one. They're in pretty short supply you know." He paused. "You still don't know what it's for?" I shook my head.

"Try this." He took the thing from me and fiddled briefly with something on its surface. "Hold out your hand," he said, and placed it back onto my upturned palm.

"Oh!" My exclamation was born mainly of surprise as the device lay gently pulsating against my palm, but it was also the result of shock at the realisation that my boyfriend had bought me a vibrator as a Valentine present.

Now I'm no stranger to sex toys, in fact discretely hidden beneath the underwear in my bedside drawer is a very simple but highly effective vibrator that sees regular use, especially as Steve travels a lot. Steve, I was sure, did not know of its existence. This thing though was intriguing. It did not take a genius to work out the basics of its operation but I decided to string Steve along a bit. In any case I wasn't quite sure where he was coming from. After all, how many men are going to give their loved one a battery powered replacement for their own, nature-provided, moving part. I played the innocent.

"No, I still don't get it," I said, enjoying watching him squirm. I picked it up between thumb and forefinger and examined it more carefully. "Some sort of kitchen gadget?"

"Er, No. Some sort of bedroom gadget," he said with a slightly embarrassed smile.

I was not going to let him off the hook so I said nothing and continued to examine the device in a suitably obtuse manner.

"It's a vibrator," he came clean, "you know a sex toy," his words came out in a rush. "It's the latest thing, from Sweden, you put one end inside you and the other end rests against your clit. That's why it's curved like that. Both ends vibrate; you get it going against your G-spot and your clit at the same time. Mega-orgasm every time; guaranteed."

He should have been a vacuum cleaner salesman. "Brilliant," I said, "I'll go upstairs and try it out while you cook the dinner. I'll try and keep the screams of passion to a minimum so you can concentrate. Did you get spare batteries, I'll probably need them?"

My sarcasm was apparently lost on the hapless idiot because he replied with a crestfallen expression, "Its re-chargeable..." His voice tailed off and he looked so pathetic that I decided to take pity on him.

"Steve, it's a lovely thought but why would I want a vibrator when I have you."

Did I feel a slight pang of guilt as I heard myself utter this outrageous lie? No, not really. Men's fragile egos have to be protected and if that means the occasional economy with the truth then so be it.

My mendacity appeared to have the desired effect. "Ah," he said, some of his natural cheer returning to his voice, "Well that's rather the point. Pass me the box." I complied, giving him the open box, and he took out the other, dish shaped, object, which I confess I had rather overlooked in my desire to humiliate my partner.

He fiddled with it for a second or two. "Hold out your bit," he said and I did as he asked, holding the vibrator in my hand. He shook the disk thing gently from side to side.

"Bloody hell Steve!" I am not one who is prone to swearing but I couldn't help myself. As he shook the little disc thing, the vibrator, which had been pulsing quietly away to itself, jerked in rhythm. When he stopped shaking, it stopped; when he shook it, it moved. "What the hell is that thing?"

"Remote control." He was grinning like a Cheshire Cat. "I can change the intensity, and it even has an accelerometer. The possibilities are endless..."

"Jesus Steve, what are you thinking of? " I was by no means enthusiastic but we duly read the instructions and later that evening, more to humour him than anything else, we gave the thing a run out. The instruction book was full of great ideas about how the Lelo would enhance our sexual experience if worn while making love but to be honest it was just a pain. After messing about with it for a while, we abandoned it and Steve got down to some serious Valentine's day work with his tongue and cock, which was a lot more satisfying than the sex toy, despite its Swedish designed, re-chargeable, remote controlled, Bluetooth enabled wizardry.

***

After that night I didn't really think much about the Lelo, at least not until a few weeks later, when Steve was away on a business trip somewhere.

Alone at home after a busy day I had been pampering myself and after soaking the cares of the day away in a lovely warm bath, I was massaging a richly scented body oil into my skin -- another present from Steve. Sitting naked on the bed in the warmth and privacy of my bedroom gently rubbing the warm oil into the soft skin of my feet, I began to feel the desire for a little bit deeper and more intimate pleasure.

"Why not," I thought to myself, it would relax me and help me sleep. I looked at my reflection in the long mirror which stood next to the door. I'll admit that I was pleased at what I saw. My skin had absorbed much of the oil and was taut and smooth, glowing with a healthy sheen in the subdued light. I turned to assess my silhouette. My breasts jutted forward, firm and well proportioned. I filled my palms with the warm oil and smoothed it into them, closing my eyes, enjoying the feeling of the sensuous self-massage. I took their weight in my cupped hands and gently pinched my nipples between thumb and forefinger feeling them swell and harden under my touch. My fingers still slick with oil, I turned to face the mirror and opened my legs. Running my forefinger down through the patch of downy hair covering my mound, I teased open my pussy lips. It was delicious, that first touch, as my fingertip found the tight little bud of my clit and coaxed it out from its covering fold of skin. I massaged myself gently, enjoying the bursts of sensation, growing in intensity as my fingers did their work. With my other hand I continued to work on my breasts, enjoying the heightened sensitivity of my skin as I became aroused. After a few minutes I reached over and opened the drawer in the bedside table where I kept my handy little dildo, sliding my fingers beneath the carefully folded underwear, trying to locate it. Instead of finding the familiar shape though, my fingers closed over the box containing the Lelo -- which I had popped into the same drawer.

"Well," I said to myself, "might as well give it a try."

I opened the box and took the toy out. It looked quite cute sitting there in my hand. I switched it on for a second to test it and it pulsated briefly against my palm. Satisfied that it was working, I took out the remote control and placed in within reach. Then, leaning back against the pillows, lifted my legs up onto the bed and spread them wide, watching myself in the mirror as I slowly pushed a finger deep into my pussy. I was very wet - the last few minutes of self-stimulation had taken care of that.

"No lube needed then," I whispered to myself and eased the smaller end of the LELO into my pussy. Spreading my labia with the fingers of one hand, I pushed the LELO deeper inside so that the larger end pressed right up against my exposed clit. It felt cool and hard against my soft warmth. I relaxed against the pillows and picked up the remote.

"Here goes," I thought, and pressed the 'on' button.

The orgasm, when it came, was a good one. Not the most earth shattering climax I had ever experienced but deep and powerful enough. I had expected the Lelo to be 'hands free' but it wasn't; to get the sensations I wanted I had to press it against my clit and move it around a bit -- even though it was capable of quite vigorous vibration. What did impress me was how quiet it was, I found it rather spooky actually; I was used to my cries of passion being underpinned by the friendly buzz of my plain old vibe. Just hearing myself moaning with pleasure at increasing volume and frequency as the Lelo silently did its work was a rather different experience.

As I finally stretched myself out in bed, luxuriating in the feeling of the cool cotton sheets against my skin, still sensitized by my recent orgasm, I decided that the Lelo might have been a good investment after all.

***

The Lelo and I got to know each other a little better over the next few months. It replaced the old vibe in my affections and became my preferred boyfriend-substitute when the real thing was not available. This was still not something that I wanted to share with Steve and, as he didn't mention the Lelo again, I did not volunteer any further information on the subject. Things would probably have proceeded in this basis ad infinitum had it not been for the Great Bet.

To say that both Steve and I are opinionated would be something of an understatement. I operate on the principle that things are to be done in one of two ways; my way and the wrong way. There have been a few occasions on which Steve has unwisely disagreed with this stance and in such circumstances it had become our custom to engage in a small wager on the outcome.

Money does not change hands, you understand, that would be vulgar. Instead the stake will take the form of a penance, some minor inconvenience to be performed by the losing party. Steve had to do the washing-up for a week when he foolishly opined that the weight of my suitcase exceeded the baggage allowance of the airline on which we were about to depart for a weekend break.

(I now, in front of you, freely confess that the reason I was so confident in taking up this challenge was that I had already weighed the case on the bathroom scales).

On another occasion he agreed to take me to any restaurant of my choosing, were he to be proved wrong on some trivial matter. Of course he duly was and I picked the Fat Duck, not because I particularly wanted to eat snail porridge or cabbage ice cream but in the hope that the astronomical bill would cause him to see the error of his ways: It didn't. I can't even remember the disagreement which resulted in The Great Bet. It was certainly something trivial because it was only over trifles that we would resort to this form of sport. In this case I was particularly sure of myself and it was I who initiated the idea of the bet.

"A weekend in Paris says I'm right," was my, in retrospect, rash proposal. He thought for a few seconds.

"I'll take you to Paris if you're right," he said, "but if I win..." he paused. "Have you still got the Lelo Tiani?"

"Er, yes," I was a little cagey, unsure where this was going. I kicked myself mentally, I should have told him I'd sold it on eBay.

"Right, a trip to Paris if you win. If I win, you wear the Lelo to the next dinner party we're invited to and I get the remote control."

My heart sank. The devious bastard had me over a barrel. His smirk said it all. I would either have to back down from the bet or run the risk of being the victim of his perverted scheme.

Reneging on the bet was out of the question -- especially as I'd started the whole damn thing. How sure was I that I would win? My prior certainty was suddenly assailed by doubt, but it didn't matter anyway, I had to go ahead or I would never live it down. All of these and other, more murderous, thoughts raged through my head until, stung into action by the unbearable smugness of Steve's expression, I uttered the fateful words.

"You're on!" If I was feeling uncertain I was careful not to let it show and the detailed negotiations started. "I choose the hotel", played against, "I get to check it's fully charged and switched on."

"Business class flights," were traded for, "I check the installation."

Check the installation! Jesus, he made my pussy sound like one of his stupid engineering jobs. "One orgasm... No Steve, ONE orgasm and then I switch it off." This was a sticking point, but he realised he was pushing his luck in expecting me to wear the Lelo for the entire duration of the party.

"No we are not having a rehearsal," I put my foot down. "You'll have to learn on the job."

"Can I pick your dress then?" This was a bit of an odd one.

"Steve, why would you want to choose my dress?" I was puzzled.

"You're always asking me what I think you should wear," he replied.

"Yes Steve, but you and I both know that when a woman asks a man what she should wear she is not seeking advice. The correct response to such a question is, 'Darling, whatever you wear you will look wonderful', or words to that effect. Everyone knows that."

Despite some misgivings, and with a few caveats, I gave way and agreed that Steve could pick my dress and on that note we finally agreed terms and shook hands, the traditional and irreversible sealing of the pact.

My fate was decided within a few seconds of internet access on Steve's iPhone. That was all it took. For once I was wrong, wrong, WRONG. To give him his due, Steve was magnanimous in victory. He did not, as I expected, gloat over me; well not as much as he could have.

All he said was, "I knew we'd find a way to have some fun with the Lelo," and then, with a knowing smile, "I'll make sure you enjoy it!"

Later, alone, I pondered on this. My abiding suspicion was that Steve had bought the Lelo with precisely such a plan in mind. When I proposed the bet, he hadn't had to think for a second about what he wanted. He had planned this, I was sure of it. This was some fantasy of his that muggins here was now going to play out for him.

***

Damage limitation was now the name of the game. The deal was, 'The next dinner party' and as it happens we had nothing in the diary. I certainly had no intention of waiting for a random invitation. My parents could easily call and invite us to one of their ghastly 'dining club' evenings where we would have to deal with their circle of friends, consisting almost exclusively of professors of this, doctors of that, with the odd architect and lawyer thrown in. My parents had a habit of ringing the house, not my mobile, and if Steve picked up he'd accept any invitation like a flash. That would set the cat among the pigeons. The darling daughter having an orgasm during the cheese course would be a change from the usual discussion of the latest exhibition at Tate Modern. As soon as I could, I called the only person I knew I could rely on in just such a crisis as this.

"Roz, I need you to invite us to dinner, I need you to do it quickly and the party has to be as-soon-as, if not sooner." Was I babbling? Even I thought so.

"Okaaay," was her rather puzzled reply, "are you going to tell me why?" I confessed all. The whole sorry tale.

The Cow. I thought she was going to suffocate. I swear to God she laughed so much that she couldn't speak for ten whole minutes and even then her first words were not comforting.

"I think I pee'd myself," she said, bursting into a further bout of unseemly mirth. Patiently, I hung on the line, waiting for my oldest and dearest friend to get it out of her system and, thank Heaven, once she regained the faculty of speech, she came up trumps, agreeing to send an invitation for the following week, just as soon as we got off the phone.

There was a bit of a spat when she insisted on extending the invitation to a group of our close friends. I had assumed that we would have small soiree with Steve and I, Roz and her husband, Dave. Obviously I was not looking to play to a big audience.

"Roz, you can't," I pleaded, "you know I'm a screamer."

"Oh, yes," she said, "I remember all those nights of passion in the flat when you and Steve first got together. The walls were very thin, I don't think I had proper night's sleep for six whole months."

It's true. I climax noisily. I can't help myself and, of course, Steve knew it. He was going to do his best to make sure I came at the most inopportune moment and he knew that there was a good chance that it would be a noisy affair. In her defence, Roz made the point that the more people there were, the greater the background chatter, the less likely I was to be noticed. I was highly sceptical. How much dinner party conversation would it take to disguise the fact that one of the company was having a screaming orgasm? More than is traditional at the dinner parties I normally attend, that's for sure. But Roz was not to be moved.

"It's my dinner party, which I am arranging at short notice to get you out of a jam. I will chose the guests, " she said, and then added, "By the way, you don't think by any chance that Steve is on the phone to his Rugby club chums to see if any of them might be in the mood for hosting a more-than-usually intimate dinner, do you?"

"Oh My God!" The thought had not occurred to me. Of course he bloody well would. He was probably on the phone right now trying to arrange a hideous gathering of his mentally sub-normal mates and their WAGS, with me as the entertainment. I shivered as the full horror of the situation sank in.

"You're right. You can invite the staff from Tesco and the band of the Coldstream Guards if you must but get that invitation out in the next five minutes. Roz, I am depending on you as my oldest and most cherished friend, don't make this any harder for me."

I must have sounded as pathetic as I felt because she took pity on me.

"Leave it to me Louise, I'll think of something," she said before hanging up. Sure enough, within a few minutes, my phone pinged and an email from Roz, inviting us to dinner the following Saturday popped onto the screen. Nothing from Steve, or any of his pals. I had got in first. I sank back into my chair and closed my eyes, my head spinning with relief and, definitely there, lurking in the shadows; excitement.

Over the next day or so it became apparent that I had misjudged Steve as we received no other invitations. This could, of course, be because none of his, so called, friends could get their act together or -- and I chose to give him the benefit of the doubt -- it had not occurred to him, as it had to me, to give fate a helping hand.

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