Sybian Surprise

My wife Becky was looking me straight in the eyes via the Facebook Live feed on my iPad while I was out of town on a trip. She was riding a Sybian as she did. You know, one of those vibrating sex machines for women? The ones with the variety of dildos and clitoral stimulators? The ones that sound like slightly quieter lawn mowers while they bring the girl off, or like a motorboat that never goes any further away? Those ones.

And there I was thinking that she hated the perverted thing, which was certainly what she said in those exact words. I remember the conversation well because she was unhappy to receive it last Valentine's Day. She got a box of chocolates, too. And a nice dinner. But no, it was all about the Sybian when we got back home after dinner, and she finally saw it.

I thought it would unlock an untapped well of repressed female sexuality. I could hope. The sexuality certainly had gotten repressed. I was desperate to unlock it some way. I would have tried a crowbar, if I had thought that might have worked.

Instead, she called me a sex fiend who somehow had gotten all weird about his bedroom preferences. I slept in the guest room that night, which I found annoying because the damned machine costs well over $2,000 if you get all the bells and whistles (figuratively speaking), including the G-Egg vibrator, the fluid-proof cover, and the lifetime warranty. (You really need the warranty. It's not like you can take the thing to a regular repair shop if something goes wrong. Not without having to lend it out to the guy who's fixing it for a couple of weeks. Who knows what his friends are like? And if you want to ship it back to the company for them to fix it, the weight of it alone if going to make that expensive. Just get the warranty.)

But somewhere along the line Becky had obviously changed her mind, which was a surprise. As was the fact that she had shaved off all her pubic hair. On the morning that I flew out of town, as I saw her getting out of the shower, she still had a substantial bush.

Yet, there she was, gently rocking up and down on the thing, roughly pinching the nipple on one of her ample breasts while leaning back, abdomen flexing, moaning, as her eyes looked away from the camera and rolled back into her head, and her face locked into a rictus of pleasure as she shot through a continuous series of orgasms. Of course, to get it to do that, you had to kick it up to 11 (figuratively speaking again), which made it sound even more like a belt sander. At least to me. Maybe a slightly quieter jackhammer was more accurate, but I'm not a tool guy. All I know is that I would never have bought it, if we had lived in an apartment. The neighbors would have bitched.

The noise was my major gripe with it although I was willing to do whatever it took to get her back to what she was like when we were dating and could not keep our hands off each other.

She had to be using her phone to capture the scene. It was picking up every detail of her tight naked body. She always had porn-quality looks, rounded in all the right places, none of them silicone-enhanced, not too tall but not too short, and with pouty lips and naughty eyes. Those naughty eyes rolled back into her head again as she rode up to the crest of another series of orgasms. Now, she was screaming with the intensity of her internal explosions, which had all apparently merged together into one giant cum. She threw her head back and howled, then doubled forward, shoulder-length brown hair flipping up over her head and down in front of her face until she lifted back up again with her eyes wide and her mouth re-opened in a silent scream of ecstasy. She finally locked rigidly upright in the saddle, threw her head up at the ceiling, and began yelling, sort of like an evangelical Christian speaking in tongues. Except naked and not in a television church.

"Oh, God! Tony! Oh, God! I wish it was your big cock doing this to me, fucking me senseless. But you're out of town on that fucking trip this weekend, you selfish fuck, Tony! You left me desperate like this! This is the best fucking I am going to be able to get until I can see you again, you fucker. Fuck! I'M THERE! TONY! OH, SWEET TONY! MY LOVE! I'M THERE! FILL ME UP! FUCK ME! KNOCK ME UP! OH, I'M YOURS! FOREVER! FUUUUCCCCK!"

Then she collapsed forward, and desperately leaned in front of her to grab the control box to turn it off. She had perched the control unit on the handy bench that was included in the purchase price. I could see she had used both the rotation and vibration features. No wonder she came so hard. She gasped for breath as she slowly got herself recombobulated, leaning on her arms, which were stretched across the bench for support.

She finally sat upright, looked into the camera again, and said, "Tony, please hurry back to me. I miss you so much. That was a little message for you to see how much I want you and need you, my one and only true love."

Any man would be proud to be the subject of such strong passion. Me, too, if I were Tony. But I am Tom. Tom and Becky. Cute, right? That's what everyone said. Don't know who Tony is. Yet.

The dumb bitch had messed up the live stream privacy settings again. She could never learn, no matter how many times I showed her. She set this video to "public." Sometimes, it was really hard to believe that she had a master's degree.

This video is going to make things awkward for the next couple of weeks back in the old neighborhood. And at church. And the store. And at the office. And at the Jesuit Catholic high school for boys where she teaches freshman English. Maybe someone would call her soon, and she would fix the privacy settings, if she could figure them out. Maybe not quite most of the people in our social network would have seen it by now. Maybe not.

But they would. And soon. I was glad that I had my phone nearby when the show started. There I was, bored after a day of meetings, missing my wife of five years, aching with longing the same as I did every time we were forced to be apart. Not that the longing was often relieved physically when we got back together, not lately. At least I had some idea why now.

But I did love her. Up until about ten minutes ago. That was when I had been scrolling through various social media apps, looking for something interesting. I certainly accomplished my goal. I am no longer bored.

Honestly, I had just been looking for some silly cat videos. Instead, I found cheating pussy. I know. Lame. But I'm trying to make the best of this.

One good thing I realized is that the way these phones and tablets work now, you still get amazing clarity taking video of a video. After a quick quality control check, I liked what I saw on my phone. A sexual act of this caliber is close to being a work of art. It needs to be shared. Broadly. Like on my own Facebook account. And set for public viewing there, too.

As I posted, I commented, "Why Tom and @Becky are getting divorced as soon as I get home. Yo, @Tony, now you have to pay for whatever the slut wants. Have fun with that!"

I noticed that as I was editing the post to tag the name "Tony," a full name popped up: Tony Bassi. Such a lovely search algorithm. I suddenly remembered that Becky had mentioned him once or twice about six months ago when he started working in her office, but then I never heard about him again. As the police might say, I think we have a "person of interest." And look at that. He's married. That's a shame. According to Facebook, his wife is named Jill. None of these people use privacy settings. Unwise.

I added, "Hey, @Jill. Want to go halfsies on a divorce lawyer? If we share, we should at least be able to get a discount. DM me."

I also wrote, "Hey, Internet: divorce lawyer recommendations appreciated!"

True, I might be wrong. Maybe it was the wrong Tony. Maybe this guy would sue me for libel. Guess I could always apologize and blame Facebook for the tagging error, if it came to that. I'll worry about that tomorrow.

I suppose Facebook could kick me off for my post, but maybe not Twitter. They seemed to have no standards. Might as well post there, too. In any case, I am feeling far less social now than I was 15 minutes ago and don't care if they all kick me off. I could always just e-mail a link around, if the need arises, and I wanted to flame her the old-school way.

Oh, look! No one has reserved the "sybiansluts" web address. Until right now, that is. Cheap for $50. It's not necessary to post anything there at the moment. I need to think. Can I monetize this? I obviously was not the author of the work, so maybe I do not have the copyright. On the other hand, it certainly is a work of significant public interest. Sort of an inquiry into the intersection of law and technology. And sex. I'll have to find a divorce lawyer who has a partner who does intellectual property law. That way I can spend down fast whatever common property we might have to split in the end. Half of zero is zero, after all. Maybe the slut could claim the cost of some of the legal fees as a business expense for her new online porn career. After all, she might not be teaching much longer. I'd be happy to help set her up in business, if it would keep the alimony under control. Guess I'll need to talk to a tax lawyer, too.

The phone rang. It's the slut. I let it go to voice mail and turned the phone off. What was she going to say that was of interest? "Oh, Tony is the name of the Sybian." Right. No, let her go to voice mail.

Of course, she still might not even be aware what she did. Guess that's possible. Now that would be funny. But either way, I've run out of bullshit and wouldn't be able to fake it through a phone call with her anymore.

Better unplug the jack to the hotel phone. Who the hell uses them these days? But I am not going to take a chance the slut will wake me up in the middle of the night with that damned ringing.

Besides, if she gets desperate enough, I might get a full confession out of her, neatly recorded on voice mail, which might help increase the pain later. Maybe I can post the voice mails online, too, if my social media accounts are still up. I could certainly use them in the divorce.

I wonder: would it be wrong of me to post her cell phone number with the video and say that she has rape fantasies? Eh. Hard to say these days. Maybe the Internet really has killed private life.

Wonder what else is on the web tonight.