by Megan Hart
and you wil use it until you achieve orgasm.
None of the plastic pricks or fur-lined cuffs embarrassed
me. Hel, the anal beads and butt plugs had me squeezing
my ass cheeks tighter, but they didn't embarrass me.
"Yes," I said. "I'm looking for something special."
He had a nice smile. Fuck. Realy nice eyes, too.
"Something special? For a gift? Birthday party,
bachelorette party, maybe?" He sounded as if he did this
every day. Probably because he did.
every day. Probably because he did.
"No. For me."
His gaze held mine for a second totaly longer than
necessary. "Okay. Wel, maybe I can help you find what
you're looking for."
A beat, a pause, one smal breath in and out. A smile.
"That would be great. Thanks."
The racks of cheap crotchless panties and feather-trimmed
bras were toward the back. Victoria's Secret this was not.
Not even Victoria's un-secret. None of these garments
looked as though they'd stand up under one wearing, not
to mention what would happen to them in the washing
machine. I sorted through them anyway, my fingers toying
with the hangers and making them clatter on the metal
rack.
I held up a flimsy corset printed with a pattern of
misaligned roses. My fingers itched touching the fabric,
and I could only imagine how awful it would feel against
my breasts. I held it up to me, anyway, and turned to the
clerk. "How's this look?"
I expected him to say "good." Or maybe "hot." So when I expected him to say "good." Or maybe "hot." So when he frowned and shook his head, brows furrowed and
mouth twisting, my self-assured position as a fairly
attractive female in a sex shop plummeted to hit my toes.
"Not for you," he said.
I put it back on the rack and crossed my arms. I wished
I'd had the time to change into jeans and a T-shirt after
work instead of being stuck in three-inch heels and a skirt
to my knees. I wanted pockets to shove my hands into
denim to shield me from his assessing gaze. I hadn't
dressed this morning for showing off and now he'd made
me feel like I shouldn't want to.
Flirting is a funny thing. Earlier, talking with Eric, I'd no
doubts I was the hottest bitch around. Right now I wasn't
sure I shouldn't be ringing bels in a church tower.
"Come with me." He quirked a finger.
I almost didn't. The look on his face had left me feeling
shot down. Embarrassed. And when I realized that's what
it was, I nodded and went after him down through the
narrow aisles of sleazy underwear and gigantic plastic
pricks. Surrounded by a sea of tits, ass, pecs and abs, I
pricks. Surrounded by a sea of tits, ass, pecs and abs, I
tried to keep my eyes on the man in front of me, but I
couldn't help comparing the jugs on one box of "Titty
Twister, the Party Game!" with the boobs on a package
containing a vagina molded from an actual porn star's pink
parts.
He glanced over his shoulder as we stopped at the shop's
far end. Through a doorway to his right I glimpsed the
interior of the nudie bar. Even this early, girls wiggled and
writhed on a smal stage. Every few seconds a
disembodied leg, foot clad in skyscraper heels, sprang into
view. There must've been a pole I couldn't see.
"You wanna go check it out?" he asked.
I had been staring, and my cheeks heated, though I
couldn't have said exactly why. "No, thanks."
His smile lit up eyes the color of toffee. "You sure?"
"I'm sure." I cleared my throat and gestured at the shelves he stood in front of. "You had something to show me?"
"Oh. Right. Yeah." He reached to pul a box toward him.
I stepped back, gaping, at the box in his palm. Not
I stepped back, gaping, at the box in his palm. Not
because it had been festooned with pricks and pussies, but
because with its treasure-chest shape and smal, hinged lid,
it was a smaler version of the box I'd spied in Miriam's
shop. It fit neatly in his palm with his fingers open to cradle
it. Butterflies patterned the box's red satin.
"You know what this is?"
"No." I shook my head and closed my mouth.
He blinked, watching me closely. Then he crooked his
finger for me to lean closer, and I did. I held my breath,
waiting as he opened the box. I didn't know what I'd see
inside. When I saw the smal, stoppered bottle, I looked at
him.
"Ancient Chinese secret," he said. "And I'm not talking about laundry detergent."
The bottle had clear plastic sealing it, so it couldn't have
been too ancient. I had to squint to read the print and
couldn't make out the words, but the picture on the front
was a stylized butterfly. That didn't tel me much.
"It's orgasm-enhancement gel. For women. The ladies go
"It's orgasm-enhancement gel. For women. The ladies go
crazy for it," he said, as if he was confessing.
An invisible yardstick slid down the back of my shirt. My
shoulders came up, and so did my breasts, which finaly
got more than a disinterested glance from him. He didn't
look long, but he did look.
"What's it do?" I asked.
He held out the box to me until I took it. "It helps women
who can't come."
"I—" I had nothing to say to that. I tried, but the words
stuck in my throat. My back went impossibly straighter,
my shoulders squaring. I put my hand on my hip as I tried
to hand him back the box.
He wouldn't take it. "You said you wanted something for
yourself. You can't tel me you want a crappy piece of
lingerie."
"I don't need this!" I shoved the box toward him again.
"That's for women who need help!"
Maybe I was primed to be embarrassed. Maybe the idea
had already been put into my head that I would find an
had already been put into my head that I would find an
item, as unbelievable as I could find it, that would
embarrass me to buy. Vibrators that could guide missiles
and ass plugs with horsetails on them hadn't made me
blush, but this smal bottle had turned my cheeks to fire.
I looked into his face. "This is for women who can't have
orgasms, right?"
He shrugged and wouldn't take the box from my hands.
"It's supposed to help."
"Do I…do I look like I need help? With…that?"
I have been checked out and dismissed by women who
knew how to cut me down with no more than a glance, but
I've never been so thoroughly dissected visualy by a guy.
Guys look. They find the parts they like and linger there
and maybe they turn away if there's not much to hold
them, but most often, in my case, they'l look again if for no
other reason than I have al the right parts where they're al
supposed to go.
This guy looked. And looked some more. He took me in
from every inch and then went over them al again. When
he settled, finaly, on my face, he shrugged again. "Sweetie,
he settled, finaly, on my face, he shrugge
d again. "Sweetie,
fuzzy panties aren't going to get you off. This wil."
The "sweetie" gave it away, but guessing he didn't like girls made me feel only marginaly better about the fact he
thought I looked like a woman who didn't know how to
come. I closed my fingers over the box. I lifted my chin
and blew out a slow breath that did nothing to cool my
cheeks.
"Fine," I said through gritted teeth. "I'l take it."
At the register, he rang me up while he chattered about the
dancers on the other side, and how on Monday nights they
had "boys," if I was interested. He slipped the box into a plain brown bag and swiped my credit card, peering at my
name like he wanted to imprint it on his brain.
I kept my head high, even though my signature skidded on
the paper from the shaking of my hands. I was sure he'd
question it, but that would've only added to my
embarrassment, which was why I was here. Wasn't it?
In the parking lot, I took long, shalow breaths to clear my
head. The brown bag, spotted with sweat from my palms,
got tossed immediately into the backseat. I put my hands
flat on the roof of the car and took another few breaths.
flat on the roof of the car and took another few breaths.
Night had begun to drift over the parking lot while I was
inside. I hadn't thought I'd come out in darkness, but
spring is tricky that way. You think you have another few
minutes in the sun and you end up stubbing your toe
because the twilight hides the rough spots on the
pavement.
I needed a drink in the worst way, my throat so dry now I
could concentrate on it and not my molten face. Sensations
sat back from the road, but it wasn't alone in the strip of
stores. A smal Handi-Mart with a liquor license sold
snacks, beer and wine coolers, probably to the patrons of
Sensations' dance parlor.
I yanked open the door and heard the bel jangle, my
attention focused on the row of refrigerators at the end of
the shop. I stepped aside, though, for the woman pushing
her way out of the door as I went in. Then I stopped as
the door swung in to close in my face, and I pushed it
open to cal after her.
"Miriam?"
She turned and gave me a broad, white-toothed smile.
She turned and gave me a broad, white-toothed smile.
"Helo, dear. So nice to see you."
I knew she had a life outside of her shop, that she lived in
a house. Drove a car. Shopped for wine coolers, too,
apparently, and bought gum and cigarettes. Even so,
seeing her outside what I thought of as her natural
environment stumped me.
"What…hi. Wow, I didn't think I'd run into you."
She smiled again and patted my arm. "Of course not, dear,
why would you?"
I laughed. "I don't know."
"Wil you be in to the store soon?" She tilted her head to
assess me. At her throat she wore a tiger-print scarf
tucked into the lapels of her sleek red coat. Damn, I
wished I had her style. "I have some lovely new things.
And that box is waiting for you."
I thought of the box I'd just purchased and what I was
meant to do with it, and my voice went a little faint when I
answered her. "Maybe I'l make it in this week."
"Good." She nodded and moved off. She walked slowly
"Good." She nodded and moved off. She walked slowly
but without limping or using a cane, belying her age.
I watched her go for a little, then turned and went inside
the store, where I added a six-pack of wine coolers to my
bottle of water. I had a date with my hand and a bottle of
Cum-Ezee.
Chapter 16
Why had I been embarrassed?
Naked and wet from my shower, I stood in front of my
bed and opened the box lid. I puled out the bottle, peeled
off the plastic meant to protect me from God knew what.
A glass bottle, it was heavy, and the stopper made of
rubber reminded me of a nipple when I squeezed it
between my thumb and forefinger.
I squeezed my own nipple with fingers slick from my own
saliva. It stood up under my touch. Already my heart had
begun beating a little faster, not so much from what I was
doing but in anticipation of what I meant to do. I shook the
bottle and held it up. Inside, clear liquid shifted, looking
oily. It reminded me of those toys I made in elementary
school out of plastic soda bottles, oil and colored water.
I'd always liked to add glitter to mine.
This had no glitter, just an oily clear liquid that shone when
held up to the light. I read the ingredients but could find
nothing scary. Hemp oil. Was that even legal? Ginseng.
Ginger. Al natural ingredients, I thought.
My face flamed again. I didn't have a ful-length mirror in
my bedroom, just the mirror on my dresser. From where I
stood, only my torso reflected. I had no head. No legs
below my upper thighs. I was nothing but my sexual parts.
Breasts. Bely. Ass. Cunt.
You will find the one thing that embarrasses you the
most, and you will use it until you achieve orgasm.
Why had I been embarrassed to buy this bottle of liquid
from a man who didn't even like women, and therefore
shouldn't be blamed for not seeing how fucking sexy I
realy am? I shook it again and took the stopper out. It
looked like a medicine dropper, but without the marks to
indicate dosage. I squeezed the rubber nipple again as I
pinched my own.
In the mirror, the woman did the same. I held out my
fingertip, the dropper poised over it. The liquid, stil
shining, made a teardrop before it fel onto my skin. I
rubbed it in with my thumb and waited. The slickness
didn't dissolve and faint warmth filtered through my skin.
Why was I embarrassed to have a stranger think I couldn't
Why was I embarrassed to have a stranger think I couldn't
have an orgasm? I let another drop fal onto my fingertip. I
spread it on my nipples. This time, when I squeezed them,
my fingers skipped and slid over my skin. My nipples,
hard, now, warmed under the oil and my touch.
Lubricated, my finger slid across my clit like silk on satin.
My lips parted. Air eased out. I touched myself again,
finger circling, and waited for the heat. It came a second or
two later, hotter than it had been on my nipples. I bit my
lower lip with a hiss.
It was hard to tel if the oil had aphrodisiac powers or the
effect was in my mind, but in the end, did it matter? I lay
back on my bed, my legs spread, feet planted firmly on the
comforter to make it easier to rock my hips into the
seduction of my hand.
I rubbed my clit in slow, smooth circles, just the way I
liked it best. The oil absorbed into my skin but left it slick
enough I didn't need to add more. I let my fingertips
explore the familiar dips and curves of my body, the soft,
secret places that could bring me such pleasure.
My clit got hotter as I rubbed, and that seemed only<
br />
natural, because heat and shame both rode the same bus
to school, so far as I was concerned. Sweat pooled in my
to school, so far as I was concerned. Sweat pooled in my
armpits and salted my upper lip. I licked it away, wishing it
were someone else's tongue on my mouth. Another
person's hand between my legs.
Why had I cared so much what a stranger thought of me?
I groaned and closed my eyes to push away thoughts of
anything but the sensations building in my body. It was
easier to pretend that way, to imagine I wasn't alone in my
brand-new bed with the clean, new sheets that had never
had another body in them. With my eyes closed, the
whisper of my hand moving against my skin tugged my
ears.
Why did I want so much to folow the commands of a
stranger not even meant for me?
The oil slid from my fingertips down my labia and into the
crack of my ass. I used my other hand to folow its path. I
could probably come from this, in a minute or two, but I
stopped, thinking of how it had been such a short time
since last I'd done this. It didn't take a genius to figure out I
was psyching myself out, losing my orgasm to too much
thinking.
Or maybe I realy was embarrassed?
She might not be too smart, but she's pretty enough.
One of Stela's friends had said it, not knowing I could
hear.
I groaned. I didn't want to be thinking about my father's
wife and her friends when I was trying to get off. Yet the
hotter the oil on my clit got, the less interested I became in
finishing what I'd started. I stopped trying.
She might not be too smart, but she's pretty enough. Just
like her mother.
They'd laughed, but not as though they found the subject
realy funny. More like it embarrassed them. As a kid I
hadn't understood why, exactly, just that it had made my
stomach hurt to know Stela thought I wasn't smart, even if
I was my mother's pretty daughter. As an adult, I figured it
out. It embarrassed Stela to admit she'd married a man
who'd been so swayed by some tart, he'd knocked her up
and then had the compassion to make the bastard child a
part of his life. Sort of.
To them, I wasn't Paige. I was some slut's daughter.
Thinking of that, I understood something else, too.
I wasn't embarrassed by the fact a man I didn't know or
like, a gay dude, for that matter, didn't want to jump my
bones. No. What had been most embarrassing was not
