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The Secret Life of Chloe Miller

Virgin
2010-11-09

The Secret Life of Chloe Miller

by

Jack Flavortang


*****


Hi, my name is Chloe. My family moved to Seattle a year and a half ago. We live in a decent little part of town. It’s not Beverly Hills, but it’s not some slum like Chicago or Detroit, either. You see pregnant women in Salvation Army clothes pushing strollers down the street and you can hear the occasional police siren screaming down the street, no doubt on their way to bust up a drug ring or something.

It’s not that bad, though. Me, I kind of like it. I don’t think I could take living in utopia. I like the danger of knowing that the place I live isn’t squeaky clean and you need to be smart enough to keep a sharp eye over both shoulders. You never know when some crack fiend of rapist is going to want to jump you in an alley or toss you in a white, unmarked van or something. I’ve got a bottle of mace, even this little taser gun my mom got me. I don’t have a bike and I’m not riding on some shitty bus home from school so I walk.

I go to a Catholic middle school downtown about four or five miles from my house. It’s a nice walk, especially on cool, breezy mornings. Sure, I get cat-calls every now and then, but the cat-calls always come when there’s no one else around. The perverts know well enough not to whistle at a girl who looks and dresses my age.

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   The cops would have them in the back of a black and white in about two seconds. When it’s just me and them, though, and maybe a street light, they honk or make their snide little comments about what they want show to show me or what they want me to show them. Sometimes the comments are pretty vile and aggressive, but usually they’re more of the unimaginative frat boy type. “I wanna fuck that tight ass, little girl. ” or “Sit on my face, baby? Want a mustache ride?” Basic schoolyard, ego-stroking-themselves-in-front-of-their-friends bullshit. All macho prancing and preening.

I could understand where they were coming from. I knew what they were whistling at. Even though I hadn’t even hit puberty yet I knew I had the kind of “jailbait” body that the guys got hard for. I had that perfectly pale white skin, the smooth complexion, the pouty lips, short, bouncy, auburn hair and shimmering green eyes that the stereotypical, just-waiting-to-be-plucked virgin possessed. I knew what guys fantasized about. I’d seen some of my dad’s old porn magazines and movies and knew that I naturally fit the little lolita fuck-tease role because of how I looked. The school uniform didn’t help. I wouldn’t doubt it if a bunch of guys around town have pics of me on their cameras walking home from school that they snapped without my knowledge while sitting in traffic.

Those howling tail-gaters, though, if they got a hold of me and we were face to face, I’d be willing to bet forty percent of them would lose the smarmy little grins and wouldn’t have a fucking word to mumble out.

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   They’d instantly forget where their macho went. The other sixty percent probably wouldn’t last a minute inside me if they happened to find a magic lamp on a beach somewhere, rubbed it, genie popped out and gave them a wish and parking their sloppy dicks in my cunt was their one and only wish. Trust me, I would know. Some people, if they knew what I was really like, and someday probably will, would call me loose or a harlot or home-wrecker, a little slut or some other little harmless phrase consisting of commonly-used adjectives and nouns. I think of myself as self-sufficient.

I’m not a dumb fuck. I get straight As and am on the honor roll every year. And, believe it or not, I earn those grades fair and square. I don’t do any casting couch, easy A crap. School isn’t the place for that. School is business, and I make sure I keep business and pleasure on other sides of the room. I do what I do when I’m not in school, when I’m not playing the roll of Chloe, perfect, harmless, innocent primary school student whose only sin, so far, has been staying up late and talking to boys on my Facebook page. I let my parents think that’s who I am.

Some people would say I’m living a double life, but I’m not. I’m living one life, but I’m living half of my life with a poker face on.

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   I say what I’m expected to say and I act how I’m expected to act. I have a circle of friends my age, none of whom know who I really am or what I’m really all about. I use them like I use everyone else. Everyone plays a role in helping me get what I want. I play nice and people play nice in return. It makes sense because everyone has secrets and wants to live out little roles outside the social norm and my friends are no different. They ask for little “favors”, wanting me to be their alibis when they go here or there. I use them for the same reason. It’s kind of like the mafia; once you kill for the team, there’s no backing out because everyone knows dirt on everyone else and no one wants to get dirty, so we call keep our fucking mouths shut, like good little girls.

A few years back my parents got me a laptop. It’s cool as hell. It’s got a web-cam and everything. I got the idea for my first foray into becoming a sexual “adventurer” about two years ago. My parents and I were watching TV in the living room and my mom flipped past that ‘To Catch A Predator’ show with the guys getting lured to houses where they think they’re going to have sex with girls who are minors, then some asshole walks into the room with a camera crew and the guys who were half-hard when they walked into the house turn white with pure dread and panic, knowing they’re headed for a jail cell.

My mom and dad had the typical banter at seeing the show, about how terrible those types of men were, what predators they were and how they deserved to rot in prison.

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   That’s when it happened. I actually got the idea that night because I didn’t hate those guys at all. I wasn’t creeped out or anything. Actually, I felt sorry for them. I wondered what types of guys would be so hard up for sex that they’d risk going to jail by having sex with a girl they knew would get them arrested. In my mind, they were desperate men. But why? I’m sure most of them were married or had girlfriends, but they weren’t fulfilled for whatever reason. If a girl is smart enough to set up a meeting with a guy that she knows is going to end in sex, isn’t that consensual? The law says no. I don’t know. Like I said, I felt sorry for them.

I put my plan into motion. I wanted to know what it was like to be the girl on the other end of that phone, setting up that meeting with the desperate, sex-starved guy. Not the twenty-something actress with a high-pitched voice passing for a girl my age but the real thing. I wanted to know what it would feel like to meet a guy online, chat it up with him, set up a real face-to-face meeting and go through what he expected he was signing up for.

I knew I had to do a couple things.

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   First off, I had to be really careful about how I spoke with these guys. I couldn’t ever talk to them on a cell phone or anything. It all had to be online and on my laptop. I had to be careful on what sites I was going to use to get this thing started. Everything had to be private and untraceable. Secondly, when I did meet these guys I had to do it smart. I couldn’t go to their houses and they sure as shit couldn’t come to my house or know where I lived. I had to meet them at a neutral place.

I figured that I’d have to meet these guys at a hotel. It couldn’t be a hotel near the house, but one at least a few miles away, maybe one within walking distance. I’d use the excuse that I was going to a friend’s house or to the mall or library or something. I went to friends’ houses a lot anyways and my parents would never suspect a thing from their “perfect angel” of a daughter. I had that part of the angle pretty much down solid.

I also decided that, when I talked to these guys online and set up our little meeting, I’d lie and tell them I was 19 or 20. Unlike on that ‘predator’ show where the girl online pretends to be someone my age, I’d do the opposite and pretend not to be a minor, so when the guy showed up at the hotel, he wouldn’t freak and run.

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   He’d know I wasn’t setting him up. That’s what I hoped he’d think anyways. I didn’t have a lot of money, though, so I wondered how I’d do this. Would the guy pay for the hotel room every time? Would I have to meet him first and then he’d pay for the room? I felt a little uncomfortable doing that. I preferred having the room ready and just allowing him to come up and knock. That way I wouldn’t have to stand around in the lobby of the hotel just waiting, feeling weird, and when we were done he could just leave and so could I. It’d be quick and clean. I decided that I’d try to “negotiate” a deal with the manager of a nearby hotel to see if I could get a room on standby where I could have the key and use it whenever I wanted. I knew what that was going to mean, but if I was going to go through with this I’d have to go all the way.

My mind was swirling with all the things I’d need to do next. I knew I couldn’t go in to get birth control because, at my age, my mom would have to go with me, but what happened if one of the guys I met didn’t have a condom, or worse, it broke? I’d had my first period a year ago and knew that I couldn’t get any of that white stuff anywhere near me. I needed to find some kind of foolproof method of birth control without my parents knowing.

I did a little research online and found out about the Plan B pill and how it’s an over-the-counter drug that prevents pregnancy for up to five days. Only problem was that, if you’re under 17, you need a prescription. I figured that the Plan B pill was probably going to be the most accessible option for me, but how was I going to get it without money and a prescription? I figured I’d just have to get creative and find a pharmacy that’s run by a guy.

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   Young or old, it wouldn’t matter.

It took me a few days to formulate my plan, but I felt that what I came up with was as good as it was going to get and I needed to pull the trigger. I decided to open a few accounts online: a new fake Facebook account and a Craigslist account. I made up a completely fake identity; Jenny McDonald, a 20-year old college student who works in retail.

The only pics that I posted of “Jenny” was of my own smile. I couldn’t post anything that would give away my identity or my age, but the picture had to be something titillating enough to get the attention of the people I wanted to get the attention of. I hoped that the guys wouldn’t figure that I wasn’t twenty by that little, cropped picture, but I didn’t want to be misleading and post a picture of someone else.

I knew for certain that probably within a few hours of posting Jenny’s information that I’d get a few bites, so I wanted to have everything ready to go before I published my new “Jenny” accounts. First things were going to be first. I wanted to make sure I had the birth control so I went around town, scoping out pharmacies.

Believe it or not I actually used my mom to get her to take me to different pharmacies, looking for a make-believe allergy medicine so I could check out who was running the counter. The first few were run by women, one younger and one alot older, so those were misses. When we reached the fourth pharmacy I was afraid my mom was going to lose her patience and demand that we go back home. Thankfully, when we got there, I found that the person behind the counter at that pharmacy was a guy who was probably in his late 30s. His skin was a little pock-marked and he had long hair that was pulled back into a pony tail.

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   He looked like the kind of guy who would eagerly take me up on my proposition, given that I approached him smartly and wasn’t too direct or stubborn about it.

I’d found my mark so I picked out an allergy medicine, pretending it was the one I’d been looking for and finally found. I remembered the location of that particular pharmacy, though, because I’d be back there in a few days. Thankfully it was a good six or seven miles from my house and the pharmacist wouldn’t know who I was, where I went to school or any of that stuff.

Next up, I had to target the hotel I’d be using. Like the pharmacy, I had to pick a hotel that wasn’t too close to home. I needed a place that was close enough to where I could walk or get dropped off but wasn’t too far from home. I needed to know the area, too. I didn’t want to be in an area I wasn’t familiar with doing the stuff I was going to be doing.

I scoured Google looking for hotels in my area and there were lots of them. Like the pharmacy, I had to pick one whose manager was a guy, and a guy who would agree to my proposition of basically getting free access to a room in exchange for. . . free access to me. Limited access, of course, but access nonetheless.

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I couldn’t have my mom or dad take me around to hotels so I had to hoof it instead. I found one a couple of miles away from home and decided to go there after school. I was in my school uniform, but I didn’t want to walk into the hotel lobby like it was the scene in some cheesy porno. I wanted to work this game subtly so I tied my sweater around my waist so the hotel manager couldn’t see my legs too much, but, at the appropriate time, I’d take off the sweater and slowly try to play my game on him and see what happened.

When I got there I realized it wasn’t the classiest joint: the pool was empty, the paint in the parking lot was faded and the style of the exteriors looked like it had been built in the 60s. None of that really bothered me, though. I wasn’t vacationing here and none of the guys I was going to be meeting wasn’t going to be hanging out after our “business” was done.

I went in and decided to meet the manager, finally beginning phase one of this little escapade. My plan was not to make my proposition right away, but to draw him in.

He was a guy in his 40s, probably Middle Eastern, had a gut that hung out far enough to where he couldn’t see his feet if he looked down. Probably hadn’t seen his cock in ages, either. All I was worried about was if I could see it. For the first time in my life I was going to have to seduce a man. I walked in and the guy was propped up in a precariously positioned chair, as if it was going to collapse any second. He was looking down at a newspaper through reading glasses when he noticed me.

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He had a seriously receding hairline and his every breath was a heavy, labored one. He was probably years, if not months, from a heart attack, if he hadn’t had one already.

“Hi,” I said. “I had a question. ”

“Yes?” he said with a heavy middle eastern accent.

“I have some family that’s going to be coming over from Colorado and they were going to need a room to rent. I live close by and thought I’d come in and see if I could take a look at the rooms to see if my family would want to stay here while they’re in town. ”

He cleared his throat with a deep, guttural gesture as he leaned forward in the creaky office chair. It was kind of gross. I could tell he wasn’t the self-conscious type. Life was probably pretty rough on the guy and he was way past the point of giving a shit what people thought about how he looked or acted.

“I have rooms available, yeah. It’s $39 a night without a kitchenette. $49 with a kitchenette. $20 security deposit.

 

  ” he said, pulling on the waistband of his pants.

“Could I maybe see a room with a kitchenette?” I asked with an intentionally high level of cuteness, making sure to flash a smile that had a faint flirtatiousness about it.

He nodded, seemingly un-fazed, fishing out a key behind the desk. As we walked towards the room, which was apparently on the first floor, we exchanged pleasantries. Well, it wasn’t so much “exchange” so much as I fed him improvised gibberish about my non-existent family from Colorado while he strained to stay standing upright. He looked structurally unsound, like he was always about to tip over. I humored him, though, and kept talking.

The entire parking lot was empty, save for one car, his I figured, which was a tiny, mid-80s Japanese hatchback. I was worried that he might see through my feigned enthusiasm about my family getting a room there that might think the whole thing was a prank. If he thought it was a prank, though, he sure played it off well.

He unlocked a room and let me walk in. I played the innocently brave schoolgirl who had no qualms of being in the company of a stranger in a hotel room. I pretended to inspect the room, making friendly comments about it as I did. It was almost five o’clock and the sub beaming into the room was a burnt orange, escorted by the cool breeze of Autumn. It was kind of romantic, in a sleazy sort of way.

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   The mood empowered me and I pulled my sweater from around my waist, hopefully not in an obvious way, as I continued to act-scan the room.

I couldn’t tell if he was checking out my ass or not, so I decided to go one step forward and get on my knees, pretending to look under the bed. It was one of those hotel beds that had a solid base. To cover my tracks I made a joking comment about how my nephew had lost a toy under a bed in another hotel and that I was glad he wouldn’t be able to do that here. I turned around and noticed his demeanor was slightly different. His eyes were hanging low, as if he were unapologetically beginning to like what he saw. I moved in for the kill.

“Do you have a private email address or anything that I can contact you at after I talk to my family?” I asked.

He seemed to be thinking about what he was going to say next. He finally pulled out a pen and a small paper pad from him pocket. “Yes, I have this e-mail. It’s for the hotel but I’ll remember you. What’s your name?”

“Jennifer. ” I said with a smile.

He scribbled onto the note and handed it to her, his bafflingly heavy breathing becoming more and more disconcerting.

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   I took the note and slid it into my breast pocket, still acting the smiley, bubbly part. As I walked home I looked at the note. It was an email address and private cell phone. His name was Amir. That’s what he wrote on top of the note, anyways.

The next day, I went to the pharmacy and pulled the same act. This time, I went in and introduced myself to the pharmacist. His name was Doug. He was kind of a goofy guy, but sweet and professional. I laid out my fictional plight, that I didn’t have the money for the Plan B pill and was too ashamed to go with my mom to get a prescription. He asked me how old I was and I fudged my age up a year. We chatted for awhile and actually seemed to hit it off. This would help me later, of course. He could feel like there was a genuine flirtatious quality to our interactions that I could take advantage of.

Now, I didn’t have as much of an excuse to get his email address as I did with Amir, so I had to just plant that seed of the idea and leave it at that.

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   What I did do, though, was work into the conversation that I had went online looking for advice and couldn’t find any. I asked him if I could email him directly if I had any questions and he said I could, so we exchanged e-mail addresses. I didn’t want to give him “Jenny’s" fake Facebook address, since she was 20. I hoped that I made enough of an impression that he’d remember me for when I came back the next time to make my “proposition”. I planned to make sure he did after the kinds of conversations I decided we’d have when we started exchanging e-mails.

The whole operation was taking a lot more preparation than I thought it would, but then again, it was kind of necessary. If I was going to do this right I had to cover all my bases. I realized, though, that I didn’t want to lose my virginity to some random guy who responded to my Craigslist ad or something, so I decided that I’d lose it. . . to myself. I had a few hundred dollars saved up so I went online and bought a dildo. It was this cool, purple jelly-looking thing. It didn’t look too big, but then again, I’d never had a real thing inside me so I was actually really nervous and excited about getting it. My parents were way too nosy for me to want to have it mailed to myself so I had it mailed to my friend, Gabriella’s house.

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   She always got the mail at her house and assured me that she could snap it up and get it to me without anyone noticing.

The most experience I’d ever had was rubbing myself in bed in the middle of the night when everyone else was asleep. I was so petrified that I was certain my mom and dad could hear the squishy sounds coming out of me. I wasn’t letting so much as a muffled moan escape my lips but I felt like I was belting out song lyrics as loud as I could. I remember the first time I did it. I was in the shower and the water was really hot and, for the first time, I got curious about what was going on there between my legs. I laid down in the tub as the shower water poured down on me, got a mirror and used it to get a close look at my cunny. I looked at the little slit and grew more curious. I let my fingers dance around that area, pulling back the folds of my labia, running my fingers up and down my slit. It wasn’t a sexual thing. I was just more or less interested in a part of my body that I’d never paid much attention to before.

I knew about sex already. My 18-year old cousin, MaryAnne, had more experience than I did. She actually went down on a guy when she was at summer camp the year before. She explained everything in lurid detail; what she did, how he reacted, and what happened when he “finished”.

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   She told me about how when he got close to the end he groaned and this thick, milky white gunk spewed out of his thing and splashed her in the face. She gasped, her jaw hanging, as he aimed his thing and got the next few squirts skillfully into her open mouth, which she couldn’t shut if she wanted to, she was so stunned. The guy even fingered her pussy a little and she said she really liked it. That’s what kind of got me curious. I decided to try it, too.

The first night I did it my parents were away and my aunt had stayed over to watch me. I laid in bed, under the covers and let my hands roam. I was unsure at first, at what I was supposed to do and how. It came to me like instinct. I kept my panties on but rubbed up and down my slit with the middle finger on my right hand. I knew I was doing it right when it started to feel good. Really good. I felt something inside me take over, some kind of uncontrollable animal thing and I couldn’t stop. I started to rub harder and faster, my body telling me exactly what to do and how. My breathing grew shorter as my body tensed up and I went into convulsions.

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   I shut my eyes and started to pant as the most excruciating pleasurable moment I had ever felt. A swirling rush of emotions were just welling up in me. I knew at that moment, that I’d just had an orgasm and that I was now a woman.

I felt this sticky goo on my fingers and felt between my legs. It was a gooey mess. This syrupy, oozy stuff was dripping out of me. I figured it had to be something that happened after a girl orgasms. Whatever it was, what caused it felt great and I knew I’d be doing it again and again. I’d never taken drugs but I imagined that that’s what a druggie felt like on their first high. They knew they’d be hooked for life. Thankfully, this wasn’t the kind of high that was self-destructive the way drugs were/ There were no side effects, except maybe a little light-headedness.

When I smelled my fingers, it was a smell I’d never forget, the pungent odor of some kind of thing that had been waiting since I was born to come out. It was the first time my body acted out against me in a sexual way. For the first time, I was completely out of control. I knew what it was like to be an epileptic.

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   You know, someone who has involuntary seizures. Unlike epileptics, though, I could control the kinds of seizures that made me leak that gooey stuff, and those “seizures” were like bliss in a bottle.

As I scoured that website looking for a suitable substitute for an erect male penis, I felt like I was on a dating site, looking for Mr. Right. It had to be just right; the right size, the right look, the right price. After all, I didn’t want to settle since this thing was going to spend a lot of time inside of me. It was also going to be my “first”. One of the floppy rubber toys I was skimming past on this site was going to take my virginity. I was both in awe and in disgust of all of them, as if they had personalities and consciences of their own.

When I finally picked and purchased the purple, jelly-looking one, I felt like I had resigned to my fate, like I’d committed some irredeemable sin. But, the sale was final and my fat gummi worm-looking marital aid was on its way. I remember the day I got the call from Gabriella whose insatiable grin I could almost see through the phone. Even her voice was grinning, she was so undeniably thrilled. It was an admittedly juvenile thrill, but a thrill nonetheless. My “little buddy” had arrived and she asked me to come over so we could open it.

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   For her, it was like her birthday and Christmas combined. I think she was more excited than I was. In fact, she was.

I got to her house and we scurried up to her room where the package lay in harmless wait under her bed. After she locked her door, she fished it out and handed it to me, expecting me to tear the packaging off. I didn’t. I kind of just stared at it, not knowing what to do. Miffed, she took it from me and tore off the plain brown wrapping paper, revealing the plain brown box underneath. I managed the courage to take the box from her and she looked on as I pulled out a clear plastic bag wherein the “thing” was.

When we laid eyes on it our jaws dropped, smeared with twisted smiles, partially in awe, partially out of an uncontrollable hysteria. We marveled at it, how big and purposeful it was. It had one purpose and, from the looks of it, served that purpose very well. Gabriella and I did the best to contain our giddy yelps. I pulled it out of the plastic bag and held its colorful translucence with a sense of responsibility. This thing held a lot of power.

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   It had the power to bring my body the kinds of sensations I’d never experienced before. I respected it, but was also insanely curious about it. I wondered how it would feel and a number of things leapt into my mind about what I could use it for. Some of the more torrid suggestions my mind through at me I was instantly appalled at and stored away in my mental lock-up. . . at least for future consideration.

I was more serious about it than Gabriella. She snatched it out of my hand in silly fascination. “Oh my gawd, look how huge this thing is! Didn’t you look at the size before you ordered?You’re not gonna be able to fit this thing inside you, dumbass!” she giggled, going bow-legged, miming the action of trying to fit the huge dildo inside her.

“I thought it was gonna be smaller!” I gasped, both of us fawning over it.

Over the next half-hour, we jokingly went over all the different things I could use it for and what I intended to do with it first. It was the kind of conversation I know tons of guys would pay to listen to. Gabriella explained that what I should do is, if I use it in bed, I should put my feet on the wall behind my headboard for traction. I worried that I might accidentally start kicking the walls once I got going.

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   It sounded like good advice at the time. I didn’t know exactly the kinds of positions girls got in when they used these things so Gabriella’s idea sounded as good as any.

When I got home, I had my purple friend stuff into the bottom of my book bag. After a brief greeting from my parents, I hurried upstairs to stash my kinky little present to myself. I tried to mask my anxious glee during dinner, knocking back my steamed carrots with a phony casual slouch. Inside, my body was screaming to get upstairs and test out my toy for the first time.

I wanted to make sure that my parents were asleep before I got started, so I paced back at forth in my room starting at 10pm. I heard my parents go to their bedroom. They always left their door open and I could always peek out my door and look down the hallway to see the bluish light of their TV glowing from within the dark. Once the volume went down on the TV I knew they were about to go to sleep. My mom always turned the volume down on the TV before they nodded off.

A quarter past eleven, I peeked out my door and down the hall, noticing that the volume on their TV had beenlowered. They were asleep and I was in the clear. I locked my door and scrambled over to my book bag, pulling my prize from its hiding place. There it was.

 

   I was going to lose my virginity that night to this. . . grape jello mold in the size of a giant cock.

I dimmed the lights in my room and turned my TV on, setting the volume not too loud but not too quiet, either. I wanted the TV to muffle any noises I was going to be making against my will. I put on two pairs of socks and stripped off my panties before climbing into bed. I did what Gabriella suggested and laid on my back, my head and neck propped up by a bunch of pillows,my butt facing the wall and headboard and spread my feet far apart, resting the soles of my feet flat on the wall. I know that if someone had walked in, they wouldn’t have known what to make of the position I’d put myself into. It was too late to worry about that.

I put faith into my door locks and reached next to me, taking the thick, floppy jello-cock into my hand, bracing myself for what I was about to do. I could hear a cheesy infomercial about some ab machine yammering on in the background when I realized my palms were sweating. My entire body was chilled, covered in goose pimples. I couldn’t believe it. I was going to stuff this huge, neon-purple baby’s arm up inside of me!

After rubbing my pussy for a few minutes to prepare myself, mostly as a method to procrastinate, I realized that the time was now.

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   I swear that the volume of the TV went down and I could hear my heart thumping in my chest as I slowly and awkwardly positioned the head of--I’ll call it “Mr. Grapecock” from now on--at the mouth of my pussy. Okay, it’s not so much a mouth but a thin-lipped gash, until now, one that only dealt with outgoing packages. My first incoming “shipment” was tapping at the front door, awaiting permission to enter.

My mouth involuntarily opened as I eased the head of Mr. Grapecock against my little slit. I knew it was going to be painful and I was bracing myself for the inevitably wonderful pressure. It was like trying to push a bus into a phone booth. I bit my lip and pushed further. The cool, rubber knob of Mr. Grapecock didn’t let up. It was smushed against my little slit which was too small to let him in. Slowly but surely, though, I felt it slowly penetrating into me. Sure, it was maybe millimeters per second, but it was progress.

Without pulling Mr.

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   Grapecock away from the tight entrance of my pussy, I scooted my butt closer to the wall and spread my legs even more. That seemed to do the trick because I felt the stubbornly fat bulb of Mr. Grapecock moving faster now. Instead of millimeters per second, it was centimeters per second. I then felt something on the dildo. It wasn’t rubbing as abrasively against my tender skin as it had been. It felt warmer and slicker now. I looked down between my legs as the massive trunk I was trying to feed my pussy and goaded it in, rubbing it up and down. That’s when I heard the sound of slippery nuzzling where Mr. Grapecock met my pussy. I was wet! I was really wet! I couldn’t believe it!

The cool sheet of goose pimples that had wrapped up my body was now replaced with a soothing warmth that seemed to flow out of every pore on my skin. The little oven inside me had been turned up a few degrees. It was an all-over invisible blanket. I starting to let out these little whimpers, my body starting to twist and bend as I forced Mr. Grapecock into me, and that’s when it happened.

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   I pushed with a frustrated burst of energy, urging him in with impatient joy and that’s when I heard a slurpy POP! and an intense swell of pressure grew in between my legs.

There was resistance now. Mr. Grapecock wasn’t just flopping around wildly. It was connected to me! I looked down between my legs and saw that the head of the dildo was inside me! My heart was pounding. A trickle of sweat rolled down my head and the balls of my feet slid against the wall as I urged Mr. Grapecock deeper. Pulling and pushing its thickness, the purple jelly baby’s arm slowly got fed into me. The more I pumped it, the wetter I got and the wetter I got the deeper it went.

After a few minutes, it was probably only two or three inches inside me but I’d never felt so full. My pussy was stretched beyond anything I thought it could be stretched. My eyes were shut now, the TV was speaking in tongues, my chest was heaving and my breaths came in long, slow, deep heavy pants. I was really fucking myself now and I knew it.

That inner warmth was flowing out all over me now and I was gyrating uncontrollably. Suddenly, my breathing became short, my body tensed and tightened and this unbelievable wave of pleasure swept over me.

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   My knees shut and Mr. Grapecock was forced out as I began to tremble. My pussy was having contractions and I felt like I was having a seizure because my entire body went on auto-pilot and I thought I was having a near-death experience. I could feel my spirit tearing away from my body. But, it wasn’t any of those things. I was just cumming, and I was cumming long and hard. It seemed like this rolling, trembling quake that went off inside me continued for minutes.

When it was over I was a sweaty, wobbly mess; my thighs were hopelessly splayed out and fatigued. My sheets were a mess, coated in the stuff that was dripping out of me as I tried to find a hiding place for Mr. Grapecock inside my pussy. I felt like I’d just been thrown, buck naked, into a car wash. It struck me that this was sex. This wonderful thing I’d just experienced was sex. I thought to myself, “This is sex?! I love it! I want more!”

to be continued?.

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