“A hard man is good to find.” Not Spooner. Perhaps Mae west but it sounds too modern.
It isn’t the truth.
I don’t mean an erection isn’t good in its place but it isn’t sufficient.
Where does one find a man with the extra? A younger man, a pupil, may be an option for some. Not for me. Bars are likely to yield more disappointment than satisfaction. It may not suit everyone but I found mine at an auction.
I hadn’t attended to find a man. I had my eye on a vibrator listed in the catalog. It was a beautiful machine — a well made wooden box housed the transformer, switch and rheostat as well as compartments for the attachments, cables and the bakelite unit itself.
The catalog was from one of the estate auctioneers I’d patronised in the past. I flicked through it during the add breaks. Amongst the scarred tallboys and broken-backed marital beds was a consignment of aged medical equipment.
That night I dreamed of an eager young country doctor at the cusp of the twentieth century. His heart was in the right place as he embraced theories of female hysteria. I dreamed of his first, fumbling attempts at treating farmers’ wives, worn out too early. Did he persevere or relegate the machine, barely used, to a dark corner? Did one or two treatments slip beyond professional probity?
I wanted his machine. Unfortunately so did someone else. He inflated every bid I made until I paid more than three times as much as I had for any other antique vibrator in my collection. I’d be living on beans and omelettes for a month but it was worth it. I signed my cheque, hefted my new possession in a recycled banana box, turned and almost collided with my competitor.
He offered, and I accepted, a coffee at the neighbouring greasy spoon. Over the bitter robusta he asked about my eagerness. I told him about my collection. I omitted to mention the modern models in my bedroom dresser. He avoided obvious and tacky jokes and innuendos. When the talk petered out I invited him to view my collection.
Three evenings later, after work, he stood at my dining table. I watched his soft eyes. He picked each of my treasures up, turned it over and ran his fingers along its length. He was a connoisseur. Two, not my own favourites, he switched on and gauged within his closed grip. Lastly he inspected the vibrator fir which I had outbid him. After he had placed it back in its box, his finger still rested on its Bakelite tip, he spoke.
“It’s worth starvation rations for a week or two but let me take you out tonight.”
I declined. He claimed it his penitence for having driven up the price. I resisted again. He asked again, claiming he was eating out anyway. I acquiesced to pizza locally. Afterwards he walked me to my door and, I was glad, begged off coffee.
In bed I replayed the evening. As I thought of his long fingers slipping along my collection of phalli I could have masturbated but didn’t.
I woke early and lay under the dona, trying to remember my dreams. Between my legs was moist. I sniffed my fingertips then felt myself again. I eased my finger along the closed slit. The fullness of my labia pressed against the corners of my nail, almost catching. At the forward limit of my fold I pressed my nub. It was firm and hot. I thought of him as I traced the tip of my finger around the edge of the hardness. I eased the end of my finger into the silky heat within and pushed towards my pussy.
I heard but didn’t register the click then the seven o’clock news blared. I rolled towards my dresser but needed my hand and to stretch to kill the noise. I rolled back onto my back and tried to catch again my thoughts. The moment was gone.
It was three more dates before he stayed the night. We both were shy but somehow after too much talk and too much wine managed to agree to share my bed. We kissed, felt each others bodies and fell asleep. I don’t remember sex.
I woke late. The room was bathed in yellow light and growing warm. I rolled towards him and snuggled into his hip. He turned and kissed me full upon the lips. I wondered at my breath before he kissed me again.
Before I was aware of his intentions he slid down the bed and his mouth was between my legs. His arms wove under my thighs. With his fingers he had my labia spread. I wasn’t sure I was ready, even in the mood, when his tongue drew along my clit. A shiver ran up my spine.
My mind wasn’t quite in the right spot. I thought I might have been a little hung over. I closed my eyes and force myself to breath slowly. His mouth moved south, over my opening. His tongue penetrated me and he sucked my inner folds into him. The ridge of his nose was hard against my clitoris.
My orgasm was languid.
After I was too sensitive. I tried to pull back from his mouth then pull his head off me. He grabbed my wrists and held them at my sides. He moved his face onto my mons. As I caught my breath he nibbled amongst my hair.
I began to thank him when he went down on me again.
I was still sensitive and tried to close my legs. He pushed his face against me. He held my arms at my sides. His tongue was on my clitoris again. My twat was hungry to be filled. I started to shudder. His hands were tight around my wrists and I wanted to be noisy. I bit my lip. His head felt heavy against my mons.
There was a puddle against my buttocks. His tongue ran along my perineum, across my opening and back onto me. I spasmed again and his tongue caressed my whole space. I tried to will myself under my sensitivity and into the sensation. My heart pounded and I tasted blood.
I thought I might faint then his face was against mine. It was wet. We kissed.
I gripped his erection.
He kissed me again and whispered, “Shortly.”
I looked down at the bed and there was a huge puddle gathered. Then I looked at him again and saw just how covered he was in my cum, not just his face, but his neck, his shoulders…. his hands. That was the best.