I have to confess, when my boyfriend announced he’d just mail-ordered a Fleshlight, my initial thought was “why? When you have the real thing right here? But I kept it to myself, of course, because anything I said might well lead to a discussion of my own substantial toy collection... and how do you tell the man you love that sometimes, a girl just needs to be stretchhhhhhhhed?
I didn’t mention my other concern either; memories of the boyfriend who confided that once, as a horny teen with no lover to go to, he bought a loaf of unsliced bread, cut a hole in it and...
You don’t need the details, do you? I certainly didn’t, although I got them. What I’m saying is, if my man is going to stick his dick into a soft, dark hole, then it needs to be one that is intimately connected to me. Loaves of bread, blow-up dollies, tin cans... no. No, no, no.
I went online and found a few other things to worry about. Would he just pick up a “regular” one? Or go the whole hog and put out for one sculpted from the pussy of a porn star? Would he give this pussy masturbator (that's all it is, right?) a name, and why would he choose whichever one he decided upon? I’m not a jealous person, or so I’ve always believed. But suddenly, irrationally, I found myself positively hating the package-in-the-post, and I hadn’t even met her yet!
Her! Oh my god, even I’m doing it!
She arrived and he didn’t say a word. The advantage of not living with your boyfriend is, you don’t have to put up with his less savory habits. The disadvantage is, you don’t always know everything that’s going on in his life. I wasn’t going to ask, either. I didn’t want to know. (Yes I did, yes I did. Desperately. But I wasn’t going to admit it, even to myself.)
There’s another reason why I don’t like these things. Because some sights are too good to hide, and I love to watch a man stroking himself. Maybe I’m helping with kisses and nibbles, maybe I’m not. Maybe he’s going to jerk off on my tits. Maybe he’s going to spray his cum elsewhere. Or maybe he’s just doing it, because I asked him to. Whatever; I like to watch.
But I want to watch his hand around his cock. Not around a tube. I haven’t met her and I hope I never do.
She was in his bedroom when I went round one night. Sitting on his bedside table, large as life and luscious as you please. She was slimmer than I expected... skinny bitch! Now I hate her even more. Her flesh was an even, soft, sexy pink. Her lips were slightly parted in voluptuous invitation.... She looked like a can of beer.
Typical. Beer and booty, the boy’s best buddies.
And she was still dressed! He’d opened the box and doubtless inspected its contents. But she was still in her packaging, and the packaging was unopened.
“I was wondering whether you’d like to help me inaugurate it?” he asked with the shit-eating grin that he normally reserved for some of my baser suggestions. At the same time sounding like a small town Mayor, inviting his deputy along to open a new library.
She was still in my hand and I was tugging at the packaging. “May I?”
He nodded and I was the one who peeled off her plastic. I was the one who gripped her first. I was the one who squeezed in the drop of lubricant that the instructions recommended. And I was the one who slipped him into what the packaging very unappealingly calls “the penis sleeve” - digression, and I’m sorry. But a girlfriend once knitted a sweater, pink with darker flared cuffs. That, the friends who saw it declared, was a penis sleeve. This was more like a penis pocket.
But he slipped in and I watched his face for any tell-tale sign of the “the best feeling on earth.” There was a faint petroleum-y smell in the air, which I guess was expelled from the pocket pussy when he entered it, but neither of us mentioned it. Then he took the can in one hand and began....
After a while, I raised a hand to help, and his dropped away and I worked it alone. Not the most sexually arousing sensation I have ever had... for a moment, I wondered if this is how milkmaids used to feel, tugging the teats of an overfull udder. It dawned on me that if a guy’s in the mood, you can jerk him off with anything. (Hey babe, I just picked up a new pack of sandpaper.) And he’ll love it. (Ooooh, scratchhhhhyyyyyy!)
The Fleshlight was working its magic though, and when my pace flagged, he took over. His eyes were on mine as his fist began to blur, and again you don’t need to know the details. But once it was over and he handed it back to me, I’ll admit I couldn’t resist slipping a finger into the pocket, feeling his moisture and heat as it clung to the sides, and the sticky warmth that was pooling there as well. I withdrew my finger, sniffed and tasted. The petroleum smell was still there, of course, but the smell of man overpowered it; and, while my own curiosity was now firmly assuaged, it struck me that there’s a whole bunch of possible cum games here that some people might have a great time playing.
He named her Felicity... Felicity Fleshlight, of course. A good neutral, flippant name that it was difficult for me to object to. He washed her and put her lid back on, and debated letting her live in the fridge, in the hope of shocking those beer buddies, who drain his beer stash every time they come round for the football and basketball. I wondered whether that... the fridge, not the shocked beer buddies... might add to the sensations that Felicity could convey, an icy shiver from top to toe. Well, he likes it when I break out the ice cubes, and likes them even more when I have one in my mouth. We talked about trying that out some other time.
We haven’t yet, though, and I’m beginning to wonder whether the old girl is even still in his life. I’ve not seen her around for a while, and he’s not mentioned her either. It’s almost like this whole episode never happened.
Except for one thing. He’s become a lot more interested in my toy collection. How they work, what they do, how they feel... and you remember what I said at the beginning of this piece, how sometimes a girl just needs to be stretchhhhhhhhed?
Sometimes, a guy likes to watch her stretchhhhhhhhing, and now it’s me browsing Fleshlights on EdenFantasys, looking for one that isn’t too wide, isn’t too hard; that tapers nicely, that might fit just there.
It may not work, it might even hurt. But I’m curious to give it a go....
I didn’t mention my other concern either; memories of the boyfriend who confided that once, as a horny teen with no lover to go to, he bought a loaf of unsliced bread, cut a hole in it and...
You don’t need the details, do you? I certainly didn’t, although I got them. What I’m saying is, if my man is going to stick his dick into a soft, dark hole, then it needs to be one that is intimately connected to me. Loaves of bread, blow-up dollies, tin cans... no. No, no, no.
I went online and found a few other things to worry about. Would he just pick up a “regular” one? Or go the whole hog and put out for one sculpted from the pussy of a porn star? Would he give this pussy masturbator (that's all it is, right?) a name, and why would he choose whichever one he decided upon? I’m not a jealous person, or so I’ve always believed. But suddenly, irrationally, I found myself positively hating the package-in-the-post, and I hadn’t even met her yet!
Her! Oh my god, even I’m doing it!
She arrived and he didn’t say a word. The advantage of not living with your boyfriend is, you don’t have to put up with his less savory habits. The disadvantage is, you don’t always know everything that’s going on in his life. I wasn’t going to ask, either. I didn’t want to know. (Yes I did, yes I did. Desperately. But I wasn’t going to admit it, even to myself.)
There’s another reason why I don’t like these things. Because some sights are too good to hide, and I love to watch a man stroking himself. Maybe I’m helping with kisses and nibbles, maybe I’m not. Maybe he’s going to jerk off on my tits. Maybe he’s going to spray his cum elsewhere. Or maybe he’s just doing it, because I asked him to. Whatever; I like to watch.
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But I want to watch his hand around his cock. Not around a tube. I haven’t met her and I hope I never do.
She was in his bedroom when I went round one night. Sitting on his bedside table, large as life and luscious as you please. She was slimmer than I expected... skinny bitch! Now I hate her even more. Her flesh was an even, soft, sexy pink. Her lips were slightly parted in voluptuous invitation.... She looked like a can of beer.
Typical. Beer and booty, the boy’s best buddies.
And she was still dressed! He’d opened the box and doubtless inspected its contents. But she was still in her packaging, and the packaging was unopened.
“I was wondering whether you’d like to help me inaugurate it?” he asked with the shit-eating grin that he normally reserved for some of my baser suggestions. At the same time sounding like a small town Mayor, inviting his deputy along to open a new library.
She was still in my hand and I was tugging at the packaging. “May I?”
He nodded and I was the one who peeled off her plastic. I was the one who gripped her first. I was the one who squeezed in the drop of lubricant that the instructions recommended. And I was the one who slipped him into what the packaging very unappealingly calls “the penis sleeve” - digression, and I’m sorry. But a girlfriend once knitted a sweater, pink with darker flared cuffs. That, the friends who saw it declared, was a penis sleeve. This was more like a penis pocket.
But he slipped in and I watched his face for any tell-tale sign of the “the best feeling on earth.” There was a faint petroleum-y smell in the air, which I guess was expelled from the pocket pussy when he entered it, but neither of us mentioned it. Then he took the can in one hand and began....
After a while, I raised a hand to help, and his dropped away and I worked it alone. Not the most sexually arousing sensation I have ever had... for a moment, I wondered if this is how milkmaids used to feel, tugging the teats of an overfull udder. It dawned on me that if a guy’s in the mood, you can jerk him off with anything. (Hey babe, I just picked up a new pack of sandpaper.) And he’ll love it. (Ooooh, scratchhhhhyyyyyy!)
The Fleshlight was working its magic though, and when my pace flagged, he took over. His eyes were on mine as his fist began to blur, and again you don’t need to know the details. But once it was over and he handed it back to me, I’ll admit I couldn’t resist slipping a finger into the pocket, feeling his moisture and heat as it clung to the sides, and the sticky warmth that was pooling there as well. I withdrew my finger, sniffed and tasted. The petroleum smell was still there, of course, but the smell of man overpowered it; and, while my own curiosity was now firmly assuaged, it struck me that there’s a whole bunch of possible cum games here that some people might have a great time playing.
He named her Felicity... Felicity Fleshlight, of course. A good neutral, flippant name that it was difficult for me to object to. He washed her and put her lid back on, and debated letting her live in the fridge, in the hope of shocking those beer buddies, who drain his beer stash every time they come round for the football and basketball. I wondered whether that... the fridge, not the shocked beer buddies... might add to the sensations that Felicity could convey, an icy shiver from top to toe. Well, he likes it when I break out the ice cubes, and likes them even more when I have one in my mouth. We talked about trying that out some other time.
We haven’t yet, though, and I’m beginning to wonder whether the old girl is even still in his life. I’ve not seen her around for a while, and he’s not mentioned her either. It’s almost like this whole episode never happened.
Except for one thing. He’s become a lot more interested in my toy collection. How they work, what they do, how they feel... and you remember what I said at the beginning of this piece, how sometimes a girl just needs to be stretchhhhhhhhed?
Sometimes, a guy likes to watch her stretchhhhhhhhing, and now it’s me browsing Fleshlights on EdenFantasys, looking for one that isn’t too wide, isn’t too hard; that tapers nicely, that might fit just there.
It may not work, it might even hurt. But I’m curious to give it a go....
I don't think I could ever be in a relationship where me and my lover weren't totally accepting of each other's sex toys and porn collections. But then, I've gotten the impression that my lack of jealousy is pretty weird. I like to give my husband Tenga and other similar toys as presents and he also has a Fleshlight. We also sometimes recommend porn sites or actresses to each other. Some of these new high tech pussy-in-a-cans do make me kind of jealous that I don't have a penis... But I'd be pissed off if I had a boyfriend that didn't like me using my sex toys, with or without him. Luckily I never had to deal with that BS.