It was 10:00 P.M. when I arrived at my home, and I had been awake for a mere five hours. I laid on my bed and couldn’t stop smiling. I was a little bit drunk. I reached for my phone, but then realized that I shouldn’t grab it; if I did, I’d want to call Amanda. It was much too soon to do that, right?
I drifted off and recounted the events of the night in my head. I thought about the way that thick dildo came from her crotch and penetrated my pussy so firmly. I wish I had done more. I should have tasted her more while she was next to me. I wish I could go back in time and do it again and do it longer. I was so lucky to have been ravaged by her just several hours ago. I touched my pussy and it wasn’t nearly as good as the way she touched it; how did a stranger know my body better than I did? I thought of her face, her kiss, her suit, her tattoos, and my pussy got more and more moist. I spread my fingers around, rubbing myself, then penetrating myself deeply, yearning for her to come back and in dire need to cum again. I rubbed and flicked and went as far into my vagina as possible. I spread my lips open and I pushed on my throbbing clit, harder and harder, deeper and deeper. I closed my eyes and imagined her kiss, her thrust, found myself pulling my own hair and pushing myself against my own bed as far as I could. I reached a soft but intense climax, and suddenly felt relaxed. I put my fingers in my mouth and tasted my own juices, something I had never done before, but with my recent discovery of having a penchant for the taste of vagina, it felt appropriate. I still tasted like a tiny bar of soap that came individually wrapped from an elegant hotel. Remnants of the night were still existent and I didn’t want it to end.
I knew I had to plan an event. For myself. Not for Amanda. Possibly with Amanda, but not for Amanda. No. Definitely not. This is all for the store. Of course.
17
It had been a little over twenty-four hours, and I still hadn’t heard from Amanda.
I spent several hours attempting to craft the perfect, witty text message. It consisted of a lot of writing and deleting.
“I miss you more than those French fries.”
No, that was too needy.
“How was your flight?”
Too generic.
“I wanted to talk to you about that class stuff! Lemme know when you have a sec.”
Too annoying.
“Heeeeeeeey.”
Too stupid.
“Thinking of you,” with a naked photo attached. Maybe? If I took the right photo. That could potentially work. I tried it out—boob shots, from the hip up shots, pouty kissy faces. Nothing was working for me. I retook the photo multiple times and simply couldn’t find the proper angle. I put makeup on, and then it looked too much like I put makeup on just for the sake of taking a photo. Which I did. Argh!
So, I gave up on that, and decided not to write her after all. She could be on another plane by now, or even with another woman already. It was exciting and so agonizing to crush over her. Our encounter was so brief, and I had been so sleep deprived, there was a sincere possibility that my whole tryst with her had just been some kind of hallucination.
But whether she was real or a sexy, imaginary hologram who gave an amazing orgasm, I did make a promise to her to create some kind of event in the store, because apparently having private ROOMZ that allow penetration is super unique. I loved the way Amanda referred to Dreamz in comparison to the other stores she visits as part of the “sex industry.” Like my job was part of something bigger, and not just a minimum-wage thing that kept me nocturnal.
Amanda spoke about sex in this ultra-professional way. It was more than just an urge that needed to be fulfilled, it was a lifestyle. I wasn’t sure how to get to that level of professional knowledge of sex without having anyone to have sex with. Well I possibly had one, but I wasn’t sure when it would happen again.
I started searching on my laptop various keywords I remembered that Amanda had said, like “couples,” “play,” “BDSM,” “sex education.” I found Dr. Erica’s books, the woman that Amanda told me about. I also came across some instructional pornographic videos, a genre of adult movies I had no idea existed. We didn’t have any of these in our store.
Several of the scenes contained a striking blonde woman named Nina Hartley. In one of her videos, she had this giant inflatable pussy, and talked to the viewer about what areas to touch, and how to properly lick it. She explained all the different erogenous zones, moved her fingers around everywhere, and described what each different part of the vulva did and what kind of orgasms were achieved in the various zones. I felt like she was speaking directly to me, my own hot blonde teacher, ready to guide me toward an A in sexual exploration.
Then a mysterious, handsome man walked in the room and followed her instructions, licking her pussy in all the proper zones until she came in his mouth. Then, she instructed the viewer on how to properly suck the man’s giant, rock-hard penis, using a corkscrew motion with her hands, with lots of spit from her mouth, licking the balls and the shaft and using a balance of tongue and hand. Then she gave him a blow job very matter-of-factly and professionally, following all of her own instructions.
Next, three other women randomly came into the room, joined in, got naked instantly, and took turns on the man’s penis. They all looked so happy, horny, and confident, switching back and forth from cock to pussy, knowing exactly what to do with both of them. It was admirable! I guess the instructions were over at this point in the film and it was the time for couples watching it to practice what they learned. If I ever had a penis or a pussy in front of me again, I now had some new things to do with them.
I continued my research, which is an odd term for looking at porn, but I’ve heard worse euphemisms. I typed in my zip code along with a bunch of other sexual terms, I clicked on link after link, exploring possible event topics. Bondage? No, I feel like someone could get hurt if I tried to tie them up with too little experience. Erotic massage? Nah, then I’d need to find a bunch of beds, and those wouldn’t fit in the store, even if I moved all the shelves. There were so many choices out there, but none of them seemed good enough. Ugh! There had to be a perfect event for me to host!
Soon, I found myself on a Tampa “Lifestyles” website, which I shortly learned was another name for swingers (married couples who have sex with other people). There was a very active message board, with photos of various couples, girls and guys, listing what type of sex they wanted to have. Some of the couples were younger, some were older, one had a photo completely clothed, decked out in hiking gear, in front of a Jeep with mountain bikes and boating equipment strapped to the top. One couple had bars over their eyes in the photo, and were decked out in leather gear with studs all over it. One couple was at what looked like a kid’s birthday party, with pastel Mylar balloons, picnic tables, and cake in the background (without any actual kids showing in the shot).
This was just so intriguing and arousing, honestly. To think of all these random couples in the area looking to fuck strangers? To think of parents that took a moment at a birthday party to snap a photo that put them in the market to find a third person to engage in role-playing with—I had no idea this happened. I thought I was so subversive because I was a registered member of the Green party, and I wore black nail polish, and didn’t listen to pop music on the radio. But it turns out there were “regular” grownups right near me doing way more exciting things than I was. I sure hope I didn’t find my parents on here.