The Vibrator That Roared - Part One

The Vibrator That Roared

07/17/14

Let’s set the scene. It’s just after lunch, right around twelve-fifteen or so, and she’s standing in the middle of the produce section at the grocery store.  The girl is dressed in flip flops, her bare feet cute and tiny, the toenails lightly painted in a delightful pink.  She’s sporting a faded red tee shirt bearing a cougar logo, no doubt her alma mater.  Just a bit of bare midriff is showing and it’s clear she’s got something of a farmer’s tan, her legs and arms dark brown with a smattering of freckles, while her belly is creamy white.  A careful look would also reveal she isn’t wearing a bra, the material of the shirt tight against her full breasts.  There’s a curious outline in the material, at her right nipple.  Is it a piercing?  And is something actually hanging from it? She’s wearing a thick leather belt with silver rivets wrapped around her waist, holding up a pair of blue denim shorts that look like they’ve practically been painted on.  The material is so tight that on most women you’d be able to see the actual shape of her sex beneath the cloth, yet with her, there is something strange.  An odd circle has formed in the crotch of her shorts, as if something cylindrical is occupying the same space she is and the material has darkened slightly.  The geometry is intriguing and makes you want a better look. Her age is somewhat indeterminate, though she looks like she can’t be much older than twenty.

She’s staring at her phone, her face stricken, though it’s not with a look of fear, or anger, or even excitement. It’s a mixture of those things. It’s trepidation.  Something is bothering her.  A small grocery basket hangs from her arm, a few miscellaneous and now forgotten fruit at the bottom. She looks around, eyes darting back and forth, as if she’s worried she is being observed.  Does anyone notice her distress?  She puts down the basket and walks away, leaving her fruit behind. Slowly and just a bit cautiously she heads toward the back of the store, her destination the semi-privacy of the restrooms.  She enters the women’s facilities and moves to one of the stalls, grateful she is alone.  No one else is in the bathroom and she closes the stall door with a sigh of relief. It is clear that part of her terror is the possibility she will be discovered, her secret revealed publicly.  She has no need to use the facilities and the moment the door is shut she unbuckles her belt and opens the front of her shorts.  There is a noise, a low mechanical hum.  It sounds… wet… which is the only way it can be described, as if whatever is making the noise has been half-buried in mud.  And that noise? It’s coming from between her legs.

Some might be surprised that she’s wearing panties, but it’s a matter of comfort for her.  What isn’t a surprise is that the thin, light blue cotton is wet, practically soaked, which explains the darkness of the denim of her shorts.  She reaches down between her legs, feeling the thick end of the vibrator, a six inch long sex toy, embedded in her slit.  Trembling slightly, already aroused and tender, she clearly doesn’t want to do whatever it is she’s been ordered to do.  Disobedience crosses her mind for just a moment.  Would he know?  But it is against her nature to refuse and besides, there is a rule that she has agreed to follow; that she be constantly ready, willing, and obedient to orders of this nature.  She knows it does not violate her pre-established limits, and so she twists the base of the vibrator, changing the soft purr into a full throated roar.  Her sex clenches tightly around the phallic toy, the shaking violence of its movement translating from motor to plastic and from plastic to flesh.  It sinks into her and due to it’s nature and location makes her gasp, her fingers tightening into fists.  She is unused to the setting, the higher level more difficult to tolerate.  And she is already on edge.

She’s trying not to cum as she buttons up her shorts, her fingers trembling from the waves of demanding pleasure.  It screams at her to break, to given in, but she knows that she cannot, should not.  She’s already been spanked, the stinging swats of a bare hand against her buttocks leaving her sore and tender and she knows she can’t take anymore. She secures the belt back across her waist, but it’s difficult.  She’s used to vibrators, but she’s been trying to keep from cumming for hours and having to endure the toy at its highest levels is more than she can be expected to handle. Part of her knows this, that no matter what she does the expectation is that she will cum.  It’s a setup. She knows it.  But still, she tries. She doesn’t know why. Perhaps it is her rebellious spirit that makes her fight it, to try to win regardless of what her master wants.  And inside there is a part of her screaming, horrified at what she has become: a sex object, with no value except for the entertainment of others, her body a pliant plaything for sexual gratification.  But there is also another part, a section of her psyche that loves it, and craves what the humiliation, the pain, the incessant pushing does to her.  It’s like a drug and she, the addict.

Now she can hear the vibrator, even through her shorts and panties and the vibrations reach her hips, a tingling that is so deep and so powerful that the epicenter of the earthquake begins a chain reaction she is powerless to hold back.  She stops in front of the counter full of sinks, standing there in the bathroom, her haunted eyes locked on her own image reflected in the mirror.  Long red hair, tied back in a loose ponytail, some dark eyeliner and just a touch of eye shadow give her a slightly exotic look. Her cheeks are rounded, making her adorably cute rather than pretty, and she has laugh lines - a girl that cries and grins often.  Yet it is the gentle movement of her waist, the steady and involuntary thrusting of her loins that draws the eye.  

She wonders if she can even manage to finish her grocery shopping.  How much time does she have before her assaulted nerves give in, exploding with sexual force, releasing the mixture of hormonal nirvana into her bloodstream and leaving her wet and wrung-out? Can she manage to get what she needs, stand in line, and make it back to her truck before she pops like a fire-cracker, albeit a very wet and aroused one?  Or is what she needs truly the sexual epiphany or climax, the muscle tightening explosion that might, or might not, relieve the pressure waves building up between her legs. She swallows hard and closes her eyes, breathing deeply as if that might help her deal with the incessant buzz.  It does not.

She looks toward the door, but then she as her answer, the philosophy of her existence flashing before her eyes like fireworks.  Before she can take a single step her body tightens again and the involuntary thrusting becomes more violent, more insistent.  She gasps, hands going down to her loins, pressing against her flesh, not that it helps. She folds as the vibrator buried inside her roars. It is too strong, too powerful, too pressing.  She feels the wetness between her legs, the explosion of fluids soaking her panties, the shorts, even her thighs.  She is no longer thinking of grocery shopping as she falls backward, leaning against the wall, eyes closed, mouth open, cumming.  And when it stops there are tears in her eyes.  She has failed him, cumming without permission, knowing the cost.  And the cost scares her.  She doesn’t even have what she needs for the coming punishment.  Her eyes stare at the redhead, nympho humiliation pain slut in the mirror and they lock on the answer, the thick leather, the silver rivets, all while the vibrator sends it’s prurient manipulation through her loins, sending her right back into orbit a second time.  She can’t help it.  It’s too strong.

And she cums again.