i (heart) a geek

So, yeah, Donny and I went sex toy shopping last Saturday afternoon. Donny, before arriving at my house, had cashed in all of his coins, $156.32 worth, and so felt he could go toy shopping with a cleaned and organized conscience. Donny, I don’t think, had ever been in a sex toyshop. I have. I own an arsenal, really, of toys. It’s not necessary for me to name them again; if you’re really interested read here and here, or if pressed for time, just imagine some toy or other and chances are I own some permutation of it.

(Nota bene: I no longer have a dildo. Somehow my dog got a hold of it; he greeted me one day at the door, my dildo hanging out the sides of his mouth, bobbling at either end. He had, in his doggy  excitement, cracked the dong’s silicone, and I had to toss it. C’est la vie. Or la guerre. Or something.)

We went to Toys in Babeland in Soho, on Mercer Street, a cavernously large place where the staff has a hipster tendency toward highly ironic tees and music that is either techno or 70’s disco. The staff, sadly, tends to have an attitude of extreme and studied could-not-give-a-fuckedness. Which would be ironic in itself, if it weren’t so annoying.

Or perhaps it’s just me. I do read “breeder” in neon, and I have pruned my ironic t-shirt collection into near non-existence. I think they look at me and think that I’m the kind of girl who feels sheepy about my stash of vibers, who has had anal like once by accident, who has bicuriousity but is all carpet and no munching, who thinks it naughty to wait a half day after fucking and before taking a shower.

They think I’m poor cousin Marilyn in the Munsters.

They could not be more wrong.

Or maybe my goddessishness is palpable as I stride as a colossus through their store, and they quake in fear in their chunky shoes.

Anyway, it’s tough to get help. And I’ve brought many a friend to Babes to buy their first toy, or their first anal toy, or their first pack of designer condoms, or whatever, so the staff really should be kissing my white, well-fucked ass. I bring people there rather than any of the other many purveyors of erotic aids here in Manhattan because it’s clean, pretty, well-organized, and well-stocked.

Babeland is a rainbow cornucopia of sextoys. Toys in red and yellow, pink and blue, orange and purple and brown comprise the visuals of the store, and the toys shift genres with a kaleidoscopic seamlesslness. Glass toys give way to dildo/vibe combos, which yield to straight vibes, that turn to condoms and lubes, which lead to dildos of every size, denomination and hue. An island of butt toys sits by itself, like the cheese that stands alone. The remaining wall is well hung with bondage and fetish gear. There’s something for every girl, and many boys, at Babeland, and it’s all good, pretty, and relentlessly cheerful.

Nothing seedy. It’s seed-free, this erotic boutique.

We walked around and I quickly picked out my toy of choice: the Rock Chick. Donny was a bit less single-purposed but nonetheless found himself drawn to the BDSM corner. Donny is a geek, and I love him for it. He spent many, many minutes gauging the various merits of Babeland’s hemp rope. He felt drawn to it because it is the kind they use on Hogtied.com. He likes to go with what the pros use.

He also spent a fair amount of time looking at the different floggers, finally choosing this one, only in green. He thought, momentarily, about buying one that was gorgeous deerskin of twisted strands of light and dark brown, the caramel and honey handle made of the same colored leather as its many tails, but in the end chose to go with the other deerskin choice because it was $100 less. He’s not frugal, my Donny; he’s cost conscious.

I chose the vibe and Donny the aforementioned hemp rope and flogger; he also purchased two kinds of lube (Maximus and Liquid Silk) and some pink bondage tape. He said for some reason that he was drawn to the pink. Which is cool. If a bit strange. Personally, I like pink, even if the tape looks as if it belongs in Barbie’s Playhouse Dungeon.

Donny and I traveled back to his house, did some boring tasks (including for me some backdoor housecleaning), went for a lovely dinner, returned, and then it was time to play.

Donny is a geek; he is also an athlete. He watches ESPN as much as he watches PBS. His house is littered with sports equipment and pictures of athletes, as well as many mathy books, and he pretty much approaches his exploration into this new sexual territory by borrowing heavily, and equally, from his geeksomeness and his athleticism.

Which meant that having Donny learn how to use the flogger on me made me feel a lot like my ass was the batting cage.  Every stroke was evaluated, analyzed and deconstructed by Donny for its accuracy and its force. He probably would have liked a videotape. Not so much so that he could see my flanks quiver in slo-mo reaction to the impact of the deerskin, but so that he could scrutinize his form.

With some practice, he felt he was hitting the target fairly regularly. Which meant for me that my right hip was covered in pinky-sized welts, Donny being a right hander and standing far to my left. I gently urged him to try a backhand or two, you know, for balance.

The flogger, though, felt pretty great. Especially when he built the cadence of the blows from a soft thudding landing of the leather to a stinging flick of their tips, or when he swished it along the length of my body like a gentle leather rain.  Flogging itself didn’t hurt that much—he’s spanked me with his hand and caused more pain—so I was surprised to see the marks he left the next day. I found them unexpected. But cool.

Donny gets excited by gear. He likes to array all of his tools in happy martial rows. He likes to take out his ropes and line them up according to length. When he was first learning to tie, he practiced on himself, which is just so cute I could spit. While he ties me up, he likes to explain what he’s doing. As if I were a boyscout who would be soon trying for his own D/s merit badge.

After getting a handle on the flogging, Donny had me kneel on the bed and tied me in a bunch of complicated knots to its four corners, such that my legs really couldn’t move at all, and my arms very little. He inserted my Rock Chick, flogged my ass a few times, and knelt in front of me so I could suck his cock.

We played for a very long time. And in all honesty, I had a hard time getting into it. In part my disconnect was due to the hour—it was late—and my tummy—it was kind of full—but mostly I felt oddly out of place. Usually when I’m doing the submissive thing, I groove on it. In my mind, my body is lithe and sexy and gorgeous, and I have this feeling of swimmingfloating in some benign body of water.

I wasn’t feeling it. All my mind’s projectionist felt fit to show me was my body kneeling ungainly and pendulous, the roughness of the hemp, the misaligned blindfold, the awkwardness of everything.

I was kinda bored, really.

And kinda looking forward to sleep. I was observing everything with a detached aspect, like a scientist, and that is not hott. Not hott at all.

And then Donny untied my right hand, removed the toy from my ass, and inserted his cock in me in its place. And everything changed.

It hurt, at first, as it always does, but quickly the pain diminished and was replaced by a will beyond my ken to push against him as he pushed himself into me.

“How do you want me?” he asked.

Slow, I told him, slow and deep, and with a pause at the end of each stroke. And he did as I asked. At every break in his movement, with every pause, I felt as if the pleasure was beyond tolerance. As if the sweetness were beyond imagining, and it is. My right middle finger circled fast on my clit, and I could feel it stiffening, enlarging improbably, epically.

I could see my orgasm glimmering off in the distance, like the lights of Las Vegas in the desert. I could feel my mind ceasing to work, and the anxiety and the awkwardness falling away like rain in a mindless and unappeasable need for more cock.

My orgasm approached with a rocket’s abandon as Donny talked sibilant behind me.

“You are my whore, aren’t you.” He asked.

Yes. Yes I am.

“You want this cock in your ass. Don’t you.” More of a statement than a question. He clearly knew the answer from my gasps and my writhings.

“You are my whore, you are my whore, you are my whore,” he repeated rhythmically matching the strokes of his cock.

“Ask me to come.”

Please, please, please let me, may I please come. Please.

“You may,” he said. And I did once, and then once more, his cock buried snug in my ass that he had flogged so soundly so recently. And then he did too and collapsed shuddering and limp on top of me, inside me, around me, holding me, embracing me.

Comments

[Catman]

"He had, in his doggy excitement, cracked the dong’s silicone, and I had to toss it."

I don't think 'toss' has the same connotations that side of the water does it?? Conjurs up a hugely entertaining image to a British mind :)

[Danielle]

I was beginning to worry about my CG-- bored with a tummy full???

I am relieved it turned around for you.

[introspectre]

So how is the Rock Chick? I've been dying to try that one out. Do tell!

I wonder, and suspect, that his newness to the flogging might have caused the problem for you. I know when we try something new and Jack isn't being super-dom but kind of hesitant it just makes me want to scream, and not in a good way. Because then I feel like I have to lead him, do it like this, hit it right there, blah blah and yuck! I don't want the roles reversed it makes me feel really nauseated, honestly.

It seems like once he took total control again it worked for you.

Curious, I am, lovely CG. Thoughts?

[chelsea girl]

To respond to Autumn and Introspectre,

I don't think the Rock Chick was built for my girl, frankly. I frequently have this issue with toys. I'm just not an easy fit, and the Rock Chick feels to me kind of like really excellent foreplay with no pay off. I would just give it to Becky, as I did with my other sex toy castoff, but it's the first gift given to me by Donny that is not a book written by a nun, so it has sentimental value.

As for getting my groove on only after Donny got his Dom on...mmmmm....maybe. I think it had more to do with other stuff, really. I think that I did feel really exposed after being on all fours for a truly protracted period of time, and not in a good way. I think that we probably put too much emphasis on testdriving new gear. And I think it was just a little late in the evening for three hours of adult fun.

But in the end, literally, it was great. Pyrotechnic and beautiful. Though to be honest, D & I agreed next time we get our freak on, it's going to be pure vanilla all the way.

Maybe even with Sarah McLaughlin in the background. And rose petals on the bed.

But no thorns.

Thanks for asking...
CG

[Iridescent]

I don't think I could stand a guy trying to be supertechnical in the bed.. a little is good, so that he gets certain things right but I don't think I'd much want to feel like a math problem. It's cool that he's into trying new things though. You lucky girl

Love your writing, you're so going on my blogroll!

[figleaf]

Oh I just love the idea of pink bondage tape. My first real training after dropping out of high-school (long story) was an apprenticeship in a leathershop. We occasionally made bondage gear for people and there's just so much more to it than the whole cliche black leather and chrome dungeon thing. My bosses got a custom order for braided twin cat-o-nine-tails (in pink, in fact) and they were just beautiful works of art.

I love the story by the way. One of the thing that makes sex so endlessly cool is the way it doesn't always stick to the plan. I like that you included that and I'm very glad it turned out well for you in the end.

[introspectre]

"Barbie's Playhouse Dungeon". Ha! That brings back some forgotten memories of Barbie fun I used to have...oh! I had forgotten, mmmmmmm.

And 3 hours? Yah. My own personal yapping gerbil wheel starts rolling after a while. I grok.