The living room yielded no clue as to the nature of my surprise, so I walked on through the bedroom. Aha. There on the bed, a huge red heart-shaped box, almost the width of the duvet, and about half the length. Beneath the ribbon that crossed its surface was a note, which I plucked out and read.
“Dearest Horny Hayley
Inside this box are treats for you and for me. Those for you are wrapped up in tissue paper – those for me are in boxes. You MUST NOT LOOK at the things inside boxes – I will unwrap them and show them to you when I get back. But you are very welcome to open your own presents – I expect you to be wearing/playing with them by the time I arrive, which should be in about one hour. Don’t let yourself come before I do though, and, most of all …
DON’T OPEN THE BOXES!
Always your
Spiro.”
Things to wear and things to play with … I suspected he didn’t mean a necklace and a game of Scrabble. Greedily, I whipped off the lid and cast my eye over pale tissue and intriguing boxes of leather and satin-covered card.
The first thing I reached for was soft and squashy – one of the somethings to wear, I surmised, and I found I was right when it turned out to be unexpectedly heavy, falling on to the bed in a liquid pool of blackness. What was it? So shiny and sheeny – oh! Latex underwear! We had discussed this once, in a pre-sex conversation about how we would like to see each other dressed, but it had remained in the realms of fantasy, until now.
Eagerly, I undressed out of my work clothes and struggled into the new acquisitions. It really was a struggle – they were tighter than elastic bands; I had to dust my skin with talcum powder before the shorts would go anywhere near my thighs. And there was something else about them that was special. The bra had little cutaway heart-shapes where the nipples should go, giving a peek-a-boo effect. The cut outs were trimmed with marabou, drawing the eye straight to my chill-hardened nubs. The short shorts were even more scandalous. Crotchless, they sheared away from my bottom, exposing most of it in a similar heart-shaped fur-trimmed frame. They were no more than a plasticised sign shrieking ‘LOOK! RUDE BITS HERE!’ I looked utterly and ravishingly whorish. I loved them.
What else? A small package revealed a pair of pale-pink rubber hearts, nubbed on the inside. I wasn’t sure what they were for, until a glance at the instructions informed me that they were Breast Stimulators. Batteries, I was relieved to see, were included. Frowning a little, unsure of how they worked, I popped one on to a nipple. The soft jelly moulded itself to my skin, the nubs feeling deliciously bumpy. I pressed the button on the control unit and it began a soft vibration, clinging and clamping and massaging so that jolts of pleasure-pain travelled diagonally down to my centre. I cupped the breast with my hand, encouraging further friction and watching myself in the mirror. If one felt good, I reasoned, two had to be even better, so I applied the second and spent a pleasant five minutes letting them do the thing they did best – stimulate me.
They were so effective that I had to switch them off before Spiro’s instruction not to come before he did became impossible to obey. What was next? A long, slender item captured my attention, next to a shorter, fatter one. They went together, I sensed. The shorter, fatter one proved to be a bottle of rose-scented lubricant. Which gave me a clue about the other … ah. Anal beads in the shape of tiny red rubbery hearts, threaded together on a flexible string that ended with a heart-shaped flange. I had to snort. Some people’s idea of romance … Well, it was pretty much the same as mine. Did Spiro expect me to insert these on my own? We had played with plugs and beads before, but he had always put them inside me while I bent submissively, parting my cheeks for him while he clicked and clucked sounds of encouragement, amid stern injunctions against trying to stop him.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and six months with Spiro had fired my adventurous spirit, so I unscrewed the cap of the lube and poured some into an oil burner on the mantel. I coated the beads until they smelled like a flower garden in June, then reached around behind me, prodding at my bum cheeks until I was able to locate the right spot. It was too difficult standing, though, so I spread my feet and bent as far as I could without losing my footing, trying once more to spear my back passage with the soft but unyielding tip of the beads. It was not uncomfortably large, and it edged in without too much trouble, slipping past the gate of my sphincter and advancing along the dark and private recesses of my behind, pulling its companions along in its wake. It took a little while, and I almost cricked my neck reaching around, but eventually all five beads were snugly ensconced and the heart-shaped flange peeked bawdily out between my rounded and welcoming cheeks.