DITW 10-14: Plastic

Instead of hurting the man she loved her mouth opened and for a second she almost blurted dirty talk, trying to distract him. Play back the scene where Devlin had showed her his big dick and she had told Josh and she had showed Devlin her bare breast. That would soar Josh in an orthogonal line, take him on a tangent.

But she couldn’t do that.

She wouldn’t do that.

That game was done and dead and buried.

So she slipped her hugging arm away, her features pinched in a harrowing twist, knowing she’d so abused this loving man that mistreatment felt good to him. She slipped a second hand under the covers, still stroking his cock, wishing he would just please come already, and she patted his scrotum with the backs of her fingers. Josh jerked and whimpered and his cock slipped from her slick coconut smelling grip. She found his cock again, stiff and straight and hard as steel. Josh urged her: “Harder, Kimmy, please.”

She batted him again, getting him to whimper, but still he urged her, “Harder.”

Her stroking hand squeezed his cock like she wanted to crush it and her stroke tripled in speed. She turned her eyes to the heavens and sought forgiveness from anyone up there who might oversee this awful act; then she grabbed his balls and clutched them tight.

Josh panted and gasped and he was on the edge of coming. She gripped them tighter still and gave a clockwise turn. With mock disgust, she said, “Hurry up and come already, I have to get to work.”

Josh went through a series of shuddering and jerking like a speeding junker breaking down on the highway, blowing rods and pistons and bursting the radiator as the tires went soggy and out of round. Then his cock lunged toward her as he thrusted his hips forward. He ejaculated. Her grip went watery and loose and she felt his seed pattering on her shirt, launching so hard it bypassed the towel, even dropping warm wet lines on her inner forearm. Relief flooded her. That it was over, that Josh had his relief, that she didn’t have to punish him anymore—not when it was his wife who deserved the worst.

His orgasm raged on and on and his semen kept spurting. He squeezed her inner thigh and she hissed with delight—then he cupped a hand right over her pussy and she cried out with erotic joy. Her knees rolled inward, her heels bowed out; she flexed thigh muscles, trapping his hand in place, enjoying the incredible pleasure Josh felt from release transferred from his body through his arm and hand and into her own sex. She went liquid wet, her panties damp where Josh’s palm connected

Josh’s orgasm left them both panting and gasping for breath, and they lay together like that for a minute, Josh’s penis shrinking in her hand, her thigh-grip on his hand subsiding. He offered her no pleasure, even though with a little persistence she could be hoisted over the orgasm hurdle and find her own release. But she didn’t even deserve it.

Again he hid his face from her, burying it in her collar and she held her hands out, one coated in semen. Josh worked his shorts back up, rolled away and she cleaned her hands on the towel. Josh watched her and when she turned to face him, he didn’t smile, his face blank, his eyes lost and empty. She smiled and cupped his cheek. “I hope you feel better.”

His mouth worked around, unassertive, but yet with something to say.

She showed him a more serious expression, but one of sympathy. “I didn’t want you to hurry up, you know, because I have to work, I just, I just said that. You know...”

At last he spoke, his wet eyes finding hers. “Tell me— Tell me what you did. Tell me what you did with him.”

She recoiled with fright, not expecting it, her hand retreating from his cheek and tucking uner her own. Her heart raced and her eyes went wet like his. “What? I... I thought—”

Josh shook his head like he was snapping out of a daze, recoiling from her now, too. He blabbered, “No, don’t tell me, no, don’t. Sorry, sorry, I just... I don’t want to know, I don’t even know why I said that.” He got right out of bed, and his eyes were wild and bewildered.

“It’s okay, Josh, don’t go.” She reached out a hand for him to return to bed with her.

But he didn’t, he left like he was ashamed and scared and went into the bathroom. She rubbed her own forehead, feeling an ache taking hold, both of them ruined by what had transpired over the summer. Soon, she heard the shower running.

* * *

When Josh had come out of the shower later, dressed for work in a suit and tie, he’d acted like everything was fine and nothing weird had happened in their bed when they woke up. She had to be glad for that. She’d made him a fried egg sandwich on a bagel, but he said he couldn’t eat. She could barely eat, too. But it was the drive into work that crushed her. Her stomach ached, her head ached, her shoulders were tight and sore, her temples pulsed like beating hammers with her heartbeat. She was sad and angry and depressed and hurting and hopeful and, most of all, horny. Horny like crazy. Horny and unfulfilled and needing and desiring. It was a selfish feeling she hated. Sex was something she didn’t want to think about for a long, long time. But as much as her brain pushed sex away, her body craved it. Jerking Josh off had ignited it, having his hand clamped on her pussy when she was wet was amazing. But it was the threat of dirty talking that put the tightness in her back and neck. It was wrong and wicked and terrible. But knowing what to say to Josh to get him to ejaculate wouldn’t escape her memory. She would always know there were shady little kinks lurking in her husband’s length. Dirty, dirty things that turned him on, and had come to turn her on too. She’d pulsed her thighs for the whole hour drive into Toronto on the 401. By the time she got to the office she’d considered going to the bathroom and masturbating, but the quick fix that would provide wasn’t exciting. While she’d read contracts and researched companies, she’d fantasized a small idea right into fruition.

Now here she was on her lunch break, not even hungry, even though she’d skipped breakfast, driving a half block north from the office to a store she’d seen a few times but had never gone into. She’d had lunch more than once across the street at the Yungshang Rice Noodle.

A sex store. A store for perverts. A shop plugged into an old 1950s drive-up plaza nestled between modern high-rises. A North Toronto throwback. The store was almost empty mid-day, just two staff and one other customer, fortunately a woman, a little younger than her, white, dressed in office clothing. She’d assumed the role of the casual browser, not really interested in anything in particular, perusing all the shop’s wares with equal impassivity. But now she was where she wanted to be and her heart was racing and she had a strong sexual urge as hungry and pleading as if she was about to have sex. She was turned on like crazy, eyes roaming a collection of upright dildos. She’d even picked one up, an unthreatening seven inch dildo in a pale blue. Not even lifelike, just a satisfying phallic shape. Then she’d seen it was glow-in-the-dark, and the idea of having toxicity inside her body had her shelving it. Then it was a bright pink model she had, seven inches again, carrying it between thumb and finger, noncommittal, squishing air from one cheek to the other, like maybe she didn’t want anything today at all and this was just whim shopping. But the swath of flesh-like dildos stopped her. They were ugly and garish and almost threatening in their masculinity and that was what she wanted. She put the bright pink one back. It looked like a toy. She wanted a cock. A big, hard cock like a man would have.

Her head went light and airy when she realized she was really going to do this, really going to buy a real-looking fake cock and orgasm on it. Her stomach went light, and fluttered with butterflies. She picked up one that had a cock head that called out to her with its large urethra and swooping plump shape. Eight inches. Eight thick inches. Then there was a nine-inch one. The head shape not as appealing, more prow-like, but this dildo was proportioned long, and she liked length. And the nine-inch one proclaimed its “thrusting action.” It must have gears or something that would make the shaft move back and forth. Wow, multi-speed. God, it was such a hot-looking cock, though. Thick veins and massive balls and it came with a remote control. Did they have ones where the balls moved inside the scrotum? Or skin that moved on the shaft? Probably not. But this thrusting model was $250. Price wasn’t really an issue. But then down at the end of the aisle she saw it: the ugliest, meanest, manliest one in the whole store. Twelve inches. Not just beautiful veins, but these veins looked like they were under the skin, and were colored a gray-blue. Like real cock veins. Her hands shook while she held the plastic packaging admiring it. It looked like Devlin’s. Not quite, but enough her thighs trembled. Twelve inches, including the base. Big balls. It was so huge, so long. Every wrinkle and blemish had been sculpted and painted. It didn’t thrust, but there was no doubt in her mind this was what she needed. Like, needed.

The two sales girls were together at the counter and she felt ashamed, like they were judging her; skinny Asian woman buying a ridiculously huge white man’s cock, and her face went hot. She fumbled cash out of her pocket, a hundred-eighty, and passed it over. The one sales girl was showing the other how to work the cash like it was a training day, going over the monster King Cock package, back and forth, looking for the UPC or whatever they needed, and she was sure they were fucking with her. For the first time in weeks she wished she’d worn one of her newer suits, worn her heels and stood six-feet tall with her face painted and her hair slicked into a bun. These girls would hop to and not dare shame her. But today she shrugged like a meek mouse, saying, “Bachelorette gift. I don’t want to get her, you know?”

Two weeks ago they would have begged her to let them gift wrap it for free.

* * *

After lunch, Josh made his decision and called Meyer at work.

“Why haven’t you answered my texts?”

“I’ve been busy. Look, Swanson wants to move me up, like go to Rome again.”

“Oh, that’s good, right?”

“Yeah, of course.”

In the quiet moment after he answered something obvious hung in the air: Meyer wondering if his cousin Josh was calling to ask him to spy on his wife again.

So he moved on, saying, “It’s great news. I don’t know when they’re sending me, but I think somehow I impressed them.”

“Well, first time for everything.”

“Hilarious.”

“Everything good?”

“Yeah. Working it out.”

“Can you meet me?”

“When?”

“I’m super busy right now, but meet me for a beer.”

“For sure, for sure. Not tonight, but yeah.”

“How about Friday?”

“Uh, no. No, Friday’s no good. But, hey, it’s kind of why I’m calling. I, uh... Can I tell Kimmy I’ll be hanging out with you on Friday?”

“Uh, yeah. But you’re not hanging out with me?”

“No, no.”

“You’re telling Kimmy that?”

“Right.

Meyer breathed into the phone a moment, then: “Where are you really going to be?”

“I’d rather not say. I’m just going out.”

Another long pause where he listened to his cousin breathing. Meyer knew old Joshy wouldn’t be going out with some other woman, he’d suspect who Josh might visit without telling Kimmy. “Josh, don’t... You're not going to do anything crazy, are you?”

“No, Meyer, no,” he said, monotone, not adamant enough to dissuade his cousin’s horrific imagination.

* * *

There was no other place to do what she needed to do. Not in Toronto. She wouldn’t do it at the office. Glass walls and shared bathrooms. She looked up through her windshield at the blank windows of Devlin’s apartment. She had the key and Devlin was in Kingston.