The handsome, balding captain on the screen spoke with authority and confidence. “Engage.”
Rumble, Buzz, Buzz, BUZZ. The toy inside me writhed and snaked, hitting the G-spot, caressing my inner walls, sending vibrating, rotating jolts of horny pleasure through my nude body. I moaned and sighed.
“Deanna,” the captain barked in that dominant, cultured voice that I’ve been masturbating over since my late teens. “Any insights?”
The buxom brunette on the screen, wearing her tight cat-suit of a uniform, shook out her long tresses, her cleavage jiggling nicely for dramatic effect. “Well, Captain,” she began. “I’m sensing….”
Buzz, BUUUZZZZ, RUMBLE, Rotate, Buzz.
The Sci-Fi TV show faded from my consciousness as I was pummeled with near-orgasmic waves of pulsating pleasure. With my head buried in my boyfriend’s chest, eyes closed, I moaned in quivering delight until the remote-controlled toy in my soaked pussy stopped its assault on my pleasure-centers.
“Klingons do NOT…” came from the television, sending off yet another bout of vibrating joy between my legs. My hips were humping with abandon, my mouth all but screaming while I moaned and writhed. Exactly when my body hit the precipice of an extreme orgasm, my heart pounding, my limbs flailing, my sexual release a millisecond away, he cruelly and sadistically turned off the vibrator.
“You fucking motherfucker,” I said very politely at the top of my lungs. “You fucking did that on fucking purpose.”
My boyfriend, Mister Perfectly Perfect, chuckled at me and stabbed my soul with those gray-rimmed, hazel of eyes of his. Not only is he pure eye-candy for horny women, but his eyes instantly hypnotize you. A simple glance from him and your mind will just dissipate into nothingness, replaced by pussy-gushing, horny need. My sexual frustration grew frenzied as the image of me humping his beautiful face filled the void where my brain used to be.
“Thirty seconds on high for a three-drink event, remember?”
“You’re still a motherfucker.”
“Nonsense. I’ve never laid a hand on your mother.”
It had been a day of hot, intense fucking; gentle love-making; fun adult recreation; and marathon sex. Even better, the sex was interspaced with deep conversation, bonding, and the enjoyment of each other’s company. The day flew by far too quickly, in stark contrast to the previous week, without him, crawling by so slowly that time stood still. The fifth thing I did, when he returned from a week-long job out of state, was to ask him if we could spend the weekend together, locked in the house, just the two of us. The first four things involved three of my holes, lots of jizz, and hours of physical lust that would have earned me a gold medal in the horny Olympics.
We were taking a break from constant sex, not because he needed a breather, because I did. I required a reprieve. More bonding time, more conversation, more just being with the one person in all the world that gets me, then more sex, was my plan. As hyper-sexual as I am, I am still a mortal; whether he’s mortal is a point open to debate. In any event, his stamina is admirable.
Noting that a Star Trek The Next Generation marathon was on, I quickly took up position on the couch, drawing a warm, furry blanket over my nude body. You know it’s true love when your boyfriend doesn’t mind you hogging the remote. After accepting some mulled, spiced wine, exactly how I like it, we snuggled together and watched, soon commenting on the recurring tropes and character quotes prevalent in the beloved show.
“You know,” my boyfriend said, “there’s actually a drinking game built around the show.”
“There is?”
“Yes, when characters do one of their trademark actions or say one of their catchphrases, you need to drink. It’s kind of like ‘Hi Bob’ for geeks like me.”
“Hi, Bob?”
“Yes, a drinking game based on the Bob Newhart show?”
“So what, then? Like Riker makes a sexist remark, and you have to drink or something?”
“Exactly! I just love how quick your mind is. There are all sorts of things, like when Picard refers to Wesley as ‘the boy’ or something similar, Geordi loses his visor, things like that. Sometimes you take a drink, sometimes two, sometimes up to four.”
He grabbed his laptop and used his Google-fu to pull it up. “See? Here.”
We watched the show together, laughing, constantly looking up the references. By the end of the episode, there was simply no way one would not be fershnickered. Noting that the next episode would begin “after this commercial announcement,” I sprang up, an epiphany striking my perverted mind.
“I’ll be right back. I have an idea.”
As if he’d never seen me before, his eyes drank in the sight of me, a huge, appreciative, pussy-drenching smile on his face. I scampered upstairs, pretending to not melt at the fact that he still delights at the sight of me. Ten months with him and every time he looks at me, it seems like the first time he’s ever seen me. I quickly grabbed my needed props and jumped down the stairs.
In addition to a jaguar in the garage, a mink in the closet, and a tiger in bed, a woman also requires a Lush vibrator and a waterproof womanizer. I grabbed my Lush 2, one of the most fun, versatile sex toys I’ve ever owned. You can program it, sync it to music, sync it to your cellphone mic to pulse at live sounds, or control it manually. One of the best features is that you can transfer control to another person, via the cellphone or computer app.
Quickly powering the space-age gizmo up and inserting it into my honey-hole, I transferred control over to my boyfriend’s phone.
“You want me to buzz you? Sounds great!” he beamed. “You are the most beautiful creature to have ever graced this realm, made more so when you’re in the throes of passion.”
“No,” I giggled. “We’re going to play your drinking game, but with vibes instead of booze.”
The “rules” were quickly decided. Ten seconds of toying for a one-drink event, twenty for a two-drink, etcetera. My boyfriend could choose patterns and intensities at random.
