This story only available on Lush Stories. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.

There is a time in every lass's life when she imagines what a big, hard cock-pounding would be like. There is also a time when she can't get hold of a cock for love nor money. And what does she do, in such a situation? She buys a vibrator. Or a dildo. Or a banana. Or maybe, if she's ambitious, a cucumber. I'm sure some lasses consider purchasing a marrow, too, but in my opinion, that's stretching it a bit too far. Literally.

At the age of thirty, one would expect a woman to be either experienced and experimental, or a screaming prude. I was neither. My prudishness only involved being excruciatingly embarrassed, but undeniably, wholeheartedly curious. And desperate. I would have loved nothing better than a good, hard fuck. Or even a slow, gentle one. I'm not that picky, really.

Alas, it was not to be. Whilst some female friends were too tired dealing with their kids to have a good shag, and others were too busy out on the razz pulling anybody and everybody they could before the onset of middle-age, I was left working too hard, crawling into bed at night (alone), and hitting the "O" in less than a minute to help me sleep. That's what practice does for you.

However, I had never considered trying to use a vibrator, as any time I happened to see one on television or in a magazine, it would make me want to cross my legs in horror at the size, and wonder who would be brave enough to walk into a shop and buy one of those things.

My curiousity got the better of me.

It took me a good two weeks after I finally decided that I would definitely go ahead and explore my options. I was too shy to look on any websites, in case I ended up getting some sort of virus that would email all my friends, family and colleagues with a flashing picture that proclaimed, "DAISY SHYLASS HAS BEEN LOOKING AT FUCK TOYS, THE DIRTY SLAG!".

For somebody who hates shopping, the day I had decided to buy a vibrator saw me in every single shop in the White Rose Centre. That's a big shopping mall on the outskirts of Leeds, where people I met in work might see me. But it was a safer bet to sidle in there, than trying to sneak into the new, shiny, blacked-out windowed"XXX Private Sex Shop" on the main bus route into the city.

I mean, what did people do in those places? Was it a case of, "Leave your silk panties at the door, dahling, and you'll get a sophisticated seeing to...", or was it more, "dirty-old-bloke-with-a-crusty-vest-leers-at-you-over-the-counter-whilst-he-adjusts-his-stained-Y-fronts"? Did people actually have sex in there? Or just buy rudey magazines and wankathon viewing? Did you have to dress in expensive clothes and look like a Madame, or pay a fortune for some special perfume designed to attract sweaty knobheads or cuddlesome sexy men, depending on your budget? Knowing my luck, I'd end up with "Dog Bog Water", rather than "Eau De Sexy Bloke". I certainly wasn't going to find out.

Nope. Not for this shy lass. I went to the high street equivalent of a penny sweetie shop, as opposed to the up-market, unbelievably expensive chocolatier. I mean, I know what to do with foam bananas and Jelly Tots. But give me a box of Thorntons Cappuccinos, and I'll be up all night with palpitations whilst throwing up, because I nommed the whole delicious lot without stopping to think of the consequences. The only problem was, I didn't know what sort of sweeties to ask for in an unknown sweetshop when I didn't know what sort of candy I liked.

I suppose my real fear was that I would get in the private shop, and either discover a hidden desire to become a BBW prostitute (fat lasses do well on the weekends in the north), or run out screaming in pure, pickled fear (everybody would look, and I'd bet you an Opal Fruit that my strict Christian boss would happen to be leaving the city market right at that moment, and ask me what in Jesus' name I was doing in there).

To the mall! After two hours of slouching around Ace Accessories, Bag 'n' Slag Company outlet, Lumberjack Lighting and Wig-U-Like (plus another hour with a trashy magazine and a huge decaff coffee), I approached the neon-lit shop.

"Jan Hummers". Of course, all the English people know which shop I really mean. I was going to call it, "Jan Bummers", but that's a name for my story about anal sex. I can't see that happening, though. Unless I get a mirror...

I digress.

You want to know what happened, don't you?

Well, I sneaked in the entrance (not a euphemism), and promptly got blocked between a rack of peephole bras and some sort of leatherette hotpants, by two women with pushchairs, gabbing about how "... she " 'it the tiles on 'er fat arse with 'er dildo 'alf 'anging out, and my land, she looked like a slapper!".

I ended up backing into the frilly balconettes and wet-look thongs in order to let them through, side by side. It was almost like I didn't exist, as they charged through. That suited me fine, as I was already sweating with embarrassment.

Once I had escaped the horrifying tendrils of nylon clinging to my now-static hair, I mooched around the shop with my head down and my shoulders hunched.

There's very little you can see in shops like Jan Hummers, unless you're trying not to look. If you're trying not to look, you have nightmarish glimpses of lurid colours, strangely-shaped undergarments, and inexplicable packaging of who-knows-what. I didn't know what, and I was too embarrassed to look properly to find out.

In my panic to look as if I knew where I was going, whilst frantically trying to scan the shop without blushing (more), I found myself in a dead end. I faced a wall of leather strappy things. One of the items had a snooker ball attached to it. I had a fleeting moment of wondering which orifice it was intended for, and horrible images of a moaning woman dribbling all down her chin assaulted my traumatised mind. I'm not going to mention the other images, but it made me spin on the spot and get out of that crazy little cul-de-sac. Oh crap, I said "sac".

"LEAVE NOW!" my mind screamed at me.

"Alright, love? Do you want any help?"

In panic, I vaguely looked in the direction of the assistant's voice. In my head, I was screaming, "No! I'm not alright! I haven't had a boyfriend my entire life, and now I'm wandering around Jan Hummers in a mortified daze, trying to find something to fuck myself with, so yes, I'd like a fucking life, please! Can you get me one of those? No? Fuck off, then!"

"I'm alright, just looking, thanks," I mumbled, and turned away again in a hurry.

CRASH! Down went the stick-thin mannequin sporting the crotchless leather bodysuit, and with it, the last vestiges of dignity I'd managed to find that morning. It lay in a puddle of gloom next to the reclining plastic Domme, who stared up at me with mocking painted-on eyes. The assistant fussed over me to make sure I was alright. Would she ever go away?!

"I'm really sorry... No, I'm fine, honest. I'm just dead clumsy. No, honest, I'm alright... I'm so sorry..."

It was clear that the kind lady wasn't going to leave me alone, so I finally decided that I was going to have to confront the issue out loud.

To this day, I still don't know what that lady looked like. I liked her shoes, though. They were red patent, with shiny little buckles and kitten heels.

"What are you looking for?" she asked me kindly.

"I... ummm... Well, I'm..." I coughed. "Could you please show me where the vibrators are, please, thank you very much, please?"

"Of course," she said as she walked away. "Follow me."

I followed the red patent kitten heels to the back of the shop.

"What sort were you wanting? We've got the Rabid Rodents, like this..." She thrust a large packet in front of me, containing a huge pink cucumber-sized piece of silicone. It had a funny arm sticking out of it, with ears, and all I could think was that surely things to do with animals were illegal?

"I... I think that's a bit... not what I'm looking for. I want something a bit more..."

"Alright. Did you want one to share?"

 Share? Share?! Who the fuck with? And before I could reply, a large purple ray-gun of an object was thrust under my nose, and an even bigger object in blue glitter that looked like a weird boomerang with enormous helmety-acorny shapes on either end.

"What... um, what's that?"

"This one is a strap-on dildo that doesn't need straps. I've tried this, and it's great. It really gets your pussy muscles working. And this one is a double-ended dildo. I haven't tried that yet, but it's on my list."

I'm sure that, when faced with such objects as I have described, many of you reading this are letting your minds wander into fantasies of... things I don't have time to write about in this story.

Me? I wanted to leave! However, I was so shy that I was too scared to run out, in case the assistant thought I was rude.

"No, I... I'm looking for... What I want is, well, I haven't really..." My face blazed deep red, and it occurred to me that perhaps that shade of skin would be appealing to sex toy collectors.

"Ah, you're looking for something a bit more personal? How about this one?" And she produced a florescent yellow enormous willy-shaped tree-trunk of a toy. "This has rotating beads inside, and the tip wriggles round if you want."

And she only bloody switched it on! I was petrified to the spot as the monster in her hands wriggled and swayed, and the beads shook themselves around the middle. I could see them shuffling against each other through the clear window, arrogant little sex pearls all vying for attention. Shimmy, shimmy, shimmy, they went, jiggling themselves against the sides. My mouth hung open. I couldn't talk or think.

"No? How about something more realistic?"

The next item thrust into view was a foot-long cock that would have torn me if I'd tried to use it. Perhaps it would suit me as a life raft in the shower, rather than a fun toy for shoving inside me. Or, maybe, I could have pretended to be a contemporary twist on the Noah story, and got two. That should keep me and a menagerie of sexy men afloat for several fucking weeks. But where to get a menagerie of sexy men from?!

I shook my head violently. I was looking for a way out and a mental scalpel to cut out the day-glo dildo tattooed on my mind. My thighs were involuntarily clenching together in sheer fear at the thought that an enormous, rotating, glow-in-the-dark monster cock was going to invade my dreams and thunder-worm its way inside me, and worse, that I might enjoy it if I let it!

"Something little, please," I whispered. "Really little. Tiny." I felt a mischievous trickle of sweat run its way down my back. If sex was like this, it wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

I waited, shuffling on the spot, whilst she put away the Silicone Cirque des Horreurs. Despite the immense heat and sweat my body was producing (not in the fun way), I was cold with fear, and I shakily pulled my hood up.

"How about this one, love?" The assistant showed me what looked to be tiny in comparison with everything else. "This is a Wiggle Stick, because it makes you wiggle. It's blue or pink, and three inches long."

I hadn't seen anything smaller, and I just wanted to leave. Without even looking properly, I just decided to take it and run. After paying for it, obviously.

"I'll have that, please," I whispered.

"Anything else?"

More?! Fudge me, no! I didn't want anything else. My eyes were tearing up in panic, and I could have heated a barrel of lead with just the look on my terrified face. I shook my head again.

She led me to the counter, and I slouched into my hoodie as far as I could. I heard a couple close by, discussing the merits of the pearl thong, as opposed to lace.

"I like the pearls, but they're harder to clean. The lace just makes my anus itchy..."

"Now, love," the assistant said, fleetingly breaking into my open-mouthed shock, "do you need some Lusty Love Wipes?"

"Wh... what?"

"Antiseptic wipes, to clean your Wiggle Stick with, keep it nice and fresh between juicings. They're £5.99 a pack."

Now, whilst I might joke about such things, and pretend I know what I'm talking about in the stories I've written here, I had never actually stopped to consider the reality of sex, which I didn't really know anything about, since I hadn't joined then. The only masturbation I had indulged in was about a minute's worth of clit-fingering when I felt like it, for quick orgasmic relief and a better night's sleep. And I never, ever spoke about it with anybody. At all.

Sure, I had the low-down on some things from friends, and I listened, and read the odd few magazines with light-hearted articles now and again. But I wasn't used to discussing my own personal details in such a way, and I was mortified that somebody else, particularly a stranger, would be thinking about and mentioning my "juicings".

However, the Yorkshire blood in me is as tight as my pussy, and was I going to spend £5.99 on a packet of antiseptic wipes, when I already had four packets at home (from Morrisons, on sale)? No, I bloody wasn't! My indignation overcame my embarrassment, and I shook my head.

"Just the thingy, thanks."

"Any Licky Love Lube?"

"Just the thingy, thanks."

"No batteries?"

"Just the thingy. Thanks."

I pushed my card across the counter, and paid. As soon as she put the item into a paper bag, I got out of there as fast as I could. The conversation between the couple now included the assistant, as they discussed the merits of Nutella over squirty cream, and the effect it had on latex and pussy hair. I shoved the paper bag into my large carrier bag, and I dashed to the supermarket in search of comfort food, to counteract my traumatic experience.

The thingy was burning through the bags, screaming loudly at passersby that I'd just been in Jan Hummers buying something to shove up my pussy. I raced straight for the chocolate aisle (avoiding the fruit and veg aisle, and the spreads section - the irony that Nutella should apparently be spread between spread legs was threatening to put me off, so I bought some alcohol, too).

On the way home, I shoved my Muppet Christmas Carol tape in the player (I'm so behind the times that I still have cassettes), and took my mind off the thingy. It was summer, but when has that ever stopped me singing carols?

I'm guessing that other more experienced women would have rushed home to try their thingy as soon as they could. But this inexperienced woman was too scared to even touch the plastic casing it came in. I took the paper bag out of my other shopping, and shoved it down the side of my chair in the lounge whilst I went through my other shopping.

It stayed there all that evening and all the next day. I sat in my least favourite chair to watch television, just so I didn't have to be near it. I could hear the damn thingy whispering my name during the crap film I was watching. It called to me when I was in the kitchen, about to slice into a juicy cucumber.

Even the name, "cuCUMber" became a thing of mockery.

All the while, the thingy was calling my name.

During Bible Study (it was my turn to host it), I managed to forget about it, until Reverend Smeebles dropped his biscuit down the side of the chair and straight into the paper bag. I heard the crumple noise as it fell.

I don't think anybody has ever moved so fast! I grabbed the plate and flew across the room, the momentum sending the jaffa cakes cascading into his lap, and a jammy dodger sailing into Mrs. Bucklethwaite's feather trim on her second best hat.

"I'll get it, Reverend! You just stay there! No, no, don't you worry, here, have another... No, take it... TAKE IT!" I quickly shoveled the jaffa cakes viciously on top of his Bible, and stripped off my jumper to throw on top of the bag.

"Whew! What a panic. Now, shall we get back to the Gospel of Luke? Mr. Arkwright, could you please read from verse thirty-eight?"

After a pause, he began reading.

"Give, and you will receive. Your gift will return to you in full - pressed down, shaken together to make room for more, running over, and poured into your lap. The amount you give will determine the amount you get back..."

I'm definitely going to Hell.

Dear God, please help me, cruel and tempted sinner that I am...

I heard a muffled whisper from the the side of the chair.

"You waaant me; you waaant to fuuuck me..."

The rest of that evening passed in terrible discomfort, and I consigned the bag to the spare room, and told the thingy to shut the fuck up, or it would never see the light of day again.

"Once you get me in your pussy, you won't want me to see the light of day..."

I left it alone with its thoughts.

Eventually, when my mind began to get used to the idea that I now owned a thingy, I reconciled myself to the fact that I was going to have to deal with it. I went into the spare room, retrieved the bag, and put the thingy on the dining room table.

It was in that awful plastic that you can't get into. The thingy smirked at me.

I found that, like anything that has been plastic-welded into casing, it was going to take brute force and a chisel to get it to open (much like the state of my upper thighs after remembering the enormous, rotating, glow-in-the-dark monster cock).

Eventually, as all good (and bad) stories prove, in the end, the goods were freed, and I was face to face with a hard, pink plastic Wiggle Stick. And when I say hard, I don't mean the flesh-and-blood hard of a throbbing real cock with blood and spunk throbbing through it. I mean, it was actually plastic hard. And cold. And... pink. Bubble gum, candy, pearly pretty pukey pink. YUCK! If they'd have black or silver, I'd have chosen that. But it was either toilet block blue, or pearly pukey pink. No way was I going to shove a toilet Bloo inside me, so pukey pink it had to be. Besides, due to the pressure I was under in the shop, it's rather surprising that I didn't just nod at everything and come home with half of their products (and the discussion couple).

There I was, on a random evening, in the living room, with the Wiggle Stick standing on the table, looking at me with intense concentration. It's just as well that it didn't have an eye, as I wouldn't have been able to look at it there. The cold, hard, pukey pink reality was staring me in the face, singing into my mind, "You're gonna fuck me, you're gonna fuck me..."

The truth of the matter was, we both knew it was entirely unlikely that I was really going to get my rocks off with it, but the attempt would have made an amusing comedy film of "How Not To Use A Sex Toy".

Let it not be said, however, that I won't rise to a challenge, even if it is a pukey pink vibrator that I insisted on calling a "thingy" for sheer cringing embarrassment. I grabbed it, and hurried through to the bedroom. Throwing it on the bed (not in a sexy "I'll have my way with you" way, just a, "I don't want to touch you" way), I took off my clothes, and slid in under the covers. Obviously, I didn't turn the light on. The last thing I wanted was the pukey pink thingy laughing at how I looked. That wouldn't be sexy at all and it would be incredibly disturbing, since vibrators are not actually real people. That's the point, isn't it?

I was brought up to believe that sex only happened between two people who loved each other very much, and were married (to each other). Lying there in the dark, with my knees locked together in fear of the fact that I didn't know what I supposed to do, I started the only way I knew how.

I picked up the thingy.

It was cold and hard, and very light. It felt unfriendly and alien to me. It didn't help my mood, and I was as far from being pussy-wet as a prudish rock in the Sahara desert at the height of summer.

Then I tried to switch it on. And when I say "tried", I mean I shook it, rolled it, hit it, searched it with my fingers, and nearly threw it across the room. After frantically fiddling around in the dark for a long time, trying to find the stupidy stupid switch, I gave up and switched on the light instead.

I stared at the mocking pukey pink thingy from beneath the duvet. It wasn't going to help me out at all. It just lay there coolly in my hot hand, staring up at me. Still clueless, I rolled out of bed and stomped around the flat. The first thing I did was look at the instruction leaflet (which, I might add, only included instructions on the replacement of batteries and turning it on, not actually what to do with it once it was working).

I realised that putting batteries in it was going to be far more useful than not putting batteries in it. Of course, who can ever find batteries when they really need them? I ran round the flat, boobies and bum wiggling as I went (I was still naked, but too determined to waste time worrying about that smaller issue), looking for the batteries. Eventually, I found them, opened the end of the thingy, and slid one in. That could have been a very sexy act of anticipation in my mind, if it were not for the fact that I was sweating and cross, and as far from being relaxed as a clueless virgin holding her first vibrator.

Battery locked and loaded, and ready to go. I took a deep breath, and went back into the darkness of my bedroom. I was too hot at this point to bother with the duvet, so I just lay there on the bed, naked, and holding the thingy in my sweaty hand.

The plastic was still cool, but as I enjoy the feel of my cold fingers on either side of my hot, throbbing clit, I thought that perhaps it might not be such a bad thing.

I turned the base of the thingy, and the whole shaft roared into life! I was so shocked that I dropped it and scooted away. It lay on the bed, sending vibrations through the mattress, shifting slowly towards me with a violent buzz. It was so much louder than I would have expected, and I wondered if perhaps the neighbours could hear it. I hoped not.

Frantically, I grabbed it, turning it off as quickly as I could. Gasping, and with my heart pounding, I lay back down in the darkness, and held the thingy in one hand. Perhaps the best way to get used to the object would be to explore the feel without the violent earthquake-shuddering first.

I lay there, calming my breathing, and feeling the plastic warming a little. The cool, dark air became a blanket, pressing down onto my bare skin. I lifted one leg over the bunched-up duvet, opening my slightly-sticky pussy lips. I realised that, as scared as I was, my body was ready for a bit of fun. My lips slowly pulled themselves apart, allowing the air to lick them further until I was openly vulnerable in the darkness.

I stayed quiet and still, feeling the little weight of the thingy in my hand, and wondering how I would feel if it was a lover I had my leg hooked over, instead of the duvet. Would having him there make me feel more embarrassed, or would it be a delight of exploration? Would love-making and toy-play with a partner be more exciting and appealing, or was this journey better done alone?

I would never know.

Slowly, I began to trail the still-cool tip of the toy down my neck, and between my large breasts. Using my upper arms, I squeezed them together, pushing up the little toy until I could feel the tip poking out. I was close enough to flick my tongue out to touch it, and I wondered how it would feel to have the weight of a man straddling me as I gave him a tit-wank and squeezed his bum cheeks. Obviously, I was assuming an actual cock might be slightly bigger (or would it?), and I wondered if it would hurt either of us for him to thrust his head into my open mouth. Perhaps one day, I might discover that for real.

Letting my breasts settle naturally again, I moved the tip of the toy gently down my stomach, to the tightly-trimmed hair on my plump mound. Gently, I let the tip of the shaft peep its way into my cleft, and before it touched my clit, I began to run it up and down the length of each lip, stopping just before I reached my oozing hole.

Did I say oozing hole? That's what I meant. I could feel gathering juice beginning to seep down my crack from my open pussy, and I dipped the toy's head into the juice. I smeared it up and down my swelling lips, and felt my own heat mingling with the cool night air, the rising scent of myself drifting up into the room.

I wondered, would a lover like to smell me on the heat rising from my naked cunt? Would he wish to rub his face in my juices and lick me clean of the seeping lust?

I ran the wet tip onto my clit, and circled it gently. My hips moved a little against it, and I wanted more. But not yet.

I slid part of the shaft between my clit and hole, spreading more juice, and getting used to the feel. I wondered, what would it be like to have a man run the tip of his cock there, mixing his pre-cum into me, flicking his head onto my desperate nub, and then sliding the very end of him into me...

Slowly, delicately, I slid the end of the toy into my entrance.

I couldn't get very far in, perhaps an inch or so. I tried not to worry, and I dipped the toy in and out of myself, hearing the sticky sounds of juice and air and plastic meeting and separating. How would it feel to have a flesh-and-blood cock dipping into my overflowing juices, and to feel a lover's tip squishing and gently smacking against my swollen cunt?

I pulled the toy out again, and very slowly, I turned it on. I was already turned on myself, so the shock was not so bad. I felt the vibrations running up and down my arm, and I carefully laid the tip on a juice-wet lip.

Up and down, slowly and slippery, I moved the toy along me. Then, up over onto my mound, leaving a diamond trail of wet scent in my short hairs, I ran it back down the other lip. Back and forth the buzzing toy went, until I moved it centrally.

Oh my! Just below my clit, there was a riot of starbursts, an aching splashing of buzzing beauty! I knew that to take it higher to dance on my hard button would be to tip myself over the edge, and so I moved the toy down to tip it into my hole.

Oh, the feeling! Tremors shot through my body, my nerves tingling and jarring with the movement of the toy, and my pussy tried to clench around it, slipping and sliding on the smooth shaft. I couldn't push it in much further, but the vibrations were travelling up my tight walls, and I realised I could hold the tip of the toy inside me without my hand, until my juices sent it shooting back out. So I held the toy between fore- and middle fingers, and rubbed my thumb back and forth over my clit.

I tried to imagine the cock of a lover, letting my hips dance on his throbbing head as he withheld the final pleasures from me, whilst I ground my hips as hard as I could against his thumb. I grabbed one large hip with my own little hand, and tried to imagine my lover holding me still in his forceful grip.

Unplanned, I flipped myself over, and wriggled down to the edge of the bed. I got on my knees with my breasts and face pushed into the mattress, whilst my pussy, ass and feet hung over the edge of the bed. I pushed a hand between my legs, holding the buzzing toy, and slowly entered myself.

The position made my hole open wider, and more juice seeped out, sliding down over my clit and filling up the little hood that usually hid it away. I sighed, and pushed in the toy a little further. I had never had something, including my fingers, that far inside me. The walls of my pussy were clenching and shivering, undulating against the invader, and preventing it from going in further.

I wondered, what would it be like to spend some time in a place where a man could enter the room, and be faced by naked pussies, asses and legs? If the rest of me were hidden behind a curtain, would I feel him come up behind me, finger my pussy, and then slide his cock in deep? Would I feel a complete stranger fucking me and then shooting his spunk over my ass?

How would it feel to have a lover fucking me from behind, slapping my round cheeks and violently thrusting in balls deep whilst I moaned in pleasure and ecstasy? How would it feel to have his fingers biting into my hips as I writhed on his cock and came as he shot cum deep inside me?

I was so close to falling over the edge (of the bed) that I flipped myself over again, and wished I could wrap my legs around my fucking lover as he pounded my pussy harder and harder. I moved the vibrator directly onto my clit, and fuck me (please), I began to orgasm.

My hips lifted off the bed until I was balanced on my shoulders and heels, tits bouncing and wobbling as I thrust involuntarily into the night air. Lava roiled through my whole being, searing, agonising pleasure rolling and returning through my legs and pussy as all my muscles clamped, released, and clamped again and again.

I held my breath, unable to perform the simplest function of all in my intensity. Stars shot through the indigo of my mind, scarlet velvet humming and throbbing in an oily dance of release and exquisite pain across my clit. I thrust again and again, the buzzing of the toy suddenly too intense, and I dropped it buzzing onto the mattress in my orgasmic state. My fingers took over where the vibrations hurt, and I began to lower my hips, rolling my pussy against my hand in frantic joy.

Slowly, gently, my body began to release its tension, and I collapsed onto the bed, my hand squeezed between my plump thighs onto my lips. I was smeared in my own juices, and the thingy was left buzzing on the bed. As my breathing slowed and normalised, I began to regain a vestige of consciousness, and I switched off the thingy.

I fell asleep in my own juices and sex smell, and wondered if a lover might like that, or would he prefer to hose me down? I supposed I'd never know.

And I suppose you'd like to know what has happened to my thingy, and if I still use it, and if I have found out what it's like to be fucked by a lover and his hard, glorious cock. Would you?

That's another story...

This story only available on Lush Stories. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.