“Ella, come on. Try it. I swear it’s the best.”
I give a sigh. How many times had Stacy said these exact words to me within the ten months we had been roommates? And how many times had those words proved to be complete crap? The answer to both those questions: Too many.
“Ell, I swear to you. If you happen to be, ah, unsatisfied, I’m going to do the dishes for the rest of the year.” She said ‘unsatisfied’ with a raunchy sex hotline voice that made me cringe a little.
I mean, yes, we were talking about that sex toy everyone and their grandma (sometimes literally) was talking, blogging, twittering and instragramming about, so that voice might be justified. But you see – sex toys just are not my thing. At all. Kinda like some people never get the hang of bidets, or quinoa, or menstruation cups, or saunas, or oral sex (both giving and receiving). Everyone knows it’s good for you, and it makes 99.9% of all people very happy, but sometimes you just end up in that 0.1%. People think you’re a naysayer, when all you really are is a ‘sorry, I think I must be doing this wrong, this isn’t fun at all, what are y’all talking about, nothing is happening’-sayer. A frustrated one because Lord knows life would be so much better if you could just enjoy yourself, and to add insult to injury, they say it’s your fault.
Well, I’m owning that shit. It is my fault. My anatomy is weird, and so is my brain. Phallic bits of plastic (or glass or wood or organically harvested rainbows or whatever the newest fad is) just don’t inspire me. They don’t reach the right spots. Doesn’t matter if they are realistic enough for you to think some dude must be sitting in a bathtub full of ice right now crying inconsolably, or if they look like something that modern art installation enthusiasts might buy for half a million dollars. Shape, color, texture, size, function – I caught them all like they are pokemon. You can find roughly 800 bucks worth of the latest ones in a box at the bottom of my closet. (The older ones have long since relocated to the landfill because gross. Guys, gals, please don’t hoard your toys too long.)
None of those thingamajigs has ever given me anything more than a numb pussy and a cramp in my wrist. I only have them because Stacy works at a sex toy shop, has too much money, and deeply believes in conversion. She wants me out of that sad 0.1% and if it’s the last thing she ever does in life.
Personally, I just want orgasms. I like those. A lot.
Which is why hope dies last.
“The dishes and the bathroom,” I say, and Stacy gives an excited little squeak and a double high five to seal the deal.
“Fuck yes, girl! You will not regret it. This one is real special.”
I have a feeling I will regret it, but at least I won’t have to do the dishes or clean the bathroom for the next four months, so I’ve got that going for me.
***
The thing I am holding in my hand a couple of days later, courtesy of bmazon, defies description. It’s a little bit 90s lava lamp, a little bit stalagmite, a little bit molybdomancy, and a little bit obscure deep-sea creature. It has a lovely, deep-blue color with a shimmer underneath, no detectable scent or taste (yes, I licked it. If something doesn’t feel good in your mouth, it won’t feel good in your vag), and it’s quite heavy. And is it just my imagination or is it changing shapes in tiny increments? So slowly that your eyes cannot track the movement? I swear I can feel it morphing against my palm and fingers.
It’s called ‘Jinn’. As in, ‘Jinni’. As in, genie in the bottle. Gonna rub you the right way. Get it?
I lay the, uh, object back into the smooth plastic mold it came in, get up and lock the door to my room from the inside, then tap the play-button on my stereo. Stacy and I may share many things, but not all of them. I also pull my curtains closed, even though we’re on the third floor and no one could look in. It’s a psychological thing.
“Alright,” I murmur, half to myself, half to Jinn – yes, I’m talking to my new sex toy, don’t judge – “what are we going to do today?”
First step: Read the instruction manual. I’m thorough like that, and it calms my nerves. (No idea why I even have nerves. It’s just a sex toy, Ella!)
Apparently, Jinn is made from completely natural materials that are entirely hypoallergenic, have excellent hygienic qualities, don’t crack, nor break, nor melt, nor provide a breeding ground for bacteria, nor lose color or function, or do any other things no one would want their sex toy to do. Jinn, the manual says, can therefore be worn practically constantly and in either orifice of your choosing. “Interesting,” I comment, slightly skeptical, and skip the cleaning instructions because if there’s one thing I know it’s how to provide aftercare to a sex toy. “What the hell are you made of, though? Actual unicorn tears from space?” I flip through the manual but find nothing.
‘Jinn is the last toy you will ever want or need’, the manual continues cockily (pun intended). ‘Like its namesake, it will fulfill your every desire. Be aware, however, that Jinn demands like recompense and is not a patient giver.’
I lift one eyebrow on the first sentence, and the other eyebrow joins in at the second sentence. “What the fuck is that even supposed to mean?” I whisper-yell at it. “Did someone use Google translate for this-?”
“Ella, for Christ’s sakes, just try the damn thing!” Stacy yells at me through the closed door. Our walls are really thin, but not that thin.
“Stacy, how do you know I’m not trying it right now?!” I holler back. I look around my room and scan for hidden cameras.
“Because our neighbors and our neighbors’ neighbors would be able to hear your screams of ecstasy if you were!” she singsongs back.
Alright. Alright, alright. I fling the manual into the box and take out the, uh, Jinn. Its shape has definitely changed from lying in its plastic case and changes again once I hold it in one hand. I apply a little pressure to knead it into a vaguely phallic shape, then belatedly slip my yoga pants down and wriggle out of my panties.
“D’you like it?” Stacy yells from directly behind my door.
“Go away!” I screech and throw my flip-flop at the wood. Stacy squeaks and scuttles away.
“Okay,” I breathe, lie back into my hill of pillows, wriggle my bare butt and my T-shirt-clad body around to get comfortable, then spread my legs with softly bent knees, and put the toy where it was supposed to go. Or close to it, because I am a careful sort of person and need a little foreplay.
The warmth and texture are quite nice against the sensitive inside of my thigh. Jinn is smooth like porcelain, but not as cold. I gently rub it up and down and side-to-side, inching closer to the crease of my outer pussy lips.
I close my eyes and sort through my latest fantasies that have entertained me during boring treadmill runs and even more boring work meetings. Ménage? Two men. Or one man, one woman? Or maybe… maybe this time I don’t even know who it is, or how many. I’m blindfolded. I only know there is one warm body in front of me, and one behind me, and four hands caress my skin while my own hands are-
“Yes,” I whisper noiselessly and smile. My unseen lovers cup and caress me in all the right places.
The toy touches my lower lips and immediately seems to go softer in my grasp, more jelly-like. I put my other hand on it, too, to keep better hold of it, but it’s like trying to hold on to one of those water snake toys. It slips out from between my fingers – and seems to jump at me. Squishy, liquid warmth suddenly covers my vulva.
I sit up with a start and close my legs, but it’s already too late. The toy that is apparently able to change its state of aggregation and is also fucking sentient and possibly haunted has latched on to me. I feel it breach my pussy lips like a tongue and enter my body.
“Oh my God,” I gasp but swallow the ‘od’-part of ‘God’ because something is happening.
I am full. I am so, so full. Something that is just a little larger than the space my body provides, something that stretches me just a little and presses snugly against my insides, something warm and pulsing, is moving inside me.
I can’t say if it’s a good sensation or not, but my nipples get hard and poke through my T-shirt and I’m starting to sweat. I can barely breathe. I sit and quiver, unsure what to do, feeling like a virgin again.
And then, there’s a thrust, and yeah, it’s a good sensation. It’s good.
Oh, my God, it’s good.
I sink back and open my legs – it’s as natural as breathing – and the motion inside my channel becomes more of a wave, an irresistible undulation that seems to take all my organs along for the ride. Every crest brushes by something inside of me that embarrassingly makes me want to pee, but in a good way. I didn’t know that that was even possible.
One hand on my mouth to stifle any more outbursts, I sneak the other between my legs to find my clit because I already feel like I only need a little nudge there and I might fly apart. My middle finger slips through my little tuft of pubic hair and down – and meets a smooth piece of plastic instead. I grope my way around my core and find that it’s all covered up by a little dome or a cup. Like a chastity belt. Probing it with my fingernails I find that it’s sealed around my outer lips all the way back to my perineum, and that there’s no way inside or under it.
That’s the moment I freak out, and also the moment the toy beings to really fuck me.
I’ve had sex with men before. Not a lot. Didn’t love it, didn’t hate it, never minded it much and never minded that it didn’t blow me away. I’ve felt the push of a man against my insides. One or two even made love to me and it was… nice.
None of them ever fucked me like that toy fucks me. It’s all big, hard, deep strokes that crash against my insides and I have nowhere to go, I can’t wriggle or pull back because it’s right there, and it demands every square centimeter of my insides as its own. It drives into me like a battering ram, impaling me, nudging itself deeper and deeper relentlessly.
“Oh shit, oh fuck,” I chorus, and yeah, the neighbors’ neighbors probably heard me.
I feel every ridge and every wave, every nudge against those places I thought were just not sensitive – boy, was I wrong. I claw my fingers into my bed sheets to hold on for dear life and bury my face into the pillow to muffle my moans, and to anchor my body to something because it feels like I am literally exploding and melting into space, belly button first.
And then, oh God, there’s a lick and a nudge against my clitoris, a pinching, rolling, licking manipulation of that swollen nub, a press, a rub, a hard tug and even a nip and fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh God…
With a hoarse, desperate cry, I violently burst into glittering confetti.
Jinn, my phenomenal new toy, doesn’t care.
It doesn’t stop or slow down. It rams me right through the fluttering of my inner muscles, if anything it gets more ferocious, batters the softening parts inside me with more vehemence.
I writhe and claw at the plastic hood that covers my vulva, I beg and spill some tears because it’s too much, too good, too oh fuck oh fuck I’m already having another-
My body is a big hand, and now I’m making a fist. All of me balls up, tightens, my breath whistles out of my burning lungs, I see stars. Faintly, I notice my own wetness gushing from beneath the seam of the toy’s possessive little covering, coating the insides of my thighs, dripping down the crack of my ass and seeping into the skin around my asshole, forming a wet spot on my bed sheets that I twist around on and make larger and larger because Jinn does not stop.
The harder I fight it, the harder the toy seems to rip the next orgasm from me and the longer it seems to stretch before I can breathe again. Only once I stop counting, when my heart is close to hammering out of my chest and I can’t feel my face any more does the fucking finally slow down.
I shudder and whimper and hide my face in my hands. My head is swimming. I’m crying.
Many minutes later, I dare to move. With slightly trembling fingers, I check the state of my still-throbbing core. My vulva is still covered. I am still filled, stuffed full, now with a cock that gently pulses instead of jackhammering orgasms into me – only for the moment, the pulse seems to say. I’m still here. Waiting. I’m not done with you, not even close.
The thought sends another shiver down my body. A colder one, this time.
I hurry to clean up, wipe myself down with a towel, and put on some clothes - a wraparound skirt and a hoodie; the first because I don’t dare to put anything near my core lest I trigger Jinn again, and the second to hide my sweat-soaked and frizzy I-just-got-fucked- hair.
“Stacy, I’ve got a problem,” I croak as I slink into the kitchen. She’s sitting on the kitchen counter with a bowl of cereals on her lap and her phone in hand and looks at me with a very, very smug face that only loses some of its smugness when she realizes I’m seriously troubled.
“Is it… Is it normal that I can’t-“ I begin but cut off when the toy gives my clit a proprietary pinch and roll. I clutch my middle with both arms.
“Can’t take it out?” Stacy finishes my sentence for me and shrugs. “Well, yeah. That’s the point. Helps you really get in touch with your sexuality and stuff. It’ll only leave you once you learn to fulfill your filthy fantasies properly. Didn’t you read the manual?”
“My… filthy fantasies?” I gape at her.
“Yeah,” she says and spares me the duh. “Look. What makes Jinn so great is that it sends you on this journey of self-discovery and self-fulfillment. Think of it as that enabling friend that gets you into that kinky thing you were always too chicken to try. Not to overshare, but for me, it was totally anal.” She rolls her eyes heavenward and gets a contented look on her face. “Turns out I can totally come from anal, and I mean, come.” She giggles and sighs.
“So I… You mean, this thing won’t come out until I, what, tried anal?” I wish my voice didn’t get louder like that, but I’m panicking because it feels like Jinn is starting up again. I feel it wriggling just a little, as if to remind me. As if I could forget it there.
“If that’s your filthy fantasy and desire, then, yeah,” Stacy nods. “You know yourself. You know what gets you off. That’s the thing Jinn wants you to try. Until then, it won’t have you letting yourself down any more. It’ll keep reminding you to go find your bliss, you know, like Joseph Campbell, but more insistent and with more orgasms.” She paused. “That is, until, you know, it’ll cut off your supply.”
“I- what?!” I exclaim and clench my thighs together. Hearing about cutting things off while some alien contraption is clamped around my clitoris is almost enough to make me puke spontaneously.
“Yeah. There are several threads online. Some people have stalled too long with their bliss-following, and eventually, Jinn just… teases you but doesn’t finish you off any more, if you know what I mean. Cuts off your orgasms. Finished. It’s the ultimate motivation to get out of your boring comfort zone.” Stacy frowns at me. “You really haven’t read the manual properly, have you?”
Apparently, I hadn’t – Guess whose fault that is? I wanted to shout. Instead, I grab on to the doorframe and try not to break down in tears. “But I… I don’t know my filthiest desires,” I stammer.
Stacy scoffs, sets down her now-empty bowl and walks away. “Yes, you do,” she singsongs and vanished into her own bedroom.
Yes, you do, the toy inside of me seems to echo, and circles my clit, around and around and around…
FIN
