Daddy? Can I play with the wand tonight?
The text message was sent timidly, in my mind at least. My orgasms belong to him. He often wants to hear the noises I make, whether they’re guttural screams or low moans. He says that’s the music I make as his instrument. I had no idea what kind of response I’d receive.
Absolutely, babygirl! Have fun!!
I could feel his enthusiasm from 400 miles away. Not expecting that kind of response, I checked with him for rules or restrictions. No, none. My only order was to have a good time.
There are certain parts of my sexual life that I haven’t had freedom over for many, many months. Some people might relish the moment to do what they want when they want; a restriction lifted, even temporarily would probably make another person excited. I was confused and a little unsure.
Truth be told, the wand scares me a bit. Another truth, though, is that I wanted release, needed it, but my hand is such a poor substitute for Daddy’s hand. It leaves me wanting rather than satisfies. Nothing, though, compares to the wand. Daddy and I had only scratched the surface of what it’s capable of, and I wanted to know if I could force myself to take what the wand could do.
I promised to call Daddy when I was done. I knew that I wouldn’t play long. I made sure to have water by the bed – those of us who gush and squirt tend to get dehydrated after a few orgasms. And I pulled out the cum towel (an affectionate name for a towel that will never be used for anything else after all the times I’ve squirted and gushed all over it), folded it three times, and hoped that would be enough. (I also knew I was going to wash the sheets the next day.)
I will admit, pulling out the wand, unwinding the cord, and plugging it in, I was still nervous. I remembered my last experiences with the wand – the agonizing pleasure, the waves of orgasms, the desperate desire for more coupled with a desperate need to make it stop. And here I was, willing to potentially do this to myself all over again. I’m a masochist, y’all, I would be lying if I didn’t admit to the little voice in my head that kept saying, “How much do you think you can take? You’re gonna keep going until you’re wrung dry. Let’s make this shit hurt!”
On the bed, nestled in the pillows, towel firmly under my ass, I turned on the wand to it’s lowest setting and slowly, gently, barely touched my clit. Insta-orgasm is all I can say. My pelvis bucked and I felt liquid pour out of me. I moved the wand over my outer labia, massaging my cunt. Ohhhh, that felt good. I rolled the side of the head up towards my clit. Insta-orgasm.
I left it there. Three, four, five more – all wet and gushing. My jaw hurt from gritting my teeth, terrified of screaming and waking my children.
I moved the wand around, changed the position of the head, found a sweet spot and left it there. The first five minutes were the most clinical masturbatory experience of my life. I wonder what happens when I do this.
My inner labia and clitoral hood don’t protrude at all. My pussy is tucked up nice and neat inside (side note: all pussies are beautiful, and I am fascinated by the site of large labia, just sayin’). The only way for the wand to touch my clit directly was for me to spread my legs very wide. The moment my legs parted and the wand made direct contact with my most sensitive parts, my thighs clamped down on the head of the wand just like they do to Daddy’s head when his tongue is in overdrive. That did nothing to relieve the sensations.
Then I discovered that if I leave the wand on my mound, above my clit, I gained about 30 seconds between orgasms, and I could actually feel them build, which is part of the pleasure. I also realized that my poor towel was thisclose to not making it. I folded it over onto itself one more time.
I came and I came and I came. Sometimes my touches were featherlight against my clit and caused wet Insta-orgasms. Sometimes I found a spot less sensitive that allowed for a build-up of need – and I forced myself to take several orgasms in a row. There were times when the only way to tell one orgasm from another was the fresh gush of warm fluid.
Finally, I was done. Drained of fluids and exhausted. My body bucked with aftershocks. I drank my water and looked at the clock. A mere 15 minutes had passed, and my best estimate was somewhere near 20 orgasms, but I think that’s a conservative guess. I forced myself out of bed to clean up.
I had stopped just short of soaking the bed beneath the towel, but only just. There’s no such thing as enough towels.
I called Daddy, giggled my way through the conversation, feeling floaty and light, and slept better than I have in weeks. Yeah, I like the wand.