I hurriedly stick the vibrator underneath my duvet to hide and muffle it, then slide the nightstand drawer shut again as though I’m hiding a crime scene. Paranoia forced me to check all around me if anyone noticed my antics – nobody there – and I finally pick up my phone again to stare at the instructions and the blinking cursor.
Unknown Number starts typing as I watch.
[Unknown: I know you’re eager and ready, Missy.]
[Unknown: You have been all day.]
Again, my thumb goes to my mouth, and I gnaw at the nail with my incisors. He’s right. Shamefully, utterly correct. I soaked half a dozen panty liners fidgeting and squirming and dreaming up scene after scene through all the meetings and seminars and activities today. I yearned for vanishing into a restroom stall and putting my fingers into my swollen pussy all day long and hated the fact that I’m not at all one of those women who can climax after a couple of minutes.
Still, my mind orbited my fingers… or something bigger… all day long.
[Unknown: What are you waiting for?]
One last look in Andrea’s and one in Koryn’s direction, one last tremulous inhale, then I plug my phone and put it on the nightstand, swing my legs onto the mattress and underneath the duvet, and lie back with a shuddering exhale.
Feeling around with my left hand, I recover the vibrator. It has gone still in the meantime. It’s silky and heavy and the bigger bulb feels about as big as a chicken egg. I run the pads of my fingers along the device, appreciating the seamless texture, the heft, the shape.
Then, I run it along the outside of my thigh, up and down and in wavy lines, just for the feel of it against my skin. Along the outside. Over the top. To the inside, where I am more sensitive.
It feels as smooth and gentle and pleasant as a lover’s touch.
Up. Underneath the hem of my nightshirt, across the top of my thigh. Up. To the juncture of my legs.
Up. Over my panty-clad pubic mound, up, up, to my belly button – ungh, it feels so nice against the skin of my soft lower belly.
Down again. Over my panties, deep into the juncture of my thighs.
When the device slides over my sensitive nub at the top of my slit, my mouth falls open on a “hah”. Still, I push it onwards, into the soft, slick center, my cradle, where the vibrator fits so well like it was made for that exact place on exactly my body.
I am holding the device against the curve formed by my lips, pushing it right against the pulsing, drooling entrance of my core, when the vibration starts up again. Barely a little tickle this time.
A soft threat of what’s to come.
“Oh,” I breathe, then bite my lower lip firmly and pull a long, even inhalation through my nose, and push the vibrator against me a little bit harder, a little more firmly, until I can feel the tickle in my inner lips.
I part my thighs, then clench them together, testing the dissimilar feelings. Either way feels… too good and not good enough.
I trust you know what to do, he wrote. I’m sure he didn’t refer to holding the vibrator against my pussy from the outside all night. (And even if he did, I’m not sure I could…)
Eventually, I part my legs, my knees fanning out like the wings of a butterfly, then hook my fingers into the crotch of my panties to pull them aside. (Sticky. Soaked.)
Back while I was in college, I had a dildo. Standard size, flesh-colored, the sort-of realistic kind. I used it a couple of times, but cleaning and storing (hiding) it was too much of a hassle, and I had to work my hands and wrists into a cramp for a rather underwhelming effect. So, I’m not exactly an expert in these things.
I feel virginal. Virginal and horny.
I fumble and prod.
And even my fumbling turns me on like crazy.
The feeling of the smooth device, soon utterly coated with my arousal, poking, pushing against my slit, sliding along my swollen inner lips… It’s like it’s alive and trying to enter my body, perhaps without my knowledge, perhaps at my expressed invitation, but with so much enthusiasm, so much girth and weight, that it doesn’t slip in like a single finger or a tampon or some such ordinary things, but rather—
Like an invader.
Heaven, help me for the way I am, save me from these evil deeds before I get them done…
Another push-pull - I change the angle a little, and suddenly the tip of the device parts my labia and slides into me.
“Ohh fff…” Most of the noise is just air pushing out of my lungs, through my nose. My ribcage seems to constrict in concert with my vaginal muscles. The vibrator and its gentle buzzing are being enveloped by my channel, and the feeling makes me pant like a dog.
My muscles clench and grip, release and re-grip, stretch, flutter. The vibrator feels so big and heavy it makes me want to whimper. My wetness squeezes out of me, and I worry for a moment about the massive wet spot I will create tonight, helpless to do anything about it with my hands above my blanket. Oh, God. I’m supposed to… let go-
The next moment, the vibration increases again. I gasp, my muscles ripple in reaction, sucking the device deeper into my body, folding closed after it so that my fingers lose touch with the bigger bulb altogether. I can’t help but pump my hips at the feeling of fullness, and the intruder seems to burrow deeper yet until only an inch or so of the slim, floppy stem and the small head are still poking out of me. All the rest is deeply enveloped.
I shudder and pant and… I pull my hands away. Pull them out from underneath the duvet.
Because I have to. Because he told me to.
But god, I want to. So bad.
I want to whimper. I’m shaking with effort; this is so hard; it takes all of my willpower. Don’t touch. Don’t touch. You don’t get to touch anymore, Missy.
Half-mindless, I feel for my sleep mask – right beside my head – and slip it onto my face. The dormitory hall’s gentle nighttime gloom is replaced by the utter, muffled darkness of my blindfold. Even with my eyes wide open, there’s not a single speck of light. The disorientation mixes with all the other dizzy feelings.
The moment I am deprived of my sense of sight, the rest of my body lights up. All my nerves start to hum. Every hair on my body prickles and stands on end. I am instantly bathed in sweat.
My newly oversensitive ears pick up the sounds of dozens of people stirring awake on their mattresses, flinging their duvets away, and slipping out of bed as though they had been eagerly waiting for the starting pistol. I hear the hush of many naked feet on the wooden floor. My colleagues are congregating around my bed to watch the spectacle.
“Uh, uh, uh.” My breath comes out in little, quiet puffs.
The vibrations in my core seem to increase more and more, until I’m not sure if it’s the device stirring me harder, or if it’s me and my body, pressing more and more desperately against it, swelling up, clenching more tightly.
I picture my colleagues standing around me. Their mouths are open, their faces scandalized, but they can’t look away. With one hand, they are pointing their phone cameras at me. The other hand is down in their pants.
“Mmhhh!” I bite my lip firmly so that the whimpers only leak from my nose.
I wish one of my spectators would reach underneath my blanket for me and-
Or they could just pull the blanket off me entirely and expose-
“Hngh!” I cover my mouth and nose with my palm and press hard to keep my moans inside.
The vibrator moves relentlessly inside of me, apparently growing, stretching me, its buzz apparently getting worse and worse – until it doesn’t, until it falls silent for long, agonizing minutes, leaving me alone with my sweat and my twitch and my ears that can hear my audience murmur impatiently.
Only to start up again.
Oh God, oh God. Please. Please.
I lie there for what feels like hours, pumping my pelvis until I can feel the strain in my abs and glutes, wishing desperately for friction against my clit – maybe one of my colleagues could… just a finger…? - and feeling my juices drip and flow down the crack of my ass. They soak both me and the mattress underneath. My hands are either on my face, holding my noises back, or on my duvet, clenched into frustrated fists. My sleep mask, drenched in sweat and tears, clings tightly to my face.
And all the while, my spectators surround my bed and watch in silence, so quiet that they can hear the hum of the vibrator moving inside my pussy, or the obscene squelch of my wetness between my thighs.
In my dreams, they wait until I am exhausted from all the gasping and humping, until I’m brought to tears by the constant arousal and lack of relief – and then they pounce on my helpless body like a pride of hungry lions.
***
I wake up with a start, the feeling of someone’s hand at my throat so real. In a panic, I rip off my sleep mask. The cool air hits my damp face like a slap.
It’s early morning, half an hour before the first wake-up call. Judging by the quietness, nobody is up yet.
The vibrator lies between my thighs on the mattress as though I had birthed it, drenched and sticky from my pussy juice, unmoving, its batteries probably depleted. It must have slipped out of me at some point in the night. Everything underneath the duvet is drenched and clammy with the wetness of my body, especially my panties that cling to me like a bikini bottom after a swim, all askew in the crotch area.
My pussy is thoroughly drenched and achingly sore. All my muscles twinge.
I toy with the idea of giving myself an orgasm, but then someone snores loudly nearby, and I gather my things and quickly – very, very quickly – make my way to the showers instead.
I take a cold one. I need it desperately.
When I make my way back to my bed and find it adorned with a roughly human-shaped wet spot, the white pillowcase tinged yellow from my sweat, I hastily strip the whole thing. The mattress itself is a little damp to the touch, but the wet spot is fortunately not noticeable on the material. In a hurry, I carry the soaked linens into the laundry station and fetch myself fresh ones. I’m still busy putting them on the bed when wake-up calls start chiming from phones all around and people start stirring.
“Mornin,’” Koryn croaks at me as she shuffles past me, making her way towards the washroom. “Sleep well?”
“Yeah,” I lie. Luckily, she’s too sleepy to care, to notice the manic gleam in my eyes, or to ask me why I’m putting fresh linens on my bed this early in the morning.
It’s only after Andrea is also up and showering that I realize…
The vibrator is gone.
My heart leaps into my throat.
I check and re-check underneath the bed, underneath the mattress and in all the crevices of the bed frame, in and around the nightstand, in my travel bag that’s open next to it, all around me at a 10-foot-radius, just in case it fell to the floor and rolled away – nothing. It’s not here. Did I put it into the laundry with the sheets? I wonder if I should rummage around the big bin, just in case someone finds it and Koryn remembers that I stripped my bed at a suspiciously early hour and they put two and two together-
My phone’s screen lights up. I snatch it, unplugging it from the power cable in the process.
Four messages from the unknown number, one from last night, three from this morning.
[Unknown: What a good girl you are, Missy.]
[Unknown: I told you you’d like what I'd planned for you.]
[Unknown: I took my toy back, by the way.]
[Unknown: I’ll happily help you out again if you ask nicely.]
Ask for it? Another night like this? My muscles clench painfully at the mere thought – and then they just clench. I get angry at Mr. Unknown, who plays me like a puppet. I stand there and seethe for a moment, then hammer a reply into the input field.
[Missy: I fckn wont]
[Missy: ever]
[Missy: I will never do that again!]
[Missy: UR A SICKO!!!]
His response is immediate.
[Unknown: Why do you still act like you’re not a filthy pervert, Missy?]
[Unknown: It’s obvious that you enjoyed yourself immensely.]
The next message contains an audio file. A cold feeling blooms in my stomach when I see the file name: MissyCarmichael_night2.
Heart galloping, I rummage through my bag to find my headphones, manage to plug them in on the fourth try, and press play, already knowing what I will hear.
Some white noise, silence. I skip forward - the file is almost an hour long. Some wind, the noise that the curtains make as they sway gently. Then… breathing. Panting. Gasps. I skip forward. A whimper, a stifled moan, silence, then another, a gasp, and the click of a throat when the breath hitches. I skip towards the end. My own voice, high-pitched and tight and almost inaudible, made of only air, whining, cursing, murmuring, “oh God, oh please, make me come… make me come, no, please… harder… more,” over and over.
I don’t even remember this. I must have been delirious with arousal, half awake, half asleep.
“Oh, my God,” I murmur when I realize that… he was right next to me last night. He stood next to my bed, watched me squirm underneath the blanket, watched me bite my own knuckles to muffle my noises, close enough to smell me, close enough to touch.
An electrical zing goes through my belly when I imagine it.
[Unknown: I understand you have a busy day ahead of you.]
[Unknown: Not even a small chance of giving yourself that relief you need so desperately.]
[Unknown: What a terrible, terrible shame.]
[Unknown: That means you’ll be good and revved up again by tonight.]
He adds an emoji that is grinning widely. Wickedly.
My belly seems to sink. He is right. We’re going canoeing, then biking back to the lodge – I dread the prospect of my pussy pressed onto a bike saddle – and then there’s one group activity after the other with barely minutes between them, all the way until 9 p.m. – and I can already feel the pulsing knot of tension in my core, one I won’t get a chance to unravel today.
[Unknown: So yes, you will ask me nicely.]
[Unknown: You and I both know you will.]
I put my palm to my feverish forehead and sink down onto the edge of the mattress. My pelvic floor muscles spasm when I make contact.
[Unknown: Be a good girl today.]
[Unknown: I’ll see you again tonight, Missy.]
I’m afraid that I will, and that he will.
I cringe when my lower muscles spasm again, and I know I’m going to have to change my underwear already.
***TBC***
