"Like This" part 1 from Hide and Seek: 21 Tales of Exhibitionism and Voyeurism

Since I'll be guest blogging over at Babeland this week (my first post, "Up His Ass," is up now!), I figured I'd post part 1 of my story "Like This" from Hide and Seek: 21 Tales of Exhibitionism & Voyeurism, co-edited with Alison Tyler, which comes out later this month. It's about a vibrator, masturbation, and showing off. I'll post part two later in the week. For those who were at the Sex in the Public Square party, this book also has Matt Conklin's story "For All The World To See." Or rather, "Matt Conklin's." And yes, this story is about the beloved (by me and so many others) Hitach Magic Wand.



Like This
by Rachel Kramer Bussel

When I first hear Tim’s request, I’m not sure I can do it. It’s one thing to spread my legs in the name of sex, to let him inside me, to show off my pussy to him as he’s about to devour it, both of us so far gone we’ve practically melted into each other already. At those times, I know what I’m getting into, know we’re about to join forces, merge our hot, needy bodies—pink, wet, warm flesh against pink, wet, warm flesh—sinuous and connected. I’ll bend over any way he asks if he’s going to touch me with those magic hands, that hot tongue, that powerful cock that he commands so well. That’s easy for me because we’re both moving, acting, doing. It’s a ritualized mating dance, an erotic call-and-response, my signal followed immediately by his pounce.

I know exactly how powerful my pussy is to him, and how hungry he is for it, and I will gladly open wide to offer myself as his own private sexual all-you-can-eat buffet. But even though we’ve been together since college, which I’m sad to admit is over a decade, showing him what I do on my own is different. That’s my time, my space, my moment to go places I can only get to with the hum of my vibrator and my mind spinning to outer space. I’ve always needed personal privacy, both for solo sex and my sanity, pockets of time that are meant for me and me alone. I’ve never though about how I look when I contort myself into all kinds of positions that make yoga look like skipping, spread my body in ways I’d have thought impossible until fueled by the rush of arousal.

With him, I have a little routine, though I’d never really thought of it that way before. He sits before me, and I spread my legs wide in the air, try to gracefully arch my strong thighs as my wetness glistens. I look up at him and often feel the creep of a blush tickle my cheeks. Sometimes I hold onto my ankles or, if I’m particularly limber, my heels, parting my legs as I think about his dick plunging inside. I smile at that special blend of lust and embarrassment as the scent of my arousal wafts its way upward to my nose. He waits patiently, even though I can see his hard cock, ready and raring to go. I run a finger up my slit, and feeling the wet, soft flesh there, truly feeling it deep inside, sometimes startles me. Tears start to form in my eyes as I do it again, and again, with one light, increasingly shaky finger until I gently part my lips, my thumbs doing the same for the hood. His eyes dart from my center to my soul, from my open lips to my open lips, taking me all in before he overtakes my body with his. I want to bare everything for him because I know he’s about to enter me, to give me the one thing I can’t give myself. I can get over my shyness because I can see, in an instant, how hard I’ve made him, and I know it’s only a matter of time before he can no longer look without touching.

Then, it’s up to him. Sometimes, Tim takes his cock and rubs the head against me, without even entering me just yet. It’s not about getting inside but about watching the collision of our bodies, watching the collusion, watching hard meet soft, covering himself with my dew as he parses every second out into a slow-motion image he’ll replay in his mind. It’s like an introduction, a getting-to-know-you greeting for someone you’ve seen around for years but want to reacquaint yourself with. I, in turn, watch him, watch his eyes riveted to that spot where his cockhead is starting to make me truly ache, the dull throb moving from the entrance to my hole all the way inside, tunneling through me until I feel hollow. The longer he does it, the longer the ache lasts; I’ve often woken up the next day with a pang so strong I clutch him, then shove my fingers inside myself to try to quell it. Looking at his face, I’m no longer blushing, but biting my lower lip, swirling my tongue over the soft, plump pinkness as my teeth dig into the paler flesh beneath my lip. Watching him watching me, watching us, is the hottest live-action porn I’ll ever see.

So his request to see what I do when I’m alone shakes me up. That is not what I’d consider pretty or anything close to foreplay material. Unlike our pre-sex ritual, it’s not leading up to anything; my masturbation is the main event, no need to lure anyone in with a preview. I can be lying in bed reading, lounging there in silk pajamas one moment—and the next, naked, on all fours, long hair tossed to the side while I ride my plug-in vibe hard, bucking up and down against it. When I get myself off, it’s not a Georgia O’Keefe painting come to life. It’s not a slow-build, soft-focus, petal-parting anything. Granted, we don’t always exist in the rose-colored gloss of gentle grinding, Tim and I. When he’s had his fill of watching, of filling me with a burn so hot I’ve been known to draw blood from sinking my top teeth into my lower lip, he slams his cock into me so swiftly and strongly I often come right then and there. By that time, I don’t care what he sees, what he cracks open inside my skull as he screws me like there’s no tomorrow. That phrase sounds trite only if you’ve never done it so hard you don’t care if it’s your last breath, so hard that nothing else exists. I don’t care if he sees me sniveling, crying out, contorted, aching for him while he’s fucking me, because I know, even if I’m too overwhelmed to do anything but shut my eyes, what he’s feeling. It’s the two of us against the world, and there’s no question who’s going to win.

Still, I’m nervous that he won’t like what he sees. That I won’t like what he sees, that this will shatter some fifth wall that makes our relationship work, removing all mystery. Because the truth is, my masturbation sessions are, in their own way, even fiercer than that, fiercer than when he skips the preliminaries and slams me up against today’s chosen piece of furniture—the bed, the couch, a chair, the sink—and fucks me with his fingers in my mouth, his cock so deep inside me it feels like a part of my body. When I’m alone, all bets are off. I’m so far from pornographic I’m into grotesque. At least, to my mind. I don’t think about what I look like when it’s just me and one of my trusty vibrators, me letting out all the things I can’t find release for in everyday life. In fact, I try not to think too much at all—it kills the mood. I just go with what I feel.
But this is Tim, my Tim, after all. He’s asking, with a look so open on his face I can’t deny him. I know he loves every inch of my body, so even though I’m still unsure, I settle him at the far end of our bed, with me on the other, and set forth. “Okay, but I’ve warned you. Sit right there and don’t come any closer. I do it like this,” I say, and then turn on the vibrator. At first, I have to pretend to myself he’s not there. He may be my husband but he is still a spectator, someone invading my private, very personal ritual, even though I’ve invited him. He knows I masturbate, but knowing and seeing are two different things. “Unh,” I say out loud as the power of the toy propels me somewhere else, somewhere far from my marital bed.