That night, after the tech rehersal, Shelly started to masturbate before going to sleep, and as she so often did she called up the fantasy of being captured. This time, however, her stream of thought kept getting interrupted, returning to the strange new experience of wearing the satin holoku. The memory of the cold, ticklish torment made her clit buzz and throb in an altogether new way, one that she liked very much. Then she would remember Auntie Marge's story about the mysterious Russell and become completely distracted, to the point of being turned off.
Shelly did not really have a steady boyfriend, but she had dated several guys in the last couple years and had sex with three of them. The one she liked best was also the one she had dated most recently. He was really a clown, always making people laugh, and he was a pretty good stud.
For some reason she kept imagining him in Russell's place, wearing the black holoku. They were alone together in the storage room, she in her pale blue holoku and he in the black one. She had taken him there and demanded that he strip and put it on. As soon as he did his cock sprang to life, making a big lump in the front of the dress. Then she ordered him to walk around the room, in a circle, with her at the center like a lion tamer, demanding that he continue until the satin rubbing against his cock made him come.
She had never had a fantasy like that, and it made her feel like another woman. A sense of power rushed through her, making her feel invincible and capable of anything. Within moments the bubble of exaltation would burst, leaving her confused and no longer in the mood, but it took her awhile to see why. When she focused on the idea of her ordering her boyfriend to suffer prolonged stimulation she got very excited. It was the image of him in the satin dress with the bulge in front that tripped her up. Seeing her man in a dress made him appear too feminine, which made her seem less feminine. She reminded herself of how Auntie Marge had described Russell, a straight guy who loved women but just could not get enough. This reinforced something one of her friends had said about a boy she had slept with who put on one of her slips and fucked her like the Energizer Rabbit. After that, the excitement did not wane.
One result of the many exciting discussions about sex she had participated in with her girlfriends was the firm belief that everyone had a right to experience the pleasure and satisfaction of sex. Another lesson those gab sessions had taught her was that people found innumerable ways to enhance their pleasure, and most of them were labeled kinky but in fact harmless and so common as to be completely normal. Her vague, cloudy abduction fantasies grew into vivid, sharply detailed mind movies as a result of those gossip sessions, not to mention a catalog of sex toys one of the girls had sneaked out of her parent's room.
That catalog had been a real eye-opener for Shelly, because until then she was stumped as to how a man could torment her with sex. Her own partners never lasted more than a minute, and more than a few times expended all their ammunition in the process of putting on the condom. The best she had come up with until then was for her tormentor to use a finger. That had seemed adequate until her most recent boyfriend had done just that. She had found the sensation a lot less intense than she had imagined. In fact, it felt so good she hinted rather brazenly that he not stop, and he had obliged her by leaving his middle finger inside her for most of the second feature at the drive-in. Torture it was not.
She masturbated almost every night. Most nights she just licked her middle finger, teased her cunt until it was nice and wet, then stroked her clit until her body shuddered into blissful fulfillment. As simple as that was it was far more satisfying to her than what happened when she did it with a guy.
Once or twice a week she wanted more. A lot more. What were brief, fragmented images other nights became a long, highly detailed fantasy in which she imagined the smell of rust and water and old paint, of damp, mildewed concrete, and the sounds of her screams echoing around her as her unknown assailants tormented her with pleasure so intense she thought she would die any moment, certain nonetheless that what they were doing was not going to kill her any time soon. She was doomed, helpless to stop what they were doing to her, with no choice but to endure it, hour after hour. On top of all that was an idea so contradictory that she could not begin to comprehend how it fit in with the rest of the picture, which was that what the men were doing to her felt extremely good and that she did not want it to stop at all.
When she was in that mood she would rub her clit continuously for at least thirty minutes, and sometimes as long as an hour. For as long as she could stand to she would pull her finger away whenever orgasm approached. She did not actually stop rubbing, but instead of a continuous circling or flicking motion she would give it just one flick, then wait five or ten seconds, then another flick, maintaining this slow pace for at least a minute until the urge to come had passed. When she could not stand to pull away, when she felt like she would bite the corner right off her pillow if she did not let herself come, she would settle into a continuous clit massage and hold it as long as she could stand to.
The effect she craved was for her clit to be extremely sensitive, rubbed almost raw, so that the lightest touch would make her feel as though she had to scream. There were times that she did, glorious times when she was home alone and able to masturbate on her parent's bed with the windows closed and the air conditioner in their room turned on.
Just a few months ago she had spent one Sunday afternoon that way, and had made a wonderful new discovery. Her mother had left a half slip laying on the bed, one of her best slips, one richly trimmed with lace. After nearly an hour, when her clit was so sore she knew that she would not even be able to walk normally if called upon to, she got an idea. She held the slip in her right hand, wrapped a lacy edge around her finger, and used that on her clit.
It was as if someone had poured lighter fluid on her clit and lit it. Like someone who had never tasted hot food eating homemade kim-chee. Shelly screamed full force involuntarily, and found that so exciting that she screamed again and again, picturing herself chained up like the black cop's daughter in the movie Lethal Weapon, only it was her they tortured instead of Mel Gibson and the electric shock device was attached to a big metal dildo in her cunt. Her suffering lasted more than a minute, erupting finally into one last orgasm so intense she was afraid that her writhing muscles would break her bones.
She was never very sure just how the men in her fantasy would torment her until she saw the two page spread of dildos in her friend's catalog. The variety of shapes and sizes and textures was unbelievable, and so strange that at first she thought it was an add for hair curlers. It was not until her friends began reading aloud the titillating descriptions that she realized what they were.
The consensus soon reached by this little group of sixteen and seventeen year old girls was that it made a lot more sense to play with a dildo than to risk sex with a guy. In the society they envisioned, the stores than catered to junior girl's fashions would have a sex toy counter right next to the earrings and underwear. Every girl would have a selection of things to play with, and when now she was expected to spread her legs and offer her cunt to her date, she would instead hand him what she wanted him to use and tell him how to use it. If he did a satisfactory job they would reward him with a hand job seasoned with licks and kisses, but to let a guy spew cum into your mouth was in their opinion tantamount to doing headstands on the seat of a speeding motorcycle.
Throughout most of the discussion Shelly had remained silent, letting the older girls do the talking. Part of the reason was that she was so embarrassed about the thrill she felt at discovering that such wonderful things actually existed, but a lot of it was just because the older girls were so much fun to listen to. They had had sex a lot, and without betraying any one guy they could tell the most outrageously funny stories imaginable.
One of them, a rather large and dyke-ish looking girl, kept cutting up about wearing a dildo all day at school. She jumped up and acted out the embarrassing clank it would make when she sat down in her seat, how she would look having orgasms while running past the boys in PE, how she would keep choking on her food at lunch and how she would react if she sneezed and blew the thing right out of her panties and it went rolling down the isle.
When the laughter had died down Shelly had finally found the courage to speak.
"Do you really think you could stand to have something like that inside you all day?"
Within a second of speaking, Shelly realized that it had come out all wrong. She had meant to address the group with a detached, hypothetical question, but the girl that had been clowning around reacted as if it had been directed at her, and a put down or a challenge at that. Worse still, Shelly's tone of voice spoke volumes about her genuine interest in the subject. She should have used a whimsical, nonchalant tone, but her words dripped with eager curiosity.
For several seconds nobody said anything. Shelly felt as though all the other girls were staring at her in disbelief, and wished that she could disappear. One of the other girls tried to save Shelly from further embarrassment by calling the group's attention to another item in the catalog.
"Here, Shelly, this is for you. It's called Joni's Butterfly. Look, it has elastic straps to hold it in place. It says here that it can be enjoyed anywhere, even worn under street clothes!"
Her words at first only made Shelly blush hotter. It was the rest of the group's response that took the heat off. They all started to babble with excitement, grabbing the catalog to peer at the photo and read for themselves the alluring description. They all took turns thinking up places to wear one, giggling hysterically as the ideas grew more and more outrageous.
Clearly they were all fascinated by the idea of wearing a butterfly under normal clothes and enjoying it any time and anywhere, but what really caught Shelly's attention were the vague hints about being unable to access the controller. It was where to put the controller that had them stumped. They deduced that in colder climates where long overcoats were the norm it ought to be possible to run the wire up and out the waist of a pair of pants or a skirt and tuck the controller into an inside pocket of the coat. As long as you kept your coat buttoned up the wire would be hidden, but you would not be able to get at the switch on the controller. They tossed around several possible solutions for Hawaii's warm climate, but the only two that seemed plausible were to tape it to your body just above the waist and wear an oversized sweatshirt over it, or tape it to the inside of your thigh and wear really baggy pants or a long skirt.
In all these proposals the controller would be out of reach when in public view. That started up another round of excited discussion, namely what would happen if you were stuck in a public place and the thing started to give you orgasm after orgasm. None of the girls seemed to have a clue as to how long they could stand having such a gizmo buzzing against their clit, or how long they could go on having orgasms, or even if they could have an orgasm and not have it show. What was clear to Shelly was that they were fascinated by the whole idea, and this made her feel just a wee bit less of a freak.
When the laughter and banter had again died down again the girl who had brought the catalog cleared her throat and made a couple of faltering attempts to say something. The rest of the group realized at once that this was some sort of true confession and clamored for her to spit it out.
"Well, you know that business of having an orgasm and not letting it show? I've had it happen to me, lots of times."
The group erupted with comments of disbelief that amounted to demands to tell more.
"Really! When I'm really bored and feeling horny, like in class, I just lift my foot up onto my chair, under my skirt, and press my heel against my panties. Then I just wiggle my foot a little. When I come I just fake a sneezing fit. The only person who ever noticed was Mr. Walker, the chemistry teacher."
This brought a chorus of groans and lewd comments about what a hunk he was, and more demands for her to tell what happened.
"Well, he kept staring at me, you know, with that hungry look men get. He seemed to have trouble speaking, too, and when I looked right at him and didn't stop he blushed. I was sure I could see a big lump in his pants, too, and that really turned me on. I came all of a sudden, real strong. I think he knew it, too! I can't believe none of you do that!"
As it turned out, two other girls there admitted pulling similar stunts, one using the same technique and the other some tricks that filled Shelly with admiration for her boldness and ingenuity.
"My father plays golf," the second girl began, "so there's always a few balls around the house. One day I was alone, just watching TV. I had on a leotard and a tennis skirt. I was watching music videos and got really horny. I spotted one of his golf balls on the rug and, well, an idea just popped into my head. I took the ball, pulled aside the crotch of my leotard, put the ball down under my clit and let leotard hold it there. I found out that when I sat in a chair and rocked by hips back and forth a little the ball pressed against the seat cushion and rubbed my clit. It was really neat. Later I was afraid it would pop inside, and that I would have a hard time getting it out, so I wore panties under the leotard and put the ball between the panty and the crotch of the leotard. Anyway, I've worn it to school several times, and had some neat orgasms."
"Well I'll be damned!" one of the girls exclaimed. "I've been trying so hard to be a good girl and not even think about sex at school, and here you girls are getting off right under our noses. Time I started playing golf!"
"Tennis, anyone?" another quipped.
"All those girls coming in class should make quite a racket!" howled a third, and they all set off giggling again.
In the cool silence of night, having resolved the reason for her uneasiness about dressing her boyfriend in that black holoku, Shelly settled into a long, sweet fantasy in which she rubbed her clit with the train of her holoku, the way she had with her mother's slip, while her boyfriend paraded around in circles. When she recalled the thrill of the constant tickling the cold satin had subjected her to that afternoon and imagined both of them enduring that together she found herself thrown high into the realm of ecstasy. Her body heaved and thrashed like some animal gripped in the throws of death, then she seemed to explode into a million tiny flecks of light. She stopped there, totally satisfied, and quickly feel asleep.