Free Gagged by Aubrey Parker Page B

I put garbage on top of it so no one would ever want to go looking for the box again. And why would Jasmine look? I told her to throw it out, and she did. Now that stupid, gross thing is buried. She doesn’t need to know I took it out first.  
    Standing in the kitchen with only moonlight to light my way and the garage door closed again, I can’t resist slipping the slim thing from the pocket of my robe. I realize I have no idea how to use it and think I should have at least taken the little manual that came with it, but how hard can it be? I can see the power switch, and it moves through various speeds. The batteries seem to be rechargeable. I figure you touch wherever feels best. Or you slide it inside and …
    Oh God. Am I really going to do this?
    But of course I am. Because dammit, I’m an adult and horny as hell. I’m so worked up right now, looking at this stupid little device as if it’s the cure to all that ails me. Maybe it’s not such a horrible gift. It came from a terrible man, sure, and I don’t like what it says that he sent it — what he might do to others if this is how he treats girls he doesn’t even know. But on the other hand, it perfectly fits the definition of an ideal gift: something I need (and, right now, desperately want) but that I would never get for myself. Never ever ever.  
    I figure I should wash off something that’s meant to go inside me, so I use normal dish soap in the kitchen sink, wondering too late if I should be using some sort of specialty cleaner. But it’s hard to care; even the simple act of rinsing the thing reminds me that this is serious, that I’m actually going to use it. I’m going to slip my panties off and touch this to my …
    Holy shit, I feel like I’m going to come on the spot just thinking about it.  
    I rush as much as I’m able. If Jasmine wakes up I’ll snap right back into my usual self and away from this new, strange Aurora. Even after Jasmine goes back to sleep, I’ll never be able to do it. I’ll probably take the vibrator back out to the kitchen and toss it back in the trash, probably rubbing chicken drippings all over it to make sure I’m never tempted again.  
    But Jasmine doesn’t wake. I’m back in my room seconds later, locking the door, which I never do — another reminder of what’s to come, and it makes my eager pussy squeeze and grip and throb. I take off my robe. My sleep shorts. My panties. I’m so wet, it’s almost like I peed my pants. I get the courage to put a finger there first, and there’s almost no friction. My finger comes away slick.  
    I turn the vibrator on. Another shiver. I feel like I’m about to have sex, and the anticipation thrills me. I think I’ve had orgasms in dreams, but I haven’t had one while awake, on purpose, since I was in my early teens. There was too much guilt to enjoy it. Too much surety that girls who did that were nasty and dirty and shameful, and that they were punished and deserved it.  
    But there’s none of that now. I touch it to my clit. I barely have time to wonder what I should be doing — move it around, press in one spot, or slide it inside — when all of a sudden I come , out of the blue, just like that.
    I think I shout out. It lasts for long seconds, and all I can do is hold on. I lose track of where I am, what I’ve done to enter this bliss, or why I had such a problem with this concept before.
    As it abates, I wait for the guilt. Now that I’ve masturbated — though it was so quick, it’s hard to believe it merits a name, let alone requires such a fancy device — I’m sure I’ll feel awful. How will I look myself in the mirror? And the next time I see my mother, will she know just by looking at my face? When I see my father again, will he get out his belt?
    But there’s none of that. I don’t want to fall asleep. Jasmine always jokes about it being that way for guys, but although I feel satisfied, I’m more interested in giving myself attention.  
    So I