Chapter 3: The Purchase and a Plan
The silence in the booth was no longer just an absence of sound. It was a physical presence, thick with the ghost-images of sweat-slicked bodies and the echoing, raw cries of a woman taking everything. Clara sat, paralyzed, the remote slick in her damp hand. Her mind replayed the obscene mechanics: the stretch, the penetration, the utter fullness. Lisa Ann, her body a mirror, had taken two thick, ugly cocks at once—one in her cunt, one in her ass—and she’d screamed for more.
Clara was a mess. The visual shock was a lightning strike to her system, but the arousal that followed was a slow, deep burn, spreading through her veins like hot oil. She felt simultaneously violated and awakened. She had never done anything with her ass. The idea had always been a hard line, a vague territory of pain and filth. But now she was curious. The woman on screen hadn’t looked pained in the end; she’d looked conquered and triumphant, glazed in proof of her own desirability. That was the hunger Clara wanted. Not just from a toy. From Mark. She wanted that voracious, consuming need from him. She wanted to be used until the lonely echo in her head was filled with nothing but the sound of his grunts and the slap of his skin on hers.
A sudden, metallic crunch from the street outside jolted her. The parking meter. Time was running out. The mundane reality of a ticket, of being noticed, scraped against the fever-dream of the booth. It was enough to break the spell.
She moved quickly, her fingers fumbling. She pulled her underwear and capris up over her sticky thighs, the fabric clinging unpleasantly. She smoothed her blouse, ran her hands through her hair. Her reflection in the dark screen was a pale, wide-eyed smudge. She looked like a woman who had just witnessed an accident. Or a miracle.
She took a shuddering breath, unlocked the door, and stepped out into the hallway.
The main store seemed brighter, louder, more vulgar than before. Derek was exactly where she’d left him, leaning against the counter near the register. He turned his head slowly, his eyes tracking her approach. They seemed to miss nothing: the faint flush on her neck, the slight unsteadiness in her walk, the way her purse was clutched too tightly against her stomach.
“So,” he said, his voice a low, dry rasp that cut through the tinny music. “Did you find any inspiration on the toy you want this time?”
Clara stopped a few feet from the counter. She forced herself to meet his gaze. The knowing smirk was there, lingering at the corners of his mouth. It should have humiliated her. Instead, it felt like an acknowledgment. He’d seen women leave that booth before. He knew what happened in the dark.
“I want a dildo,” she said, her voice clearer than she expected. “One that feels like skin. Like human flesh.”
Derek’s smirk widened just a fraction. He pushed off the counter. “Now we’re talking. The lifecast ones. This way.” He led her not to the wall of rainbow silicone, but to a separate, glass-fronted case. Inside, on velvet-lined shelves, lay a series of phalluses that were unnervingly realistic. Each had detailed veins snaking along the shaft, a defined glans, even subtle variations in skin tone. They looked like severed body parts.
He unlocked the case and lifted one out. It was a deep tan, thick, with a heavy, weighted base. “This is the ‘Goliath’,” he said, handing it to her. “Silicone, but dual-density. Soft on the outside, firmer core. Warm it in some water, it’s as close as you get without the attached idiot.”
Clara took it. The material was eerily soft, giving under her fingers yet solid beneath. She ran her thumb over the prominent head. A shiver, sharp and electric, travelled from her hand straight to her core. This was not a toy. This was a stand-in.
“And…” she began, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. She couldn’t look at him. She stared at the veined shaft in her hand. “I want a butt plug.”
Derek didn’t laugh. He didn’t even react beyond a slow blink. “For training, or for feeling full during?” he asked, his tone purely practical.
“I… I don’t know.” The admission was painful.
“Start small. Tapered base, silicone, lots of lube.” He moved to another display and selected a simple, smooth plug. It was black, modestly sized, with a flared base. He placed it on the counter next to the Goliath. “This’ll get you used to the feeling. You can work your way up to the fun stuff.” His eyes flicked to the case of lifecast dildos, then back to her.
While he was bagging the plug, Clara’s gaze drifted. It swept past the DVDs, past the leather restraints, and landed on a circular rack shoved into a corner. Outfits. They hung limply, cheap lace and shiny polyester. A French maid. A police officer. A nurse with a laughably short skirt.
And then she saw it. A black lace bodysuit, cut high on the thigh, with a plunging neckline that would barely contain her. Next to it, on a hook, were a pair of fishnet stockings and a garter belt.
Her idea crystallized, desperate and full of a fragile hope. Maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe it was the packaging. Maybe Mark was bored with Clara, the wife, the mother, the person who made his coffee and folded his socks. But what if she was someone else? What if she was the woman from the booth, the one who knew how to take it, who begged for it? If she dressed really sexy, like a porn star, then maybe Mark would finally see her. Maybe the hunger in him, buried under years of complacency, would wake up and make a move.
“That too,” she said, pointing, her voice gaining a strange steadiness.
Derek followed her finger. He raised an eyebrow, a genuine flicker of surprise crossing his features. He retrieved the outfit, the fishnets, the garter. He didn’t comment. He simply added them to the black plastic bag, the lingerie disappearing into its depths like a secret.
“You’ll need this,” he said, tossing a small bottle of lubricant into the bag last. “Don’t be stingy with it.”
At the register, she paid in cash from her grocery money, the bills feeling illicit. He handed her the bag, its weight a profound accusation. “Good luck,” he said, the words neutral, but his eyes held that same flat, knowing light.
The bead curtain rattled violently behind Derek.
Billy burst through, his arms laden with cardboard boxes. He stopped dead when he saw Clara holding the black bag, his eyes dropping to the strip of black lace dangling from the top where Derek hadn’t fully closed it. His mouth fell open. “Holy fuck! Are you going to wear that?” His voice was too loud, cracking with awe. He swallowed, looking from the lace to her body, his face openly appreciative. “You’re going to look so fucking sexy. He’s a lucky man, whoever he is.”
Clara felt the heat bloom across her chest, a different warmth than the shame from the booth. “Thank you,” she managed, her voice quiet but steady. She turned and pushed through the front door, the bell jangling behind her.
No one had called her fucking sexy in forever. The word from Mark, if it ever came, was a perfunctory “nice.” This was different. This was a teenager, younger than her own sons, seeing past the mom and the wife to the body beneath, and naming it with a crude, thrilling honesty. It excited her. The validation was a bright, sharp pill on her tongue, and she swallowed it whole as she drove home, the bag on the passenger seat like a conspirator.
Her house was a tomb of quiet expectation. She locked the door behind her. Upstairs, in the master bathroom, she ran the shower scalding hot. She shaved everything meticulously, the razor scraping away the last vestige of ordinary motherhood, revealing smooth, pliant skin. She dried off, the towel rough on her new nakedness.
Standing before the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door, she dressed. The fishnets were a complicated web against her legs. The garter belt clipped on with sharp, definitive snaps. Then the bodysuit. She stepped into it, pulling the thin, scratchy lace up over her hips. It was a tight second skin. The plunge of the neckline forced her breasts together, creating a deep, shadowed cleavage that made her look pornographic, an offering. She looked at her reflection, her hair still damp, her skin flushed.
The woman in the mirror was not Clara. This woman’s eyes were dark, hungry. This woman’s body, poured into cheap black lace, was a statement of pure, unapologetic need. She thought of Lisa Ann on the screen, commanding, taking. She tilted her chin, letting a smirk touch her lips. “I’m sexier than Lisa Ann,” she whispered to the glass. The words were a spell. They made it true.
She heard the garage door groan open below. Mark was home. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird. She didn’t put on a robe. She walked downstairs, the fishnets whispering with each step, the cool air of the house touching the exposed skin of her thighs and back.
Mark was in the kitchen, pouring himself a whiskey, his back to her. He was still in his suit pants and dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up. He looked tired, already halfway into his own private evening. “Hey,” he said, not turning.
“Hi.” Her voice sounded strange.
He turned. The glass stopped halfway to his lips. His eyes widened, then did a quick, startled journey from her face down her body and back up. He didn’t smile. He blinked. “What’s all this?”
“It’s for you,” Clara said, stepping closer. The scent of his cologne, familiar and suddenly infuriating, mixed with the whiskey.
He took a slow sip, his gaze analytical, confused. “Okay.” He gestured with the glass. “It’s… something. You look… different.”
Different. The word was a bucket of cold water. She pushed through it. She closed the distance between them, took the glass from his hand, and set it on the counter. She placed her palms on his chest, feeling the crisp cotton of his shirt. “I want you to fuck me, Mark.” The filth of the word in her pristine kitchen was a shock. “Right here. Right now.”
He looked down at her hands, then into her face. His expression was unreadable, a mix of surprise and a weary obligation. “Clara, I’ve had a long day. Can we just…”
She didn’t let him finish. She dropped to her knees on the hard kitchen tile. Her fingers went to his belt, fumbling with the buckle. He made a small, startled sound but didn’t stop her. She unzipped his trousers, pulling them and his boxers down just enough. His cock was soft, nestled in coarse hair. She took it in her hand. It was warm, inert.
She leaned forward and took him into her mouth. She used her tongue, her lips, trying to remember the frantic, hungry technique from the videos. She sucked, hollowing her cheeks, bobbing her head. He remained limp. After a moment, he sighed, a sound of profound inconvenience. “Honey, stop. This isn’t going to work.”
She pulled back, his soft flesh slipping from her lips. She looked up at him from the floor, her knees aching. His face was pitying. It was the same look from the night before, when he’d pushed her head away in bed. A cold, sharp clarity cut through the lace and the hope. The outfit was a joke. She was a joke. The hungry, sexy woman in the mirror didn’t exist here.
She stood up, her legs shaky. The excitement Billy had sparked was gone, replaced by a hollow, howling shame. She turned and walked away, back upstairs, without a word. He didn’t call after her.
In the bathroom, she ripped the garter clips open, the sound like little gunshots. She peeled the lace bodysuit off, tearing it at the shoulder in her haste. She balled it up and shoved it into the very bottom of the bathroom trash can, under the empty shampoo bottles and used cotton pads. She put on her oldest, softest robe.
She sat on the edge of the bed, the silence of the house a scream. The hollowness inside her was worse now, a carved-out canyon. The toys were still in the black bag, hidden in her closet. They were tokens for a desire that had no place here. She remembered the ‘Goliath’, its lifelike weight. She remembered the plug.
She got up. She retrieved the bag. She took the bottle of lube and the black silicone plug into the bathroom, locking the door. She didn’t look in the mirror. She coated the tapered tip in cool, clear gel. Bending over the counter, she reached back. She pressed the slick tip against the tight, forbidden pucker she had only ever touched to clean.
She pushed. There was a sharp, startling burn of intrusion, a tight, impossible stretch. She gasped, her eyes watering. She pushed harder, breathing out, forcing her body to relent. It gave way with a soft, internal pop, and the plug slid inside, the flared base settling snug against her. The feeling was immediate and profound. A deep, constant fullness, an obscene secret her body now held. It felt like a violation she had chosen. It felt like truth.
She walked back to the bed, each step a subtle reminder of the intruder in her ass. She lay down, spreading her legs. She took the ‘Goliath’. She warmed it in a basin of hot water from the sink, just as Derek had said. It felt even more real heated, the silicone mimicking the warmth of living flesh.
She poured lube over its thick, veined length. She didn’t think of Mark. She thought of the men on the screen, ugly and voracious. She thought of the fullness they gave. She guided the head to her cunt, already wet with a desperate, angry arousal. She pushed it inside.
It was huge. It stretched her, filled a cavernous depth the pink vibrator had never touched. She moaned, a ragged, lonely sound in the empty room. She began to fuck herself with it, sliding the heavy silicone in and out, the base slapping against her clit. The plug in her ass moved with each thrust, a double penetration she controlled. It was clumsy and quiet and nothing like the screaming, sweaty scenes she’d watched.
But it was something. Her hips rocked, driving the fake cock deeper. She imagined Billy’s stunned voice. Holy fuck. You’re going to look so fucking sexy. She imagined Derek’s knowing eyes. She imagined the glory hole in the dark booth, a circle of pure, anonymous possibility. The sensations mounted, coiling tight low in her belly. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even passion. It was a raw, mechanical release, a valve opening under immense pressure.
Her back arched off the bed. A climax tore through her, brutal and short, wracking her body in violent shudders. She cried out, a muffled scream into the pillow. Then it was over. She lay there, the ‘Goliath’ still inside her, the plug a persistent claim in her ass, breath sawing in and out of her lungs. The hunger was quiet, temporarily sated by a faceless fantasy and two pieces of silicone.
Downstairs, she heard the gentle clink of Mark’s glass as he poured another whiskey. The sound was very far away. She slowly pulled the toys from her body, feeling emptier than she had ever felt before. The emptiness had a new shape now. It had dimensions. It had weight. It had a name, and the name was want, and it was going to swallow her whole.
The silence after was the worst part. It wasn’t peaceful. It was accusatory. The hollow victory of the silicone climax had left a metallic taste in her mouth, a chemical echo of the lube and her own desperate sweat. The ‘Goliath’ lay on the duvet beside her, glistening and absurd. She pulled the plug from her ass, the sudden absence making her feel gaping, unfinished.
She held the black silicone shape, slick and warm from her body. The full feeling it provided had been a blunt, constant pressure, a presence. She stared at it, her mind circling the vivid, depraved geometry from the booth video. The man spitting, pressing, sinking into that other hole. Not just being filled, but being fucked there. Taken.
Slowly, she coated the plug with fresh lube. She reached back behind herself, her body knowing the angle now. She pushed it past the tight ring of muscle again, gasping at the renewed stretch. She let it settle. She just lay there, feeling it. A secret. A permanent, dirty whisper inside her skin. She shifted her hips. The plug moved slightly, a shock of sensation that was neither pain nor pleasure, but a stark reminder of its invasion.
Minutes passed. The house ticked around her. Downstairs, the TV mumbled a late-night talk show. Mark’s world, oblivious. Her world had shrunk to this bed and the foreign object wedged inside her. She shifted again, more deliberately this time, rolling onto her side and then her stomach. The plug pressed deeper, a strange, internal prodding. A spark, faint and surprising, flickered in her core.
Her hand moved between her legs. Her fingers found her clit, swollen and sensitive. She rubbed slow, circular patterns. With her other hand, she reached back and tentatively grasped the flared base of the plug. She tugged. It resisted, then slid out with a soft, wet sound. The empty feeling was instant, a loss. She guided the slick tip back to her asshole, her breath held. She pushed. It popped back in, the sensation sharper, more defined this time.
She did it again. Out, then in. The motion was clumsy, her arm twisted awkwardly. The rhythm was all wrong, nothing like the powerful, driving pistons of the men on screen. It was furtive, quiet, a pathetic imitation. But on the third push back in, her body responded. The initial burn melted, replaced by a deep, fulsome stretch that sent a jolt straight to her clit. A low moan escaped her lips, muffled by the pillow.
“Oh,” she breathed into the cotton.
She found a better angle, on her knees, one hand braced against the headboard. She pulled the plug almost all the way out, leaving just the tip breaching her. She paused, feeling her own pulse throb in that exposed, vulnerable ring. Then she pushed it back in, harder, faster. A grunt was punched from her lungs. The slick silicone shaft rubbed against nerve endings she didn’t know she had. The feeling was profoundly indecent, a wrongness that wired directly into her pleasure center.
She fucked her own ass with the plug, her arm working steadily.Out. Each penetration was a wet, quiet slap of silicone against skin. Her other hand worked her clit furiously, fingers sliding in her own mixed wetness. She wasn’t thinking of Mark anymore. She wasn’t thinking of Lisa Ann. She was thinking of the hole in the booth wall, that dark circle offering absolute anonymity. She imagined a thick, real cock pushing through it, sliding into her just like this, taking what it wanted.
“Fuck my ass,” she whispered, the filthy words a hot chant. “Just fuck it. Take it.”
The plug pistoned in and out. The dual sensations merged—the rough, frantic circles on her clit and the deep, filling invasion from behind. The pleasure built, not as a slow wave, but as a crackling electrical storm, gathering in the junction where both acts met inside her. Her thighs began to tremble. The sounds she made were guttural, animal, noises she had never heard come from her own throat. She was a creature of pure function, a machine built for this specific, degrading friction.
“I’m gonna come,” she gasped, to the empty room, to the ghost in the wall. “I’m gonna come on this fucking plug.”
She slammed the plug home one last time, seating it fully, and ground her hips against it while her fingers pinched and rubbed her clit into a screaming peak. Orgasm detonated, a white-hot rupture that seemed to start in her ass and flood her entire body. She cried out, a raw, ragged shout she didn’t bother to smother. Her vision sparked. Her body clenched violently around the intruder, milking the nothingness for every drop of simulated pleasure.
She collapsed forward, sweating, shuddering. The plug remained, a permanent, satisfied ache. She had done it. She had taken the idea, the vile image, and made it her own. The hunger was quiet, satiated by her own hand and a piece of shaped silicone. But in that quiet, a new knowledge crystallized, cold and sharp. This was just a rehearsal. The real thing was out there, in the world of sticky floors and knowing smiles and dark, circular holes. The want had a new shape now. It had a direction. It was pointed squarely at the depths of her own depravity, and it was no longer hungry. It was patient, and it was planning.