Chapter 7: Shopping for a New Toy
The bathwater had long gone cold, tracing chilly paths down the drain along with the sandalwood scent and the quiet certainty of the night before. Morning brought a different energy—a restless, crackling charge that followed them through making the bed, through burnt toast, through the silent agreement that the four walls of the house were suddenly too small.
Dom leaned against the kitchen counter, watching Izzy drum her fingernails on the table. The sun highlighted the faint bruise on her neck from his mouth, a mark she’d made no attempt to conceal. “You’re twitchy,” he observed.
She looked up, her eyes dark and wanting. “We said no more secrets. We didn’t say we had to stay home.” A slow, challenging smile spread on her lips. “Take me out. For real. Somewhere… ours.”
He knew what she meant. Not the diner. Somewhere the new label could be tested against a darker backdrop, where the thrill wasn’t in the sunlight but in the shared shadow. He tossed the dish towel aside. “Get your jacket.”
They took the Charger, but the drive had a different destination. He navigated away from the leafy suburbs, into a part of the city where the streetlights hummed and the signage glowed with a seedy, persistent light. She didn’t ask where they were going. She just rolled the window down, letting the city’s hot, gasoline-scented breath wash over her.
He parked in a lot shared by a laundromat and a place with blacked-out windows and a flickering pink neon sign that simply read ‘ADULT’. The air here was thick with humidity and the distant thump of bass from a club down the block.
“Here?” Izzy asked, her voice a mix of surprise and delight.
“You wanted somewhere that’s ours,” Dom said, killing the engine. “This sure as hell ain’t the diner.” He looked at her, his gaze steady. “You sure?”
In answer, she popped her door open and stepped out, the heels of her boots cracking on the broken asphalt. She looked at the sign, then back at him, her expression fearless. “I’m with my boyfriend.”
The inside was a cave of filtered red light and dust motes. The carpet was a sticky, indeterminable color. Racks of glossy magazines lined the walls, and glass cases displayed an array of toys, their silicone and plastic forms gleaming under track lighting. A clerk with a tired face and intricate sleeve tattoos glanced up from a phone, gave Dom a nod, and went back to his screen. No judgment, just indifference. It was perfect.
Izzy moved through the aisles with a curious, unabashed freedom. She wasn’t shy. She’d examine a vibrator, put it back, run a finger along a row of leather paddles. Dom followed a few steps behind, a possessive sentinel, his presence causing the only other customer—a man in a stained windbreaker—to quickly sidle away.
Then she saw it. On a high shelf, lit from above like a museum piece, was a dildo made of thick, clear glass. It was heavy-looking, ribbed with deliberate, spiraling ridges from base to tip. It caught the light and fractured it.
She reached up and took it down. It was cool and surprisingly substantial in her hand. She turned and found Dom standing close. The red light cut across the planes of his face, making him look both familiar and like a stranger. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
She held the glass toy up, not to show him, but to his lips. The cool tip pressed against his bottom lip. “I want you to fuck me with this,” she said, her voice low but clear in the hushed store. “While I suck your cock, Daddy.”
The word, spoken here, in this place, detonated in the space between them. It wasn’t a bedroom whisper. It was a declaration of their entire complex truth amid the plastic and porn. His eyes darkened, going from observing to intensely focused. He didn’t look at the toy. He looked at her mouth, then back to her eyes.
Without a word, he took the glass dildo from her hand. His fingers brushed hers. He turned and walked to the counter, placing it on the smudged glass. The clerk rang it up, bagged it in opaque black plastic. Dom paid in cash, the bills crisp from the ATM he’d hit earlier. The entire transaction was silent, his eyes never leaving Izzy where she stood by a rack of lingerie, watching him.
He took the bag, walked back to her, and took her hand. His grip was firm, final. “C’mon.”
He didn’t lead her out to the car. Instead, he guided her toward a dark hallway in the back, past a beaded curtain. A line of doors, each with a small red ‘occupied’ or green ‘vacant’ light, stood along one wall. He slid a twenty into a slot on a door with a green light. It clicked open.
The viewing booth was a closet. A single, worn vinyl bench, cracked and sticky to the touch. A small screen embedded in the wall played a silent, grainy loop of a couple fucking. The air was stifling, thick with the smell of disinfectant that couldn’t mask the base scent of sweat and sex. A coin-operated timer on the wall started a thirty-minute countdown with a dull thunk.
Dom locked the door behind them. The sudden confinement was absolute. The only light came from the flickering screen, painting their faces in stuttering shades of gray.
“Here?” Izzy breathed, the reality of the cramped, sordid space hitting her.
“You wanted raw,” he said, his voice a gravelly vibration in the close air. He set the black bag on the bench. “This is raw. No pretenses. No one’s idea of romance. Just you and me and what we want.” He stepped into her, backing her against the locked door. “You still want it?”
The grime, the anonymity, the sheer filth of it… it should have repelled her. Instead, it felt like the truest place they could be. It mirrored the hidden, ‘wrong’ part of their love and brought it screaming into the open. It was the perfect celebration.
“Yes,” she gasped, her hands finding his belt.
“Then get on the bench. On your knees. Face the screen.”
She obeyed, the vinyl sticking to her bare knees as she hiked her skirt up. She heard the rustle of the bag, the soft clink of the glass toy being removed. Then she heard the rasp of his zipper.
His hands were on her hips, rough and sure. One hand pushed her shoulders down until her face was near the scarred bench, her ass raised in the air. The other hand smoothed over the curve of her rear, then dipped between her legs. His fingers slid through her folds, finding her soaking wet. He grunted, a sound of deep satisfaction.
“Dripping for it already,” he muttered. He pressed two fingers inside her, stretching her, his callouses a delicious friction. She moaned, pushing back against his hand.
The fingers withdrew. Then she felt it—the blunt, cool, impossible smoothness of the glass pressing against her opening. It was shockingly cold. She flinched.
“Shhh,” he soothed, but it wasn’t a gentle sound. It was a command. He held it there, letting her body acclimatize to the temperature, to the unyielding solidity of it. “Take it.”
He pushed. The first thick, ribbed ridge breached her, a slow, steady invasion that made her gasp. The cold was a sharp, shocking contrast to her inner heat. He didn’t stop. He worked it into her with a relentless, gradual pressure, each spiral ridge stretching her exquisitely, filling her more completely than any cock could. She was panting, her forehead against the vinyl, her fingers scrambling for purchase on the slick bench.
When it was fully seated, he held it there, the base a cool disc against her skin. He leaned over her, his breath hot on her ear. “Now open your mouth.”
She turned her head, her cheek pressed against the bench. He was right there, his erection jutting out, thick and veined and already glistening at the tip. She opened her lips, and he guided himself inside.
The taste of him, salt and skin, filled her senses. The weight of the glass inside her, the feel of his cock on her tongue—it was an overwhelming duality of fullness. He let her set the rhythm at first, her head bobbing slowly as she acclimated to the twin sensations.
Then his hand, which had been holding the glass dildo steady, began to move.
He pulled it back almost all the way, until just the tip stretched her, then shoved it home in one hard, smooth stroke. The ridges dragged against her inner walls, a brilliant, devastating friction. She cried out, the sound muffled around his flesh.
“That’s it,” he growled, his hips beginning a shallow thrust into her mouth. He set a punishing, synchronized rhythm. As he withdrew the glass, he fed her more of his cock. As he drove the glass back into her dripping cunt, he pulled back from her lips. It was a ruthless, mechanical piston action, leaving her no space to think, only to feel.
The cold of the toy was gone, warmed by her own body, but its hardness remained, an unforgiving presence he wielded with perfect, brutal control. She felt every ridge, every nuance of its shape as it pistoned in and out of her. Her moans were continuous, vibrating along his length. Spit slicked her chin. Pleasure, sharp and coiling, built relentlessly deep in her gut with every thrust.
“You like that, baby?” he grunted, his own breath becoming ragged. “You like your Daddy fucking this cold glass into your hot little pussy?”
She couldn’t speak. She managed a frantic nod, her eyes screwed shut, tears of overwhelming sensation leaking onto the bench.
His thumb found her clit, a rough, circling pressure that tore a ragged scream from her throat. The orgasm hit her like a sledgehammer, a convulsive wave that clenched violently around the invading glass. Her body seized, bucking against his restraining hand. He held her down, kept fucking her with the toy through her climax, milking every last spasm, while his other hand fisted in her hair, holding her mouth tight on him as he felt her throat contract around his shaft.
Her climax triggered his. With a final, deep grind of the glass inside her, he pulled from her mouth with a wet pop and swore, a harsh, raw sound. He came in thick, hot stripes across her lower back and the upturned curve of her ass, marking her skin in the gloomy light.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the silent, frantic fucking on the screen. The timer ticked down.
Slowly, gently, he withdrew the glass toy. It slid out with an obscene, wet sound. He set it carefully on the bag. Then his hands were on her, turning her, gathering her limp, sweat-slick body into his arms. He sank onto the sticky bench, cradling her in his lap. She trembled violently, burying her face in his neck.
He held her, his big hand stroking her hair, his own heart hammering against her cheek. The filth of the place, the sheer deviance of what they’d just done, receded. What remained was the anchor of his arms, the familiar smell of his skin underneath the sweat and sex.
“Okay?” he murmured into her hair.
She nodded, her voice