Chapter 11: The Strap-On
Silence filled the car, thick and liquid. Eleanor drove, her hands resting lightly on the wheel. The animal frenzy had receded, leaving behind a profound, vibrating calm. She could still feel the ghost of Mark inside her, the slick memory of Carol’s tongue. Her skin felt hypersensitive, as if the very air was a touch.
Carol stared out the passenger window, watching the city blur past. She hadn’t spoken since they’d hastily dressed, avoiding each other’s eyes while Mark pretended to be fascinated by the kitchen sink. “So,” Carol said finally, her voice flat. “Shopping.”
“We should,” Eleanor said. It wasn’t a suggestion.
“For what? Groceries? I’m not really in a cooking mood, El.”
“Something else.” Eleanor glanced at her. Carol’s neck was flushed, a red blotch spreading beneath her jawline. A bruise, maybe from Mark’s stubble, or from Eleanor’s own hungry mouth. The sight of it sent a low, pleasant throb through Eleanor’s core. The hunger was sleeping, but it was a light sleeper.
She parked in a faded lot behind a strip mall. The shopfront was discreet, just a dark door and a flickering neon sign that read Vibrate Your Way in a looping, pink script. The ‘V’ blinked on and off with a tired buzz.
“You’re kidding,” Carol said, not moving. “You don't like these places. You say they smell like despair and bad decisions.”
Eleanor shook her haid, unbuckling her seatbelt. “They smell like possibilities.” The metallic taste was back, a faint tang at the back of her throat. She got out.
The inside was exactly as Carol had described, yet different. The air was indeed thick with the cloying scent of synthetic cherry perfume and something underneath—ozone, maybe, from cheap electronics, and the faint, oily smell of rubber. A single ceiling fan chopped the heat into stagnant waves. Racks of lingerie, all black and red and sized for impossible bodies, lined one wall. The other was a dizzying display of silicone and plastic: vibrators in every shade, leather harnesses dangling from hooks, lubes with promises like ‘OBSESSION’ and ‘INSATIABLE’ in gothic font.
Eleanor moved down an aisle, her fingertips brushing over cool, sleek surfaces. She felt Carol hovering behind her, a silent, skeptical shadow.
“Looking for something in particular?” Carol’s tone was carefully neutral.
“Just browsing.”
But she wasn’t. Her eyes scanned, dismissing the modest, pastel items. They were for the old Eleanor, the woman who pretended not to masturbate, who thought a fluttering kiss was enough. She stopped at a display of dildos. They were arranged by size, a graduated army of phalluses. Her gaze skipped over the first few shelves, past the realistic, average proportions, and locked onto the top row.
One in particular, made of deep, flesh-toned silicone, was monstrous. It was thick as her wrist, longer than her forearm, its head a pronounced, swollen dome. Veins were molded into the shaft. A placard beneath it read, simply, ‘THE GLOVE.’
Her breath hitched. The buzzing between her legs woke up, a sharp, immediate ping. She saw, in a flash behind her eyes, not Mark, but the fantasy from her bed—the anonymous, impossibly huge cock plunging into her, stretching her into a new shape. Her mouth went dry.
“Jesus, Eleanor,” Carol whispered, coming up beside her. She followed her friend’s gaze. “You can’t be serious.”
Eleanor reached out. Her hand wrapped around the shaft. It was cool, unyielding, and heavy. A perfect, terrifying weight. “Why not?”
“Because it would split you in half,” Carol said, a nervous laugh escaping her. “That’s not for… people. That’s for, like, porn stars with specialized training.”
“I’m not the same,” Eleanor murmured, more to herself than to Carol. She hefted it, feeling the promise of that brutal fill. The hunger yawned wide, a black pit in her belly. She would buy it. She would take it home. She would see if she could take it.
She turned, the dildo in her hand, and began walking toward the cash register, a glass counter covered in a fine layer of dust. The clerk, a young man with gauged ears and vacant eyes, didn’t look up from his phone.
“Eleanor, wait.”
Carol’s hand closed around her wrist. Her grip was firm. She steered Eleanor away from the counter, back toward a different section—a wall of harnesses and strap-ons. Carol’s eyes were bright, the shock hardening into something else: calculation, maybe, or a challenge of her own.
“If you’re going to go big,” Carol said, her voice low, “go all the way.” Her finger pointed to a harness, black nylon with multiple straps. Dangling from it was a dildo nearly as large as ‘The Glove,’ but slightly curved, with a pronounced ridge under the head. It was jet black. “Don’t just get a toy. Get an experience.”
Eleanor looked from the black silicone to Carol’s face. The implication hung in the perfumed air, obvious and electrifying. Carol wasn’t suggesting she buy it for David. David was irrelevant, a ghost from another life.
A slow smile spread across Eleanor’s lips. It felt foreign on her face. “You think you could handle that?”
“I think,” Carol said, matching her smile, though hers was tighter, edged with a tension Eleanor couldn’t quite name, “you want to find out what it’s like to really be fucked. Not by some clueless husband. But by someone who knows what you need. Someone who watched you come apart on her living room rug.”
The words were a direct current. Eleanor’s nipples tightened painfully against her bra. The hollow inside her throbbed, empty and demanding. She pictured Carol, taller, stronger, strapped into that harness, holding her down, that black monstrous thing poised at her entrance. The image was so violently arousing she felt dizzy.
“Yes,” Eleanor breathed.
She bought it. She paid in cash, the clerk finally looking up to slide the large box into a plain black bag without a flicker of interest. The bag felt momentously heavy.
The bag felt momentously heavy. Its weight wasn't just physical; it was the heft of the line she had decided to cross, permanently. They drove back to Carol’s apartment in a new kind of silence, one charged with a specific, daunting purpose. The sterile quiet of the apartment greeted them again, but the air now smelled distinctly of sex and sweat, a testament to what had already happened there.
“Okay,” Carol said, shutting the door and leaning against it. She crossed her arms. “What’s the play here, El?” Her gaze flicked to the black bag. “Because that thing in there is a weapon.” Carol let out a short, incredulous laugh. “You saw the size of it. Mark’s a big guy, and that thing makes him look downright average.” She pushed off the door and walked closer, her voice dropping. “Your pretty little pussy isn’t built for that. You’ll tear.”
“Maybe,” Eleanor said, her voice a low hum that matched the one in her blood. She looked at the black bag, then at Carol, the phantom taste of copper sharp on her tongue. “You’re right, I probably can’t take it… not yet.”
She needed to take more pills.