Chapter 12: Public Indecency
The bell above the door gave a tinny jingle as they stepped into the humid, cloying air of the shop. Cynthia’s skin, still buzzing from the memory of the scarves and the cold glass, now prickled under the glare of neon lights that illuminated row upon row of plastic and silicone. The smell was particular—synthetic strawberries, latex, and underneath it all, the faint, metallic hint of disinfectant.
Maya’s hand was a firm press at the small of Cynthia’s back, guiding her past a display of frilly, laughable things. “None of that cute shit,” Maya murmured, her lips close to Cynthia’s ear. “We’re not here for cute.”
They moved deeper into the store. A bored-looking clerk nodded from behind a counter, then went back to her phone. Another customer, a man in a windbreaker, was intently studying a rack of DVDs. The normalcy of it was the most obscene thing of all.
“Here,” Maya said, stopping before a shelf that seemed to hold monuments. She reached out, her fingers trailing over curves of black and flesh-pink silicone. She selected one, hefting it. It was obscenely thick, veined, and tipped with a bulbous head. “This one. It’ll stretch you so good you’ll feel it for days.”
Cynthia’s throat went dry. “Maya… in here?”
“You promised.” Maya’s eyes were dark, playful pits. “In the back. The fitting room.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper that was somehow louder than a shout. “I want to see if you can take it. Right now. With people out here.”
A current of pure, undiluted adrenaline shot through Cynthia’s veins, hot and cold at once. This was it. This was the threshold. The safe, stifled woman from the small town would have turned and fled. The woman with the determined glint in her eyes took the toy from Maya’s hand. It was heavy, unnervingly lifelike, and cool to the touch.
The backroom was little more than a closet with a curtain, a dim bulb overhead, walls lined with unopened boxes. The sounds from the shop—a muffled cough, the drone of overhead music—filtered in, impossibly close.
Maya closed the flimsy curtain and turned. The space was so small their bodies were almost touching. “Test it,” Maya said, no playfulness now, just a low, commanding hunger.
“How?”
“Against your thigh. I want to see the scale of it. I want to see that thick silicone next to your skin.”
Hands trembling, Cynthia hiked up the skirt of her sundress. The air in the closet was stale against her bare thighs. She pressed the broad, blunt head of the toy against her inner thigh, just below the fading love-bite Maya had left the night before. The contrast was shocking—the pale, vulnerable skin and the monstrous, artificial intruder. She gasped.
“See?” Maya breathed, her gaze fixed on the point of contact. “It’s fucking huge. Imagine that inside you. Stretching that sweet, tight cunt of yours wide open.”
The filthy words, in this clinical, shabby space, unlocked something in Cynthia. A raw need surged, obliterating hesitation. Her fingers tightened on the toy.
“Do it,” Cynthia heard herself say, her voice ragged. “Make me feel it.”
Maya’s smile was a predator’s. She took the toy back, produced a small bottle of clear lubricant from her pocket, and slicked the shaft until it gleamed under the weak light. The sound of her pumping the bottle was loud in the silence.
“Bend over. Hands on that box.”
Cynthia obeyed, the cardboard dust gritty under her palms. She heard the rustle of Maya kneeling behind her, felt her dress being pushed up over her hips. The cold air hit her exposed skin, followed by the warmer, shocking wetness of Maya’s tongue, licking a broad, firm stripe through her folds.
“You’re already dripping,” Maya muttered against her. “So fucking eager for it.”
Then the pressure came. Not the toy, but Maya’s thumb, circling her entrance, spreading the wetness, before pushing in deep. Cynthia’s hips jerked. “Fuck.”
“Relax,” Maya crooned, working her thumb in and out, a crude, delicious preview. “You have to relax or this won’t work.” She added a second finger, scissoring them, stretching the muscle. Cynthia buried her face against her arm, biting into her own skin to stay quiet.
The fingers withdrew, leaving her empty and throbbing. Then came the cold, slick, impossible bluntness of the toy’s head. It nudged against her, a silent, demanding question.
“Now,” Maya whispered. “Take it.”
She pushed.
Cynthia saw white. A sharp, burning fullness ripped through her, a stretch so profound it bordered on pain. She cried out, a strangled sound swallowed by the cardboard under her cheek.
“Shhh,” Maya soothed, but she didn’t stop. She applied steady, relentless pressure. The silicone, inch by terrifying inch, breached her, filling her up in a way the glass never had. It burned. It stretched. It claimed. Cynthia panted, tears springing to her eyes, her body a rigid arc of sensation.
“There,” Maya breathed, finally hilting the toy, its thick base flush against Cynthia’s skin. “Oh, fuck, look at that. You took it all. Every fucking inch.”
Cynthia could feel it, a deep, internal presence, rearranging her. She was impossibly, completely full. Maya began to move it, slow, shallow pulls that made Cynthia gasp with each retreat, each return. The initial burn was melting, transforming into a deep, resonant throb of pleasure, radiating out from her core.
“That’s it,” Maya grunted, her own breath coming faster. She picked up the pace, the toy sliding more easily now, the wet, obscene sounds of it filling the closet. “Your cunt’s sucking it right in. You love it, don’t you? Love being stuffed full of plastic in a shithole store.”
“Yes,” Cynthia hissed, the confession torn from her. “God, yes.”
Maya’s free hand snaked around, fingers finding Cynthia’s clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles in time with the thrusts. The dual assault was too much. The world narrowed to the slap of silicone against skin, the smell of sex and dust, the voyeuristic thrill of the curtain and the people just beyond it. Pleasure coiled, tight and dangerous, in her gut.
“Come,” Maya commanded, her voice guttural. “Come on this fake cock. Let the whole store hear you choke it down.”
The coil snapped. Cynthia’s orgasm was a silent, seismic event, a convulsive clamping around the invading thickness, her body seizing as waves of brutal pleasure tore through her. She muffled her scream into her arm, her legs shaking violently.
Maya worked her through it, then slowly, carefully, withdrew the toy. The feeling of sudden, hollow emptiness was almost as shocking as the penetration. Cynthia slumped against the boxes, spent, her dress falling back into place.
Maya stood, wiping the toy on a tissue before stashing it back in its box. She looked down at Cynthia, her eyes smoldering. She leaned close, her lips brushing Cynthia’s sweat-damp temple.
“Good girl,” she whispered. “Now we buy it. And tonight, in that cheap hotel room I got us, we’re going to use it without the curtain. With the windows open. Let the whole mountain hear what a greedy, stretched-out slut you’ve become.”
She helped Cynthia to her feet, steadying her as her knees threatened to buckle. They stepped out from behind the curtain, back into the neon glow. Cynthia’s body felt used, gloriously wrecked, and humming with a secret. She met the clerk’s eyes at the counter, her face flushing, but she didn’t look away. She placed the box on the counter, her hand not even trembling.
“Just this,” Cynthia said, her voice surprisingly steady. Maya, beside her, smiled and laid a proprietorial hand on her waist, her fingers pressing possessively into the sore, marked flesh of Cynthia’s hip.