Journey Into Sexual Awareness II - Revealing Vignette
This story contains sexually explicit scenes.
My husband John and I had been working diligently, like rabbits stoked up on Viagra, on ways to improve our sex life. I think he secretly suspected I had overdosed on Spanish Fly or something, but then he wasn’t complaining. The usual once-a-week had spiked all the way up to three or four. Initially, I was sore and found myself entering the grocery store like I’d just climbed off a bucking bronco. I was walking gingerly and discovering I had muscles in places that had lain dormant for years. My body was saying, “OK, if you’re going to treat me this way, then all my sinew are fighting back.” I imagined this is what they meant by “working through the pain,” but eventually I got used to the rigor. The perpetual smile on my face was proof positive.
It was a Thursday when my friend Miriam suggested we have a sex toy party. The idea sounded appealing, and I joked about it being like a Tupperware party. And as it turned out, that’s exactly what they were like, or so Miriam said. I asked her justexactly what we have to “burp” to keep the freshness in. Miriam didn’t know much more about these kinds of parties than I did.
She giggled and told me, “Well, they both sell plastic products!” The decision was made and the date was set.
As with all parties, I stood in front of my closet and debated
what to wear. This time was a little tougher – I had no idea what the runways of Paris had decreed one should wear to a sex toy party. Miriam, on a whim, had suggested we make it a formal affair. I died laughing with the idea of forty-year-old women in prom dresses looking at motion lotion and dildos. So we decided to make it casual, but sent out formal invitations just for kicks.
You are cordially invited to expand your
horizons, test new products, and generally
find out how everything in the Xanadu catalog
Of course most of the members of our car pool and PTA would never admit to knowing what Xanadu catalogs were. In fact, I was sure several would show up with the idea that it was some kind of vacation-get-away party, or a Disney party. OK, so Mickey and Pluto wouldn’t be there, but the odds were Goofy would make an appearance.
I decided on jeans and a white peasant blouse. The collar and sleeves were flouncy, which sort of fit my mood. It had a scooped neckline that showed a bit of cleavage. I knew if I bent over, my cleavage would turn into the Great Divide. I had genetics to thank for my oversized bosom. My mom had them, my grandmother had them, and my great-grandmother had them. If we all stood side by side, we could chart the evolution of breasts in the family. I had an inkling that they could be traced all the way back to prehistoric times. I’m sure Darwin would be pleased.
I decided I was in the mood to be daring. I arrived at the party feeling sexual and playful. Miriam had directed everyone to toss their coats on the bed in a back bedroom. I took a minute to look at myself in the dresser mirror, doing the once over obligatory adjustments that women do when they remove an outer garment.
I hadn’t noticed the body in the corner until she slurred out, “You look just fine, honey!”
I didn’t recognize the sound of her voice or her silhouetted form.
“Uh, thanks! Do I know you?”
“I don’t think so, honey, but you can call me Vignette.” She reached to shake my hand. I found that odd. I wasn’t sure how many hands I had shaken in my life but I was certain the number decreased dramatically when I restricted the count to women. She had a firm grasp on my hand, but instead of shaking, she pulled me closer and faced me. “And your name is?”
“Oh I’m sorry,” I said. “My name is Kathy.” I felt like a recalcitrant child.
“Nice to meet you Kathy. Has anyone ever told you that you have great tits?”
That silenced me dead in my tracks. Males had been telling me that since the sixth grade, when Steven Johnson trapped me up against the fence at recess to cop a feel. As I got older, some did it with a little more finesse, but never with more zeal.
But no female had ever told me that before. I stood there, mouth agape, trying to mumble something and thought Bell Palsy victims had better luck than I was having. My face heated with embarrassment.
She moved a little closer until her body made contact with me. I could feel her nipples against mine. She was quick, and I was dumfounded, so I wasn’t prepared when her hand reached around the back of my head and pulled me to her. Since my mouth was still hanging open, it was easy for her to slip her tongue inside. And she did.
It happened so fast and was so bizarre that my eyes never closed. She wiggled her tongue deep and continued to hold my head in place. Her nipples were like tiny rocks trying to embed themselves into the fleshy part of my chest. She got hold of my surprised tongue and began to suck it. Quick, slurpy sucks.
It was an odd sensation. My tongue is the pulley to my womb. She sucked and it jerked upwards like an ascending bucket in a wishing well, coming up to the surface filled with all the wet of its cavernous hole.
As quickly as she started, she stopped. She said something about seeing me later in the other room and she skittered out the door. But I just stood there. My mind was racing. What the hell had just happened? She had kissed me, rubbed her glass hard nipples against mine, and had nearly sucked my tongue down her throat. If I wasn’t grappling with the aftereffects, I might have thought it was all a dream. I think I preferred thinking it was a dream. Or a mirage. But for a mirage, it had the softest lips I had ever felt.
The sounds of raucous laughter from the other room reminded me I was there for the party. I hurriedly rechecked myself. As I had suspected, the blush on my cheeks was high. Well, there was nothing to do about it – I’d just let the others think it was from being at my first sex toy party.
Everyone was scattered about with glasses of wine and plates of appetizers in their hands. I couldn’t help but look for Vignette. What kind of name was Vignette, anyway? Isn’t a vignette a short scene of some sort? Well, she was short and she certainly gave me a scene I wasn’t soon to forget.
I spotted her over at the table where all the merchandise lay, covered with a tablecloth, like the Secrets of the Mighty Unknown. I came to the party expecting to see things I had never seen before. Chalk one up for intuition – that had happened almost before I got my coat off.
I realized then that Vignette was the woman putting on the party. Apparently, accosting the guests in the back bedroom was part of the pre-party warm-up. Well, I was all warmed up, so it was time to party. I took a deep breath and headed toward the wine and food.
Everyone mingled for a while. I managed to down two glasses of wine and was working on the third when Miriam told us it was time to start. As Vignette started her company spiel, it gave me a chance to really look at her.
Yes, she was short. Shorter than me by about three inches, which made her about five foot four. She had cropped red hair. I suspected perhaps L’oreal #52: Titian Gold. Her nose was small and upturned and her eyes were brown. But not that dull brown like muddy water, but earth brown with a glittery sparkle. Nothing dull for our Vignette. Her eye make-up however, was a bit overdone. The only other place I had ever seen that color of teal was in a sixty-four box of Crayola. She had outlined her eyes like a nine-year-old tracing the lines before coloring. But even with the exaggerated tint, her eyes remained sparkly and friendly.
She was dressed in a magenta shirt that had to be ninety-five percent Lycra, and it clung to her form like Saran Wrap. And there were those nipples that had rubbed up against me, poking out very friendly-like. Didn’t those buggers ever soften up? Her skirt was only slightly looser, very black, and very short. Micro- mini is the fashion term, I believe. So this is what one wore to a sex toy party! I was sorely overdressed.
She started out standing, but soon chose to sit back on a barstool with her legs crossed. She spieled along, and while she told us all the benefits of selling “Eroti-Toys” she uncrossed her legs. In true Basic Instinct/Sharon Stone style, she let us all know that in the sex toy party dress code, panties were purely optional, and Vignette had opted to go without.
I felt warm again and mildly disappointed. The move had been too brief for me to determine if L’oreal #52 was a color choice that covered all. I sipped my wine.
Of course everyone else had gotten the same peep show I had. A silence fell over the room like nerve gas had been piped in through the vents and left us all speechless. Vignette had our undiluted attention.
She reached under the tablecloth and pulled out a small bottle of oil. We sat glued, like children at a magic show watching the magician pull the rabbit out of the hat. She opened it and poured a small amount on her thigh and began to rub, slow strokes back and forth. The smell of cinnamon permeated the room. As she stroked, she spoke in soft tones, with intermittent moans.
“Ooh, the more you touch, aah, the more the oil will, mmm, heat up!” Her bare leg was shiny and slick. And her fingers glistened as they massaged her thigh.
“Anyone want to try some?”
I took another sip of wine.
Hands raised in the air, with echoes of, “Me me me!” I visualized Horshack on “Welcome Back Kotter” and smiled. It didn’t keep me from sticking my hand out to have her pour a little in my palm. It was warm. She suggested we rub it over an area with a pulse point, “like a wrist or your neck, or....” She left the sentence open-ended as other pulsating areas reeled through our imaginations.
I chose the safety of my wrist and began to rub. It began to heat and send tiny sensations up the length of my arm. It was a slow building fire that coursed through my veins. In a matter of minutes the whole room was full of oohs and ahhs.
Vignette stuck her fingers in her mouth and sucked the oil from the tips. Not as vigorously as she had sucked my tongue earlier, but enough for me to see the slight indentations in her cheeks.
“And it’s edible too, ladies!” Her words were slightly garbled around her fingers. I stuck my wrist up to my moutand sucked. Then took another sip of wine ... mmm, cinnamon schnapps.
Vignette reached under the blanket and pulled out a vibrator. I guess now that we were percolating, it was time for the big guns. It was plain, cream colored, about six-and-a-half inches long, and utterly phallic. She turned it on and pointed out it had three speeds: Nearly a man, Like a man, and Who needs a man. She laughed at her own joke and looked directly at me. I laughed too. Sure it was a nervous laugh, but what was I suppose to do, stand up and yell, “You’re scratching up the wrong cat post!” But the heat I felt, coupled with the moisture between my legs, put a hole in the theory that I wasn’t enjoying her attentions. So I sat like everyone else and watched Vignette’s performance.
The tension inside me released a little when she pulled out the attachments for the vibrator. It had six. Five of them were identifiable, but the last one bore a striking resemblance to the tentacles on the alien in that Sigourney Weaver movie. I could just see me visiting the ER with this thing caught up in my vagina, the ER personnel asking what it was, why had I put it there, and had I been baking because there was a strong smell of cinnamon. With me mumbling something about it not being my fault, that Vignette told me to do it. The laughter began to bubble up inside me, spurred on by the emptied third glass of wine.
Vignette sensed the slight change in mood in the room and immediately went back to the table. This time it was a dildo. Large, thick and rubbery with replica veins. It was flesh-colored. She took it by the base and ran it slowly down the front of her lycra shirt. It was more effective than any whistle she could have blown to get our attention. Our muffled voices halted, and we again watched the woman in charge. Vignette cooed something about imagining how good this would feel when the real thing wasn’t available. Shoulders relaxed and eyes went dreamy thinking about just that. She pulled out three more dildos of varying sizes and slight differences in the mushroomed heads.
“It’s just like Lay’s potato chips, ladies. One is never enough.”
She passed around the toys so we could feel how some were more “flesh-like” while others were more like basic hardware. Comments were bandied about in regards to the guys who had modeled for them, and several wanted to know where those men were now, and could we call them?
The wave of heat that I had been riding was beginning to dissipate when Vignette pulled out a string with maybe six or eight black beads lined up the length of it. She popped one into her mouth and let the rest hang out from between her lips. I was reminded of a long piece of spaghetti until she began to systematically push all the balls through her pursed lips. She kept her lips tight and forced them in one after the other. I thought there was no way all of them would fit, but they did.
We sat waiting to see what she’d do next when she grabbed the string and pulled with all her might, letting out a guttural howl. I thought about the places those beads could go and I felt a familiar twitching. I immediately decided that my mouth wasn’t where I’d like to try – dental accidents seemed a risk to avoid.
Vignette hopped down off the barstool and walked over to the table with her back to us. We sat on the edge of our seats waiting for her next little demonstration. Our attention never wavered. She lifted up the tablecloth and pulled something from beneath it, not allowing us to see it. I knew that curiosity was known to kill a cat, but in this case, it was more likely feeding the pussy.
She gathered up the tablecloth and wrapped whatever she had taken out in it, causing a couple items to fall to the floor. She reached over to get the dropped items, never once bending at the knees. The jury was in: L’oreal #52 was saved just for the her head. Light brown hair adorned her elsewhere.
Vignette stayed in that position, bent at the waist with her legs straight. Passing her previous audacity, she allowed us plenty of time to make out the color of the pubes, the crevices it covered, and the humidity factor. Her sex was as wet as mine and, I’d be willing to wager, most of the others in the room.
I had never sexually wanted a woman, and it wasn’t that I wanted one now, but I couldn’t help admire her. She was the boldest woman I had ever met. She had single-handedly seduced the entire room, and, I might add, made our purchasing decisions much more difficult. I wondered if her boss had any idea that when he complimented her on putting her “all” into the job, if he knew just how much that meant.
The room hummed with electricity waiting for Vignette’s next move. She started to talk at us through her legs, forcing everyone to look at her. She moved her hips so much that it almost seemed her nether lips were doing the talking. I wanted to giggle, a laugh to hide the real feelings this odd woman was causing in me. I imagined she was waiting for someone to come forth and touch the treasure she seemed to be offering so freely. Even the absurdity of her talking through her legs was arousing. My mind was coming up with all sorts of odd ideas. Like, what if when you went to order lunch in the drive-through, this was the “box” you had to speak into? I was hoping she would stand up soon, just for my peace of mind.
No one else said a word, either because of shock or because they were having the same reactions I was. Once again, Vignette had our total attention. She finally stood up and faced us. Her face was flushed red from the blood rush.
“I have one more thing I want to show you, before I go to the private room to start taking orders.” I had forgotten that Miriam had said when you book a party, they ask if you have a room where orders can be taken in private, so that customers could order without embarrassment. Miriam had set up her guest bedroom for that purpose.
The table was covered with varying gels, powders, and a few books. Also different sized vibrators in all the colors of the rainbow. Oddly enough, there was a teal one in the back that exactly matched her eye shadow. But she didn’t go to the table.
She lifted up the wadded tablecloth to reveal the “toy.” She called it a Venus Butterfly, the coup de grace. I automatically assumed it was something utterly feminine. I had never seen one before, or even heard of one. It was pink and shaped rudimentarily like a butterfly. And it was the ugliest thing I had ever seen. They missed the mark on the name – there was no way that was a butterfly. It reminded me more of the old cocoon the butterfly emerged from.
I thought I was prepared for anything Vignette might do, but I wasn’t. She carefully removed all the other items from the table and then scooted back, sitting. She held the “butterfly” in her hand and opened her legs wide, placing it over her fully exposed mons. Straps fit around her waist, holding the toy in place. She fiddled with it a little and then moved her hands away. She was completely covered now by the toy with only small bits of pubic hair poking out from the sides. Obviously, Vignette knew the power visual aides could have when selling products. She pointed out to us how each area of a woman would be stimulated with this toy, anal, clitoral, and vaginal.
I thought what if I died and my kids found my sex toys. They would die of embarrassment. Of course it could be worse, I could be using the Venus Butterfly when I died. I could see the headlines now “Woman Stimulated to Death by Insect Carcass.” OK, so discretion was called for. I’d been stimulating myself most of my life, after all. I guess I could continue to be discreet if it meant I got to have this toy. As long as I didn’t have to look at it.
Vignette hopped down from the table, pulling me from my reverie. And in perfect Vignette style, she kept the stimulating toy in place. The buzzing sound was the background as the Queen Bee ended her presentation. And you just knew that plenty of nectar was being produced.
She left the room. We sat in silence. No one knew what to say. Normally we were all talkers, but this kind of situation had never come up at the PTA meetings before.
Finally, Miriam said, “I’ll order first,” and she disappeared behind the back bedroom door. The rest of us sat and stared at the vacated table, afraid to look at each other, as if the words “I’m aroused” might be written on our foreheads.
The silence was truly deafening, and I knew somebody better say something, so I said, “So the real question is, do you think Vignette cums quickly or it takes awhile? I want to know so I can judge how soon I’m going in to place my order.” Everyone laughed. The mood lightened a bit. We began to chat and go for drinks. A few reached for snacks. I was simply parched. I was pouring one more glass of wine when Miriam came out, carrying a moderately sized, plain brown paper bag. We turned to look at her. She grinned from ear to ear.
The obvious question was asked, “Does she still have it on?”
“Uh, yeah, she does. Except for the humming, though, you would never know.”
What a perfect little ploy Vignette was using. Make you order her goods with an audible hum droning in your ears. Was anyone even going to be able to write a legible check? I imagined John getting the canceled checks in the mail and asking, “Honey, why does this one to Eroti-toys look like you suddenly contracted Parkinson’s disease?”
Everyone was dying to know what Miriam purchased. She pulled out the hot “motion lotion” that came in varying flavors. The consensus was this was everyone’s favorite item. And why not? Nothing since Baskin Robbins could please the senses so easily and still maintain its variety.
And so woman after woman entered the room, came out smiling with brown paper bags and always the same question: “Is it still on?” And they all answered the same: “Yes.”
Finally, it was my turn. I’d been thinking of what John’s reaction would be if I came sauntering home with two grocery bags full of sex toys. He had sported a huge erection when I had left that night, knowing where I was going and anticipating when I got home. But I don’t think he was quite ready to build a new armoire to hold them all. So I narrowed my choices down.
I half expected to walk into Miriam’s bedroom and find a den of iniquity, with dildos hanging from the ceiling, naked pictures all over the walls, and the air filled with a fog of incense. Instead, I walked in, and except for a few big boxes against the wall and a card table with papers on it, the room looked no different than every other time I had been there.
Vignette was sitting on the bed. No one else had volunteered that this was her position. She was leaning back on her elbows with her right leg thrown over her left, locked at the ankles, dangling them off the side of the bed. She was Mata Hari, playing a seductive temptress.
“Kathy, I’m so glad you’re ordering something. I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.” Her words were all business, but her actions told a different story. She stopped, lifted her legs up, bent at the knees, and opened them so I could see. And I looked, like a passer-by at an accident, drawn in by the curiosity of the sight.
“You want to see me close, Kathy?” Vignette purred. I did, she knew I did. I moved slowly over to the bed. The insides of Vignette’s thighs were saturated with moisture. The humming noise was a bit louder with her exposed like that, and her musky smell drifted up to my nose.
“Come a little closer, Kathy.” I didn’t hesitate, as if I was hypnotized. I bent down on my knees and looked directly at Vignette’s pussy. If she closed her legs, she would trap my head between them. But she didn’t. Instead, she opened them further and lay completely back on the bed. Down on my knees like that, I felt like I was worshiping some deity. Maybe I was, at the altar of Vignette.
She began to writhe, muffling her moans with her own hand. Apparently, she was very close to orgasm from all the stimulation, so it only took briefs moments for her to cum. And just when I thought Vignette couldn’t surprise me anymore, she whipped the butterfly up and showed me her orgasming sex. A milky white substance leaked out as her labia shuddered. I had never seen a woman climax. It wasn’t half bad!
She recovered quickly and just looked at me. I stared back. The question hung in the air, unasked: Would I like to touch? My genitalia vibrated as if all the different parts were joined in chorus, chanting, “More than anything in the world!” But a knock at the door broke the spell.
As I was driving home, I wondered if any of the other women had seen what I had. After all, her thighs were pretty soaked by the time I got there. It really didn’t matter. I had enjoyed her performance from beginning to end, and now I was racing home to get to John. I couldn’t wait to show him my purchase of the Venus Butterfly and experiment with it.
I was glad the touching question was never asked aloud, but I have a feeling it will come up again! And that will be another journey.
Copyright © 1999 by Desdmona.