Purple
Prosaic
SMASHWORDS
EDITION
This
is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are
either the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or
dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
SAY
IT WITH A STRAP-ON ©
2007 by Alessia Brio
Cover
art © 2009 by Alessia Brio
All
digital rights reserved under the International and Pan-American
Copyright Conventions.
C arly
thanked the UPS delivery man and closed the front door. Turning the
box over in her hands, she read the return address label: M+C, Inc. Yup. This is it ,
she sighed. What
the fuck was I thinking? Hope again battled with despair and, rather than opening the
package, she hurled it across the room in frustration. Waste
of fifty bucks. Fifty-seven with shipping—and I'll never get
the chance to use it. The box landed on the arm of the sofa, teetered, and then tumbled
softly to the floor with a singularly unsatisfying thunk.
She
marveled at how innocuous it appeared: such a deceptively plain box.
No one could possibly guess how delicious its contents, although
Carly imagined she could feel a sensual aura surrounding it. Geez!
Where am I even gonna store it? She could just imagine her husband's reaction if he stumbled upon it.
And yet, the idea of leaving it where it would be discovered had a
certain wanton appeal. There was, after all, really only one clear
use for it, and that use did not directly involve a man. Other
models, sure—but not this one.
Carly
was again assailed by the intense emotions that haunted her for the
last several days. The delivery only served to exacerbate them. The
kids'll be home from school soon ,
she realized as she felt the burning tingle in her nose that presaged
tears. If I'm gonna
have a good cry, I'd better do it now .
With a deep sigh, she flopped onto the sofa and surrendered to her
feelings. The tears came immediately, as she knew they would, and
with them the roller coaster of fear, pain, and doubt mingled with an
occasional rush of elation. The elation was the fast downhill part
of the ride—the breathtaking free fall that always ended far
too quickly.
She
let her mind dance with vivid memories of that singular incredible
night with Jenna, feeling the familiar rush of arousal even as the
hot tears coursed down her cheeks. The intensity of that first time,
perhaps, could never be recaptured. Her overwhelming desire had
taken control—enabling her to push in ways she'd never dared
push before—and the results had been nothing short of
spectacular. Jenna couldn't possibly deny that fact, although Carly
certainly got the impression she tried. The question nagged: why?
In
the days since, the gulf between them seemed to grow. Sure, they
talked, but the conversation steered clear of sex—both in
general and in relation to their 'encounter.' Jenna apparently
adopted her typical ignore-it-and-it'll-go-away attitude. Carly,
however, knew it impossible—for either of them. Something as
deep and as powerful as their attraction to one another did not
simply go away through an exercise of will. Knowing now, rather than
merely hoping, that she and Jenna were sexually compatible made the
magnetism even stronger. Please
don't push me away!
Carly
wept in silence. Her facial expression didn't change—no chin
quivering, no lip puckering, no ugly sobbing—just tears and
lots of them. They rapidly wet her cheeks, dripped from her jaw, and
soaked her t-shirt. It was one of those things which always baffled
Carly's mother. "How can you cry so hard without giving any
other sign that you're crying?" she would ask on those rare
occasions when Carly allowed her tears to be seen. Practice ,
she now responded to the echoed question. I
get way too much practice .
These
days, Carly seldom let anyone see her cry. It scared the kids and
worried her husband. It made others uncomfortable, which she found
more hassle than it was
Prosaic
SMASHWORDS
EDITION
This
is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are
either the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or
dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
SAY
IT WITH A STRAP-ON ©
2007 by Alessia Brio
Cover
art © 2009 by Alessia Brio
All
digital rights reserved under the International and Pan-American
Copyright Conventions.
C arly
thanked the UPS delivery man and closed the front door. Turning the
box over in her hands, she read the return address label: M+C, Inc. Yup. This is it ,
she sighed. What
the fuck was I thinking? Hope again battled with despair and, rather than opening the
package, she hurled it across the room in frustration. Waste
of fifty bucks. Fifty-seven with shipping—and I'll never get
the chance to use it. The box landed on the arm of the sofa, teetered, and then tumbled
softly to the floor with a singularly unsatisfying thunk.
She
marveled at how innocuous it appeared: such a deceptively plain box.
No one could possibly guess how delicious its contents, although
Carly imagined she could feel a sensual aura surrounding it. Geez!
Where am I even gonna store it? She could just imagine her husband's reaction if he stumbled upon it.
And yet, the idea of leaving it where it would be discovered had a
certain wanton appeal. There was, after all, really only one clear
use for it, and that use did not directly involve a man. Other
models, sure—but not this one.
Carly
was again assailed by the intense emotions that haunted her for the
last several days. The delivery only served to exacerbate them. The
kids'll be home from school soon ,
she realized as she felt the burning tingle in her nose that presaged
tears. If I'm gonna
have a good cry, I'd better do it now .
With a deep sigh, she flopped onto the sofa and surrendered to her
feelings. The tears came immediately, as she knew they would, and
with them the roller coaster of fear, pain, and doubt mingled with an
occasional rush of elation. The elation was the fast downhill part
of the ride—the breathtaking free fall that always ended far
too quickly.
She
let her mind dance with vivid memories of that singular incredible
night with Jenna, feeling the familiar rush of arousal even as the
hot tears coursed down her cheeks. The intensity of that first time,
perhaps, could never be recaptured. Her overwhelming desire had
taken control—enabling her to push in ways she'd never dared
push before—and the results had been nothing short of
spectacular. Jenna couldn't possibly deny that fact, although Carly
certainly got the impression she tried. The question nagged: why?
In
the days since, the gulf between them seemed to grow. Sure, they
talked, but the conversation steered clear of sex—both in
general and in relation to their 'encounter.' Jenna apparently
adopted her typical ignore-it-and-it'll-go-away attitude. Carly,
however, knew it impossible—for either of them. Something as
deep and as powerful as their attraction to one another did not
simply go away through an exercise of will. Knowing now, rather than
merely hoping, that she and Jenna were sexually compatible made the
magnetism even stronger. Please
don't push me away!
Carly
wept in silence. Her facial expression didn't change—no chin
quivering, no lip puckering, no ugly sobbing—just tears and
lots of them. They rapidly wet her cheeks, dripped from her jaw, and
soaked her t-shirt. It was one of those things which always baffled
Carly's mother. "How can you cry so hard without giving any
other sign that you're crying?" she would ask on those rare
occasions when Carly allowed her tears to be seen. Practice ,
she now responded to the echoed question. I
get way too much practice .
These
days, Carly seldom let anyone see her cry. It scared the kids and
worried her husband. It made others uncomfortable, which she found
more hassle than it was
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