the objects of fucking....

A recent conversation reminded of something a friend had once told me. Our acquaintance was... friendly but not... intimate - though we often shared... confidences.

A couple of years ago she had taken me aside at convention we were both attending and told me about her fascination for fucking with... objects.

'Did you see the cake-slice?' she whispered, with an almost glassy look in her pale eyes.

'Not the slice itself,' she continued, rather breathlessly. 'The handle of the cake slice.'

Not really understanding where the conversation was going i told her that as i did not eat cake i had not been in a position to make any notes on the cake-slices.

She leaned towards me, i could feel her warm breath on the lobe of my ear.

'The handle is.. bone china... ribbed and plump on the end and... cold... to the touch...'

At this point she opened her handbag a little way, and just far enough so that i could see the said handle nesting between an assortment of compacts and lipsticks. It as thicker than i had imagined and was delicately patterned with flowers - in the oriental style i thought.

She pressed herself closer to my ear and almost rasped:

'I'm going to enjoy fucking myself with that. That's a... beautiful thing... an original...'

Her cheeks were flushed, her pupils were dilate, and her lips (wetted) were carved almost into a delicious little smile.

'it's the only.. pleasure that i get these days,' she sighed - but the smile remained.

'You know that men do... nothing for me. Though i have taken to,' she paused to giggle lightly. 'i have taken to purchasing the 'services' of a couple of local queens... I pay them to suck each other off and, for no reason that i can explain... that really... does it for me.'

Unable to contain herself she laughed loudly - drawing quite a bit of attention from the room - but as she was feeling bolder by this point and ceased to bother to whisper as she spoke on.

'I've always fucked with object,' she continued. 'For as long as i can remember they've had a... an erotic allure.. To begin with i would fuck with... anything i could find and fit into my cunt. I was not... discerning. Later I became much more... selective.'

She explained, and at some length, that some objects were merely.. practical.. when it came to the matter of achieving the necessary sensations for orgasm.

'They lend themselves to fucking,' she explained. 'They are the right size, texture etc... for the ordinary pleasures.'

For a moment or two she bit her lip as if pondering the relative virtues (if that could possibly be the word) of 'objects'. Then, having considered the matter more deeply she said:

'Other objects, however, though less practical - less obviously suited to the task - can be even more... delicious.'

As an example she offered her 'relationship' with a solid silver paper knife that her father had gifted her on her twenty first birthday. At the time, and still, she could not think of a less appropriate gift for young woman.

'It was a great, clumsy, heavy thing - very.. masculine. I think that was partly why he gave it to me. He knew of my... sexual orientation - though he never acknowledged it openly - and, even if it wasn't conscious, he bought me a gift for a man rather than a woman. It was like him, that paper knife, cold, indifferent... utilitarian. He was a doctor, my father, and so it was probably no coincidence that it looked so much like a fucking surgical instrument. It looked positively genealogical,' she giggled as she said it.

'Perhaps that was what gave me the idea. For months it sat on my dressing table. Cold and glinting... just like him... disapproving somehow of my.. choices. Once or twice i almost through it away. If i had i would have told him, and he would have hated that... and... for that reason i was very tempted to do it. Then, one day as was fucking with my favourite hair brush - it really was a very.. well designed object... slightly curved so that, angled properly it could be pressed directly onto my g-spot.... I loved that brush. But even as i was fucking with it, and my juices literally, literally flooding out of me and pooling onto leather upholstery of my chair... and even as i was almost cumming i noticed that letter opener... my father's insult of a gift and i stopped.. just stopped...'

She paused, my friend, and she wasn't smiling at all then.

'So i took out the brush... even though i loved what that fucking brush could do for me.. and i took up that ugly letter opener. And it was so heavy and cold in my hand.. so.. unforgiving... so like him.... and i slipped it into my cunt. And i swear.. nothing i have ever put inside myself.. in any of my holes... and i have put all sorts of things into my holes... nothing... nothing... had the power of that ugly, cold, silver thing....'

Perhaps because she felt obliged she took some time to explain that she had no erotic attachment to her father. If anything the opposite was true, she explained - going as far as to suggest that her general revulsion for men was based on her instinctive revulsion for her father.

'Nasty little bully.. and a hypocrite. At one point he had three mistresses and still - though we all knew what he was - he'd herd us every Sunday into Church and was never short of a judgement when it came to other peoples lives....'

'So i fucked myself with the handle of that silver letter opener and when i had cum and my juices were dripping off its still-cold blade i fucked my cunt with it again... and even then i couldn't warm it...'

Then she grinned, remembering all the pleasure her father would have denied her.. and yet... had, inadvertently gifted to her.

'I'd always wanted to spit in that judgmental fucks face... but that.. and those moments since... have proved even.. better...'

All the time she spoke she - unconsciously i believe - fondled the bone china cake slice in her bag.

'I can smell my own cunt,' she grinned, suddenly. 'It is.. hot in here. I.. really will have to go and... cool down....'

I understood what she meant and nodded to indicate that she was free to leave.

'I you were only a woman G' she said, and her grin subsided into a quiet smile.

Just before she left she told me that, every sunday her father visited his daughter for an hour. Sat, stiff-backed in an upright chair, said almost nothing - except with his chilly little eyes - and left exactly on the hour. But not, my friend confided, before he had taken time to open several of her letters for her - at her insistence. It was a strange little ritual but it, she told her father, pleased her enormously. And it did.

One Sunday he had actually commented that the handle appeared.. wet.

'it is is solid silver' he had said, stiffly. 'it will tarnish if it is not polished regularly'

And with one delighted laugh more my friend exited towards the Ladies and a much anticipated encounter with a cake slice.

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