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You miss the buzz of a risky orgasm. The ‘should-I-really-be-doing-this? Oh shit, that actually feels good’ orgasm. You’ve reached the point in your life when your fingers don’t cut it anymore. It’s like ordering the same meal at a restaurant over and over until it’s bland. Your boredom announces itself unexpectedly one night after you realise there’s a plethora of sex toys available for any bold woman, and you’re still using your hand like a spinster.

You’ve touched yourself in so many different ways, legs kicked out while lying on your bed, sitting in a chair, or bent over like a depraved animal rutting on all fours.

One finger curled inside your cunt — jabbing what you think is your G-spot, but you’re not sure because what are you, a fucking doctor? — becomes two. Two fingers becomes three, and three becomes the norm until you’re craving more. The thrilling rush of trying something new, a different technique, a risqué pose bent over a piece of furniture, or recording yourself with a camera.

Seeing yourself on a screen for the first time, watching and feeling first-hand how your breathing quickens and those small whining moans slip out of your mouth until you’re getting off to the sound of your own whoredom.

And then afterwards, watching the video back. That’s the kicker, your fingers shaking around your phone. You’re left stunned by your own performance, watching the video on mute. Listening to your voice played back on any other recording is mortifying enough. It sounds annoyingly tinny like a voicemail, but this video is on a completely different level. No matter how grainy it is, it’s still you, hammering your fingers into yourself.

You feel a twinge of self-disgust, so you delete the video, shocked at your lustful behaviour so unlike you. You put your phone away and tell yourself the experience was a one-off, only to do everything again the next day. The whole show: panting, whimpering, and legs quivering as you speed your fingertips across your clit, achingly horny.

Needless to say, it isn’t as good as it was the first time. Eventually, you come to a realisation. Why bother with the effort of using your fingers when you have Esenyurt escort bayan modern technology to drive you over the edge?

You decide to buy a bullet vibrator, small enough that you can throw it in a drawer away from prying eyes and that isn’t instantly recognisable as a sex toy. You browse the internet and spend ten minutes triple-checking the policies of the website you’ve chosen to order from, trusting in its solemn vow your package will be inconspicuously unbranded when it arrives on your doorstep and your mother won’t look at your bank statement to see ‘YOUR DAUGHTER IS A WHORE’ stamped across it in bold font.

Shipping is free. Great.

While waiting for your new toy to arrive, you fantasise about how you’re going to use it for the first time. You don’t want to raise your hopes too high. It’s a battery-operated vibrator, after all. It won’t be as good as the silicone ones that you can throw a few hundred dollars at.

Don’t lie, you were sold on the vibrator’s retro burned-copper look as much as you were on its cheap price tag. You had wanted an old-fashioned vibrator, one you could imagine a middle-aged muscular broad with a filthy mouth teasing you from behind with, their arm wrapped around your torso, laughing throatily by your ear.

It’s cheap plastic rubbish, but it’s yours with a click. The online reviews promise it will “pack a punch” and “leave you gushing”, but who’s to say they aren’t just fake opinions paid for by the owners of the store? A few people claim the vibrator’s battery ran out on their first go. If you’re in for that kind of crushing disappointment after going through all of the effort to scour a porn site for the right authentic videos to set the mood, you might just throw the damn thing at the wall.

According to the website, the vibrator is waterproof, so should you use it in the shower for the first time? If it’s noisy, will the water be loud enough to drown it out? Or should you wait until you’re alone in the house to try it out in bed?

You have found it’s most comfortable to kneel on carpet, but there’s something about a tiled bathroom floor that makes the whole Escort Etiler masturbation experience more reckless. Even if after climaxing, you have to do the hobbling walk of shame out of the room on knees that feel like they’re on fire.

In preparation for the big day, you experiment with different poses in your head. You could go for the classic, lying on your back in bed, your pants dragged down with a hand or taken off altogether so you can sprawl on top of the mattress in as ungainly a position as you please.

And your shirt? You enjoy lifting it up to your neck so you can grope a breast with one hand. Or you could take off the shirt as well, bare yourself completely, and hope to God nobody walks into the room at the worst possible moment with your cunt presented to the doorway?

You shake off your mounting excitement. There’s no way the vibrator will be that good. It won’t deliver you to an unseen plane of ecstasy, not when it cost twenty dollars. Still, you don’t touch yourself the next day to build anticipation and file away the idea of teasing yourself in front of a mirror, face flushed, steaming the glass with your open-mouthed gasps, for later.

If the experience garners an orgasm, you want to indulge in every new sensation it brings. The first time is always the best.

The next day, the vibrator is delivered in the mail. Out of the box, it’s palm-sized, devilish to hold in your hand, but the heft of it is promising. More importantly, it’s yours and nobody knows you have it. You have to test the noise, make sure it’s not too loud, so you take it with you to the bathroom when you go to shower.

The buzz is stronger than you had thought it would be, but quieter, to your advantage. It hums violently as you kneel on the bathroom floor, open your thighs, and drop your hand between your legs, guiding the bullet tentatively to your cunt. You can feel the vibrations on your skin, but the sensation isn’t as stimulating as your fingers. Your shoulders slump in disappointment.

In an effort not to lose hope, you try a different angle, nudging the point of the vibrator against your clit. Fuck, did you really waste Eyüp escort twenty — oh, fuuuuuck.

Your mouth drops open to let out a moan at the briefest spark of pleasure. You press the vibrator harder on that spot again and go slack-jawed, your toes curling. The friction is made better by the sachet of lube kindly included in the package your vibrator came in. You smear your cunt and the vibrator with it, turning the device over in your fingers so it’s pointing towards you.

It’s hard to pinpoint your clit. After a few seconds of failed prodding, you become impatient, exposing the folds of your cunt with your fingers. The fucker disappears in your time of need despite how accurately you’ve been able to find it on previous occasions. You let your head fall back, closing your eyes to concentrate. You readjust your hand, and — there, fuck, God, yes!

On an average day, it would take you ten minutes to come. The vibrator shaves off half that time, the tip of it gliding through a mixture of lube and your arousal. It’s half the effort of using your fingers, and you hardly have to move your hand.

The tension in your shoulders melts, your body twitching as you utter several staggered groans that rise higher in pitch until you’re whining at the ceiling, mouthing quietly, “yes, please, right there, don’t stop!”. The tiny object buzzing in your hand renders you to a desperate mess, legs drooping apart on the floor.

Your chest swells with a shuddery breath, nipples peaked in the air and your breasts aching to be grabbed, slapped, held, and caressed. You come too quickly, climaxing with a gasp, and feel your body tense, plunging back down to earth from its high with a jolt.

You want more. Clambering into the shower, you wash the sweat off your face and plot the details of round two. An hour later, you’re lying in bed, legs spread apart. You muffle the sound of the vibrator under the covers, leaning your head back against the headboard, and shudder through your second orgasm of the night.

You’ve never been this turned on before, or at least reduced to a horny mess this fast, swirling your fingers past the wetness from your cunt shining across the inside of your thighs. Catching your breath, you wipe the messy strands of hair out of your eyes and turn the vibrator off, a boneless mass sprawled on top of the mattress.

You wonder if this is the start of a crippling sex toy addiction. If it is, you’re definitely buying a dildo next.

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