As soon as the elevator doors close, I wonder why I left in the first place. Couldn’t the dog sitter have watched the two bears while Tigger and I headed back into the bedroom?
Too late now.
The worst part is I miss him already.
What is wrong with me? Am I delusional enough to believe he likes me?
He doesn’t. He can’t. I’m just a challenge, nothing more.
Besides, he’s a prince, and I’m a nobody. I still have no clue if he can date a commoner apart from a short fling. Also, he’s a client—and one I’m lying to about my breath-holding expertise.
The only thing that’s changed today is that he’s not teeming with germs as I feared when I thought him a manwhore. Not that knowing that has helped my intimacy issues.
By the time the elevator opens, I’m almost glad I left when I did. I was at risk of catching those sneaky feelings I’ve been trying to avoid.
My step is more confident as I stride through the lobby, at least until I almost trip over a peacock.
Blue really would have a panic attack at this place.
The limo is already waiting for me when I come out, and as we depart, I realize something interesting.
I’ve been wearing Tigger’s clothes and feeling zero skeevyness about it. I’m not usually so cavalier, not even with my twin. If I give her my clothes, I never ask for them back, and I certainly never borrow anything from her or any of my other sisters.
Speaking of the devils, I have texts from my twin and from Blue. I text them back, updating them on what’s happened. They reply right away, each psyched that I’m taking Tigger to dinner with our parents.
In the middle of my exchanges, a text from Waldo arrives. He wants to hang out the day after tomorrow. I tell him to meet me at the coffee shop at eleven, since Tigger doesn’t seem to be a morning person when it comes to training.
At home, my roommates make fun of my change of clothes.
“It’s the famous disappearing dress trick,” Harry says with a grin.
“I’m actually jealous.” Clarice tips her pirate hat to me. “I’ve always wanted someone to rip my bodice in the throes of wild passion.”
I tell them all to shove their jokes up their hoohas, grab some dinner, and take it to my room.
As I eat, I research ideas for Tigger’s training tomorrow, and my sense of unease about my lies and his eventual free dive deepens. What am I doing? I look over website after website, searching for some way to appease my guilty conscience, and then I come across a concept that really piques my interest. So much so, in fact, that I text Tigger and ask if he has a moment to talk via video or on the phone.
Can we do it in an hour? he replies. Playing with the dogs in the park.
I agree, smiling at the mental image.
As I put my phone aside, my smile turns upside down. One thing I haven’t let myself think about so far is the other side of this coin.
His training of me.
We didn’t make plans for that, which is good. If I want to stay safe, feelings-wise, we probably should stop that altogether. But if we do stop, what will I do for exposure therapy? I’m not willing to join the nunnery just yet.
I guess one thing I can do is get back to the usual: porn. In fact, that might be a good way to kill the hour as I wait for the chat with Tigger.
Locking my door, I fire up the porn and seek out something I haven’t tried before.
Interesting. There’s a whole genre I’ve never seen: double penetration or DP.
I let one video roll.
Wow. As the term implies, the woman takes two cocks, one in the butt and one in the vagina.
Hmm. I’m not as freaked out as I’d usually be. Am I getting better at this sex stuff, or is there something about this act that I actually like?
Have I just found my kink—getting stuffed like a turkey?
No clue, but I do have two dildos in case I want to find out. As a bonus, I could burn off a whole day’s worth of sexual energy generated by looking at mostly naked Tigger, not to mention our encounter in VR.
Taking the toys out, I spot a few of my cherry-flavored condoms that would be appropriate for this occasion. I bought the first batch of these on the fateful day when I popped my own cherry, and kept buying them afterward on a lark. It would be symbolic if I used one of these to pop my butt-cherry—and DP cherry too, assuming I go through with this.
I examine the dildos.
Well. If this is to have any chance at all, Prince Regent would have to go into the front.
The big question is, can the smaller guy fit into the back?
Has it really come to this? A glorified butt plug? I bet you won’t bother taking me out of your ass once I’m in.
Hmm. A butt plug. That might be a better idea. Too bad I don’t have one.
The more I look at the smaller dildo, the less I think it will fit by itself, let alone allow me to DP myself.
Too big? It’s too late for flattery at this point.
I get an idea. Something I probably should’ve tried a long time ago.
I go to my desk, grab a pair of latex gloves and a bottle of lube, then head over to the bathroom and lock the door.
My finger is pretty small. Smaller than even a butt plug.
Also, going where I’m about to go with my finger is probably the ultimate exposure therapy.
Before I chicken out or a roommate knocks on my door, I put on the glove, lube up a finger, and gently insert the tip where the sun doesn’t shine and where no person has gone before.
Nope. The burning feeling isn’t fun at all.
I might just be “exit only” when it comes to that hole—no DP for me, it would seem.
But hey, I’m proud I was able to do this.
I dispose of the glove and take a shower.
Returning to my room, I put DP out of my head. A regular go at Prince Regent is the ticket.
Yes, baby. Use me. Maybe get some of that yogurt from the fridge so you can dribble it all over yourself afterward.
Hmm. The yogurt idea isn’t all that bad.
I pick up the eager dildo and start the phone app that controls it.
As I go to press the “vibrate” button, my screen lights up with a video call from Tigger—and I accidentally click “accept.”