This is a story written for me by an online friend to help me get off. It's a fantasy of mine and he really hit the nail on the head. Enjoy!
You get home from the grocery store and I look up from my book, a bit surprised.
'Hey, S. Just getting back? I thought you were only picking up some beers and Cokes for our party tomorrow?'
'Yeah, that's all,' you say 'the, uh, the lines were long.'
'Oh, ok ... that makes sense' I say, pretending to believe you. What you don't know is that, when taking out the trash, I found a box. This box, this very special box contained your new bullet vibrator and now, knowing that you have one, I have the upper hand. I wait for you to go to bed, and then find the bullet hidden in your drawer. Just as I suspected, the remote that you keep in your pocket works on a standard radio frequency. This means that it's the work of only a few minutes to put together another remote that should work just as well-actually, better, because my remote will be able to override yours. My nocturnal efforts concluded, I snuggle back up to you and resume spooning-you'll never know I was gone.
By the next evening, our backyard party is in full swing. More than one person has commented to me that you look especially radiant tonight, and I cannot disagree. I don't know if it is the thought of your secret vibrator hidden up your pussy, or the feel of its as-yet-unpowered movements within you, or the (mistaken) belief that no one knows what you are up to but there is something that makes you glow with inner beauty and raw sex appeal. I know I'm not the only one who can feel it, and I notice more than a few jealous glances tossed my way by men who wish they were the ones who would be going home with you at the end of the evening. As soon as dinner is over, you announce that it's time to have some fun and lead the way to the level part of the backyard we have cleared off as a dance floor.
'Gametime,' I think to myself, 'now my precious slut will learn what happens when she keeps her dirty secrets to herself!' Sure enough, after only a few minutes, I see your hand slip into your pocket and your dancing gains a new, wild intensity. Your breathing gets heavier each second-anyone else would ascribe it to the exertion of your dance moves, but I know the truth. I know that it is the buzzing of your vibrator against your clit that is making you pant in the middle of the dance floor, secretly throbbing with pleasure in a crowd of our friends. Just as the flush is starting to sweep over your face, your hand darts back into your pocket, turning off the bullet and delaying the inevitable explosion. But you cannot stand to be deprived of your pleasure for long, and soon your hand slips back into your pocket and sets you on the path to orgasm once more. And again, you soon approach the point of no return and deactivate your secret toy before you cum. Over and over, you climb the heights of exoticism, only to let yourself slide back down. By the fifth time you start to ramp up, I can tell that you cannot take much more of this public pleasure. I see your eyes dart to the privacy of our house, where you can let the orgasm you so badly want wash over you-all you need to do is deactivate your vibrator so you can leave the dace area and walk over to our house without giving yourself away. But as your hand moves to do just that, mine slips under the table and activates my override, leaving your vibrator on. I see your face turn puzzled as your control fails to work and then shacked as I force the power on the vibrator up to it's maximum setting. You gasp for breath as your overstimulated body tries to deal with more pleasure than should ever be asked of flesh. You can't decide what to do, torn between dashing to the privacy of the house and staying in the relative anonymity of the dance area. That moment of hesitation is your undoing; the waves of pleasure you have been putting off crash down on you in one massive tsunami. The last thing you see before your vision goes white with the most massive orgasm of your life is my knowing grin from across the yard.
'S! S, are you alright?' A crowd of concerned faces is hovering over you.
'Yeah... What happened?' you ask, knowing the truth but hopping they don't.
'You just screamed and passed out... are you sure you're ok?' a friend asks.
'Yeah, i'll be fine it was just ... just too much beer with that much dancing I think.'
By this time, I've made my way over, and join the conversation, 'well, whatever it was, I'm not sure you're fully recovered-you still look awfully flushed. Come on honey, I think you should lie down for awhile ... lets get you off to bed.' And as I lead you away to our bedroom, our guests see only concern in my arm around you; they don't notice the bulge in my jeans or the way my hand slips down to squeeze your ass.