I took out my Loma Candle Pure – sent to me gratis by the good folks at Loma – and lubed it up. I pulled down my jeans, stroked my cock a few times, and inserted it in the toy. The Candle is satisfyingly… soft. I struggle to describe the texture – a bit like one of those stress balls you sometimes see at the front of drugstores, maybe? It’s soft, forgiving/yielding. With my cock in the sleeve, I can squeeze tightly, and, if I press this way or that, the head pokes at the material a bit like a face in a balloon, or a shark in a tank. I stroked up and down, first squeezing, then relaxing, and feeling the sensations. They’re not nearly as consistently intense as those of the Fleshlight, which provides a sort of structural tightness that the Candle lacks. In exchange, though, the Candle feels somehow more… realistic? Well, not like fucking, of course, because no human/no flesh. But the Candle provides a physical sensation more like that of a vagina, I think, than does the Fleshlight.
Not to mention, it’s both more attractive and less obvious than the Fleshlight. Like Loma’s muffin, the Candle is sufficiently aesthetically indistinct as to be unobtrusive and plausible out in public. It even looks a little like a candle, actually.
As I jerked myself off, I remembered what came after what I told you in my previous post….
As we got up from her bed, V asked what I wanted her to wear: “Your black dress,” I told her. A week or three earlier, she had shown me a new, slinky, sexy, short black cotton dress. It hugs her violent curves and shows them off to great effect. “Nothing underneath, I assume?” she asked.
I’m not sure how, why, she assumed this, but she did, and it was fine by me.
I dressed – boxers, jeans, and green button-down shirt (“It brings out the blue in your eyes,” V had said), and we headed downstairs. It was later than either of us had anticipated, and the meal was an hour or so off. As V began to get the meal together, I assembled my under-the-bed restraints under-her-bed – a ten-minute project.
V is an accomplished, relatively easeful cook. She had half-planned a delicious meal – marmalade meatballs, baby bok choy, and sesame rice noodles. I say “half-planned” because it took too. fucking. long – and the wait was further exacerbated by some shitty news that came through my phone as V cooked.
None of which changed the fact that I was ready, fairly quickly, to deploy the paddle I had brought on her ass. I had promised her bruises, and though I’d actually spanked her a fair amount already, there was, as yet, nary a bruise on her pale, round ass.
As she cooked, I swatted her playfully with the paddle, but V was self-conscious – her neighbors have a pretty good view into her kitchen, and she didn’t hunger for them to see me paddling her.
Finally, finally, we sat down. I had three meatballs. V had two. They were delicious. Rich, tasty, and yummy – in spite of violating my general preference to keep fruit and meat apart. (V didn’t know, and I have no regrets: I would even cook those meatballs for myself. Note to V: what was the cookbook you were using, again?) The bok choy was tender and flavorful. And the rice noodles were perfectly al dente, and deliciously seasoned with roasted peanut and sesame oil.
We conversed and chewed. A bit more about Nxivm, a bit about where we might go on our respective first post-COVID trips. And then, we did some dishes. All things equal, I might have preferred to leave the dishes undone, but it seemed V would be more present if they were, so I scrubbed a pan or two, washed a plate or two, and seasoned her cast iron. With a bit too much oil, in my zeal. As V did the bulk of the cleaning.
Before I get to the second upstairs portion of our evening, I should say, V inspired me. The ease with which she glided around her kitchen, her fully stocked pantry and fridge, and her general kitchen proficiencey, all reminded me of aspects of myself I’ve lost some sight of over the last 20-25 years. Once upon a time, I was an ambitious cook. Some combination of work and family have made me far less of one in recent years.
In the days since V’s and my date, I’ve done an order of magnitude more cooking than I might normally do. I made a delicious horseradish-y brisket; a simple but fabulous garlic, oil, and lemon salmon (on the grill); a hearty Dutch pea soup (family recipe – peas, carrots, potato, bay leaf, stock, with sauteed garlic, leeks, onions, scallions, seasoned with cumin, salt, and pepper, all cooked for 3-5 hours, and with a smoked sausage added at the end); and, a simple apple cobbler. So thanks, V, for inspiring me in more than one dimension.
I spanked her ass with the paddle as she led my upstairs. I asked her to remove her dress. Instructed her to lie, face-down, on her bed. And commenced spanking, and paddling, in earnest. As I wrote in my previous account, V’s appetite for beating mostly exceeds mine. On two levels: first, I think she wants bruises that are redder, bluer, purpler, angrier, than I generally might aim to inflict; and second, her ass is just… resilient. She’s fucking hard to bruise. I have to hit her hard, and a lot, to make the marks to which I, and she, aspire. On this occasion, I failed, though not for lack of trying. Next time, I’ll see what I can do about summoning a greater level of aggression.
Her ass was red, though, and hot, when I rolled her over on her back. I placed her wrists and ankles in the restraints, and tightened them. Inexpertly. (It’s been a while since I tightened restraints.) V reminded me to hold her ankle as I cinched the straps tighter, so as not to abrade her flesh needlessly. And even after her reminder, I forgot once or twice. Anyway. Finally. Finally. She was suitably restrained. Gorgeous, pale flesh, spread-eagled, vulnerable.
I went to the box of toys from which, previously, I had fetched the ball gag, and this time, came back with V’s Hitachi Magic Wand. I won’t go into all the gory details, but, suffice it to say, V told me two days later that her pussy still was sore. I teased her a lot, bringing her right to the point where she was about to ask my permission to come half a dozen or more times before I even let her ask. Never mind how many times I made her ask before I said “yes.”
When, finally, I did say “yes,” V let loose a torrent of orgasms and cunt juice, as well as moans and yelps I imagined her neighbor surely heard. I kept the orgasms coming for a while, though not, honestly, as long as I might have done, had it not been so late.
I sprung V from her restraints and lay next to her. We made small talk, snuggling comfortably, our eyes closing, each of us close to sleep. V did fall asleep for a bit, but I woke her, apologetically: “I know you’re tired, but it’s time for you to suck my cock some more.”
As I remembered all this today, I pulled the Loma Candle up and down on my cock, squeezed it and jerked it, and, eventually, filled it with my cum. The satisfaction of my orgasm wasn’t quite as deep, as full-body, as that of the Fleshlight (never mind V’s mouth), but it felt much more… real, at least, than the Fleshlight? Somehow, the Fleshlight feels almost like cheating. It’s just so tight – and its tightness is reinforced, forced, by its design: the sleeve sits within a hard plastic container that applies constant, equal, uniform pressure.
The Loma Candle is just delicious, familiar pressure and friction, in an aesthetically appealing package. And it delivered a delicious orgasm as I remembered my second orgasm of the evening, filling V’s mouth with cum not that long after she started sucking my cock again, this time, in her bed.
Thank you, V, both for the two orgasms I had in your pretty mouth, and for the ones I’ve had in the Loma Candle since then….
And a note re: cleaning…. The Candle is easy enough to clean – I just rinse the outside, turn it inside out, and wash the inside with soap and water, and then, let it dry a day inside out, and another day turned right-side in.
And a note re: V…. FUCK is that woman fun. She’s gonna make some boy a mighty fine prize.