Solitude

Amateur

Stupid decisions are the result of choosing the less-intelligent option from a group. Often, the individual choices themselves aren’t stupid: it’s the result that really makes you ask yourself, “What the HELL was I smoking?”

I am an expert on these types of decisions. For example, I once chose to date a guy who did not possess one iota of intelligence…for eighteen months. In addition, I once ate a hot dog from a street vendor in Beijing. Neither scenario ended positively.

Last summer, though, I made a very silly decision. In the interest of employment and an adventurous spirit I insist I have, I decided to work at a summer camp in God-knows-where in the Appalachians, teaching small children crafts and archery.

Let it be known that I hate children, hicks, the outdoors, and mountains.

Let it also be known that I live about two days away from the Southern United States.

I decided to drive to the camp a few days before the program started to give myself overnight breaks along the route. I mapped, planned, and booked hotels. I had never felt more responsible.

However, I realized I had made a stupid decision about eight hours into my trip. My legs were cramping, I was a little lost, the scenery was tiresome and repetitive, and I had to pee. My iPod was boring — I had not thought ahead, and my play list was sorely lacking in sweet jams. I was out of cell range for most of the trip. I had eaten all of my sandwiches.

I was about to be away from everything I knew — my apartment, my family, my friends, my dog, and my boyfriend — for two months. I was eighteen and scared shitless.

When I pulled into my first hotel, I checked in (“room for one, please”) and dragged my large suitcase up the stairs. I fumbled with the hotel key, opened the door, and stared.

The room was cozy, but worn down. The wallpaper was peeling where it met the ceiling, and one of the lamps didn’t work. The TV looked like it was from 1975.

But the lamps that did work emitted a soft glow, and the carpet (obviously, the newest thing about the room) was squishy and soft. I threw my suitcase on the spare double bed and flopped on its mate. Mattresses were comfy, I noted. After my long drive, I didn’t want to get out of bed.

The silence in the room was deafening. I had never traveled by myself, and I instantly wished my boyfriend was about to burst into the room with his suitcase, muttering about the local folk, and ready to crawl in the bed next to me.

He wasn’t.

I had never been so alone.

I felt vulnerable and afraid, having ten hours to myself, with nobody to sleep with, nobody to cuddle with, nobody to talk to.

I did what any girl would do in my situation — I called my boyfriend.

“I’m all by myself!” I blurted out when he answered his phone.

“Oh, yeah?” he asked, and I could hear the added sexiness in his voice. “What are you wearing?”

I groaned. “This is not one of THOSE kinds of phone calls!” I exclaimed. “I’m scared and alone and I miss you!”

He coughed uncomfortably. “Oh,” he said, obviously disappointed. “Why can’t you take advantage of that?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, confused.

“You’ve never been so very alone before, right?”

“That’s the point I’m trying to make! I’m…”

He cut me off. “So nobody can walk in on you. Nobody will ever find out what you do. You are completely anonymous and uninterruptible.”

I pondered this. He had a point. The hotel was barely occupied, and I was in an isolated wing of the building. As far as I knew, there was nobody around to knock on my door, complain, or interrupt in any way. Hmmmm…

“Well…” I conceded he had a point.

“The door is locked and you’re tucked away for the night, right?”

“Yes…” I murmured as pathetically as I could.

“You’re safe.”

Hearing him declare me safe made me feel better. His voice began to melt away my inhibitions, and I started to feel less afraid.

“I’m safe,” I said, more for my own sake than his.

“I’m right.”

“I know.”

“Now that that’s finished…” he cleared his throat, and switched to a deeper, seductive voice that always made me giggle and quiver with excitement at the same time. “What are you wearing?”

I looked in the mirror. I had thrown on a pair of baggy sweatpants (his, from his high school wrestling team) şanlıurfa escort and a bright red shirt with Chinese characters. Not sexy. I was compelled to improvise.

“I’m wearing a tight white T-shirt,” I said, lowering my voice to a near whisper. “It’s almost see-through…if you were looking at me, you’d see the faint outline of your favorite bra of mine…”

“The red one, with the lace?” he asked, hopefully.

“That’s the one. And I have on my skinny jeans, the dark ones that make my ass look so firm…”

“Take off your shirt.” He spoke with such authority during our phone sex conversations that I always did what I was told. I felt like if I did not obey, he would know, somehow.

I put the phone on speaker and threw off my shirt. I was lying in bed half-naked. I was wearing his favorite (and my favorite) bra. The red straps and cups hugged my full chest, and the lace plunged with my cleavage. The red looked so bright against my skin, it looked like fragile porcelain underneath the va-va-voom of the lacy cups. It clasped in the front, bringing my cleavage together so seductively one couldn’t help but rip it open. I called it my “Fuck me!” bra.

“…jeans, too.”

I said nothing, but shimmied out of my baggy sweatpants.

“What color underwear are you wearing?”

God, I thought to myself, he sounds like such a creeper when he says stuff like that. I had never been completely comfortable verbally undressing myself for him on the few occasions we had phone sex. Whenever we were together, I hid behind the closet door, got naked in a flash, and jumped into bed. All he ever saw was a streak of skin until we were making love.

“They’re red, too…”

“Thong?”

“Mm-hmm.” I wasn’t improvising — I really was wearing the matching red thong, with a strip of lace serving as the underwear’s behind. They were see-through in the front. I was in the habit of wearing sexy lingerie underneath my sweatpants because my boyfriend was notorious for popping over my house unexpectedly.

“Ooh, the one with the lace in the back…very sexy. Off with those!”

I was now lying on my rented hotel bed naked. I could see myself in the hotel’s vanity. I looked exposed and vulnerable. But instead of feeling scared, I felt sexy.

I lifted my legs up to my chin and parted my legs. I could see the entirety of my sex, and it glistened in the soft light. I was wet! I had been so distracted by my own inhibitions that I hadn’t realized how turned on I was. I parted my lips, and my hole was exposed. I shuddered, and I saw my muscles of the entrance twitch slightly. I felt like a sex goddess.

My revelry was cut short by my boyfriend’s voice on the phone.

“Are you naked?”

“Oh, yeah, and dripping wet,” I said, unable to take my eyes off myself in the mirror. I hadn’t even touched myself yet, and I was so turned on I could hardly stand it.

I heard a zipping noise from the phone — he must be getting naked as well.

“Why don’t you go ahead and play with those long, hard nipples of yours?”

As soon as he gave me the go-ahead to self-love, I smacked my forehead. What was I doing? I had not brought my favorite vibrator with me. I did not think it would have been wise — I was going to be sleeping with another counselor and eighteen ten-year-olds for the next two months. Where was the time for masturbation?

I had never been able to orgasm without my trusty vibrator, so I did not see the point in working myself up without being able to come. I told this to my boyfriend, who, to my surprise, only laughed.

“Remember that birthday present I gave you before you left?”

“Yes…” I responded, wondering what that had to do with my current (naked) predicament. My 19th birthday was in two weeks, and my boyfriend had given me his gift the day before. He had never given me anything I couldn’t show my mother, though, so I was confused.

“That’s not a birthday gift. It’s a ‘driving in the car to Appalachia for who-knows-how-long’ present.”

“Why is that a gift-giving occasion?”

“Because you’re alone and horny and bored…and since I’m normally your solution for that type of predicament, I wanted to help you out…”

That was all I needed to hear. I jumped out of bed and sprang to tear open my suitcase. Fumbling through the mass gaziantep sarışın escort of clothes, I found my gift. It was a long, slim, rectangular box, tied with a big bow.

“May I open it now?” I asked eagerly.

He laughed. “Sure, go ahead.”

I tore into the package, tearing off the bow and the paper. Inside was the most beautiful sight to my sex-crazed mind. My boyfriend had given the gift of mind-blowing orgasms: the Magic Wand. A “back massager,” the object plugged into the wall. The long handle ended in a smooth, round bulb that delivered vibrations measured in hundreds of rpm. This was an orgasm machine, one that I had previously seen only in porn movies.

My mouth was agape.

“Hell yes!” I shouted into the phone, and I could hear my boyfriend laughing in the background.

“Do you like your present?” he asked playfully.

“Like it?” I exclaimed. “I love it!” I leaned over the side of the bed and plugged in the machine. As I flipped the switch from off to low, the Magic Wand sprung to life. The vibrations were powerful. I ran it down my arm, giving myself a shiver down my spine.

“Try it out,” my boyfriend encouraged.

The mere idea of the vibrator made me wet. I turned off the machine and nestled it between my vaginal lips. The smooth, round head squelched around my clit and slit, and the pressure from the device teased my clit. I switched it to low.

My body seemed to vibrate right along with the machine. I had never experienced such intense, sudden pleasure in my life. My clit was on fire, and I howled from pleasure. The Magic Wand pounded relentlessly on my most sensitive spots.

I pushed the wand firmly onto my clit and fell back on the bed, riding the waves of pleasure. I could hear my boyfriend coaxing me to orgasm on the phone, but I couldn’t respond with anything more coherent than low moans. I moved the vibrating bulb in a circle, hitting every nerve ending on my bud. My body screamed with pleasure, though I had ceased to make a sound.

I could hear my boyfriend murmuring dirty words in my ear, as if he were next to me, holding me as I coasted to orgasm.

“How’s it feel, baby?”

“Oh, it feels so good…” I moaned into the phone.

I heard him grunting, a sure sign that he was pumping his hand up and down his shaft, masturbating to the sounds of my orgasm. I gyrated my hips against the vibrator and spread my legs, pressing the head deeper into my slit.

I sucked on two of my fingers and reached my hands between my legs. Holding onto the phone with my left hand, I narrated my actions to my horny boyfriend.

“The vibrator is so close to me,” I said in a near-whisper. “It’s pulsating against my clit so fast…”

“Are you close?” he asked, and I could tell he was waiting for me to come to finish himself off.

“Mmm, yeah. I’m pushing two fingers into my snatch right now…”

“Fuck yourself, baby,” he moaned.

I pumped my index and middle fingers in and out my hole. My hand was on top of the vibrator, holding it in place. I could feel my slick wetness as I glided my fingers deeply into myself, grazing my g-spot with each thrust.

My orgasm was starting to build inside of me as the vibrator relentlessly spun against my throbbing clit.

“Ride that vibrator” he grunted on the phone. His voice gave him away — he was on the brink of orgasm, too.

The phone lay next to me as I pumped in and out with my two fingers. I gyrated my hips against the vibrator — it was almost like fucking my boyfriend. I bounced up and down on the bed, taking myself to new heights of pleasure.

“What are you doing?” he asked. I had forgotten I was still on the phone.

“The vibrator is pushed between my pussy lips so far,” I moaned. “It’s rubbing against my clit with every pulse. I’m gyrating up and down, fucking myself with my fingers and the machine.”

“I wish I could fuck you right now,” he said. God, that sounded amazing — I wished he was with me.

“You are with me,” I said, quite sentimental, considering I was nearing orgasm. “You bought me the gift of orgasm…”

“You’re welcome,” he laughed. “Climb on top of it — ride that thing like you would ride me.”

I did as I was told. I turned the vibrator off and laid it on the bed. I withdrew my fingers from şehitkamil escort my hole, removing with them a thick strand of my pussy juices.

“Oh, God,” I moaned. The sight of my fluids always made me feel sexy. “I’m so wet!”

My boyfriend knew exactly what I was talking about. “Lick it up,” he commanded. He enjoyed seeing it just as much as I did.

My fingertips grazed my slightly parted lips, and I could smell the strong scent. It was pungent, but not overpowering, and had a sweetness to it that made it a turn-on. I cautiously licked my index finger, relishing in the juiciness. I felt so dirty when I sucked on my own girl cum. It prolonged my orgasm, making me come harder, more deeply.

I sucked my two fingers clean, lapping up every drop of the wetness.

“All clean,” I said, and my boyfriend uttered his approval.

“Are you on top of the vibrator?”

I grabbed the phone, turning off the speaker so I could talk to him while I rode. Spreading my lips, I positioned myself over the massager’s rotating head. The bulb pressed up against my slick clit hard, and the object wasn’t even turned on yet.

“This is going to be a hell of a ride,” I said.

“Turn it on!” he cried, desperately. He had been stroking his cock at full speed for the past few minutes, I was certain. He was as close to climax as I was.

I switched the power to “high” this time, and almost instantly fell off the bed from pleasure. My body was instantly racked with the throes of a developing orgasm. I clutched the phone, nearly screaming from pleasure.

I bounced on top of my vibrator, gyrating my hips instinctually to maximize the pleasure sensations. I had one hand free now to play with my bouncing tits, and I pinched my left nipple hard. I felt electric, as if each nerve ending on my body was responding to pleasure beyond my mind’s wildest imagination.

I realized my eyes were tightly closed, and I opened them to watch myself in the mirror. I had never looked more like a dirty slut. I was completely naked, straddling the best, most gigantic vibrator known to womankind, and pinching my nipples furiously. My hips were rolling on the machine. I felt dirty in a good way, completely in control of my pleasure. I was the essence of sex, masturbating myself to the best orgasm my eighteen years had witnessed.

I dropped the phone. My boyfriend could hear me fine because I was moaning so loudly, and he was busy beating off to his own private fantasies. This was my pleasure, only his to passively witness.

I used my free hand to push a finger into the opening of my ass hole, which sent me into orgasm almost immediately.

“Yes!” I half-shouted, and I came with a torrent of fluid and spasms. My body was racked with pleasure, and I could only moan. Verbal signals were lost, and I couldn’t think. My entire body was focused on my climax. I almost doubled over from pleasure, certain that the room had grown ten degrees hotter from my radiating body heat. Every muscle twitched, and every nerve ending was at attention. My anus clenched onto my finger tip, and I gyrated on the vibrator so quickly I could no longer feel the difference between my body and the object below me.

After a few seconds that felt like hours of bliss, I fell off the vibrator and turned the machine to “off.” I couldn’t catch my breath or open my eyes. I could still feel faint twinges of pleasure from my sex, slowly rocking me out of my orgasm. A light sheen of sweat covered my body.

I felt amazing, perfect, at peace in the afterglow of my climax.

I picked up the phone. My boyfriend had come just as I had, hard and fast. He was barely breathing into the speaker.

“That…” I said, almost unable to form a coherent sentence. “That…that was…”

“AWESOME!” he shouted, finishing my sentence, albeit in a more juvenile way. I had to laugh.

“I’m covered in my own juices,” I confessed.

“Me, too.”

We lay in silence for what seemed like a long time. It was our after-sex ritual: fuck, sigh, cuddle in silence, giggle childishly at our mutual fun, dress. Part of me wished he was cuddling next to me, but I was content that he was not present. I felt like a woman for the first time in my life, instead of a childish teenager. I was in complete control of my body.

He broke the silence. “So,” he said, purposely sounding casual. “Do you like your present?”

I laughed. “I love it.”

“Excellent. Do you mind being alone so much now?”

“Nah,” I said, “solitude has its perks…”

I smiled as we chatted for a while and said our good-byes. I had noticed a detachable showerhead as I walked in the door to my hotel room.

Suddenly, I no longer minded having nobody to talk to.

Stupid decisions are the result of choosing the less-intelligent option from a group. Often, the individual choices themselves aren’t stupid: it’s the result that really makes you ask yourself, “What the HELL was I smoking?” I am an expert on these types of decisions. For example, I once chose to date a guy who did…

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