Urgh! This is taking me ages to write, so I'm going to post it in episodes. I've still got a huge, long list of stuff to fit in, but here's where I'm up to so far:
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Golden, late autumn, morning sun streams through the vast glass wall behind me as I step through the revolving door into the lobby of the convention centre. Snatches of music and busy conversation echo under the high ceiling, as vendors busily erect their stalls in the main hall. I'm early, but that's good because I really need to freshen up after my flight. Weaving my way amongst the freshly painted white columns dotted about the lobby, I finally locate a ladies' room and make my way inside.
As the heavy door squeaks shut behind me, I dump my bag on the counter, next to one of the recessed plastic sinks and stare at myself in the mirror. What a mess. Too many hours in an airline seat have left me looking almost as greasy and haggard as the old hoodie and jeans I'm wearing and the fluorescent lights definitely aren't doing me any favours. Cold water gushes into my cupped palms and I spend a long minute with them pressed tightly to my cheeks, as if hoping the icy water will wash away the fatigue. It helps, a little.
The big, blue and white striped, soft fabric hold-all contains a change of clothes and my make-up bag. It occurs to me, as I unroll the little bundle, that this is my only change of clothes. I fervently hope I've packed the right outfit. Off with my jeans, Pumas and favourite old, green hoodie. Freckled skin stands out even paler than usual against my "lucky" black bra and knickers. Not so lucky that I didn't pack another set... but that was kind of on purpose. It seemed so hot to think I was forcing myself to go without, but now I'm not so sure. Never the less, I'm glad to sling my undies down with the rest of my dirty laundry. My reflection looks better already. Quick pose, quick pout, quick check over my shoulder to make sure recent confinement to an aeroplane chair hasn't brought up any pimples on my bum. I'm in luck, my buns are as fresh as ever. Much relieved, I turn my attention back to the bundle of clean clothes; actually the dirtiest outfit I could dream up in the weeks before my departure.
I put on the skirt first. It's a real vintage ho classic. A little black mini-skirt I found in a second-hand shop, definitely "pre-loved". At least one size too small, I can almost hear the seams creaking as I shoe-horn it over my hips and nearly break a nail yanking the zip up. Well worth the effort though, I think as I admire my figure in the garment, my buttocks just about tucked beneath it. I wonder about the previous owner and try to imagine the stories this dress could tell, if it could speak. Perhaps fortunately, it can't, and because it's black the stains don't show up at all.
The top came from a cheap highstreet clothes chain store. The halters were available in a choice of colours; hot pink, acid green or royal blue. All pretty ugly, but the top makes my boobs look good without a bra and has straps which tie in a bow behind my neck, just inviting somebody to "accidentally" tug one of the ends. I went for the blue, because I happened to have some matching nail polish and I like to pretend my mostly grey eyes have a touch of blue in them.
If my air fare used up the last of my money, a large portion of the rest of it went on shoes. Well, not just shoes, but The Shoes. They weren't easy to get hold of. A friend of a friend knew a girl who worked as a lap dancer, who hooked me up with a catalogue for a mail order specialist shoe shop operating out of Prague. I knew exactly the shoes I wanted when I saw them, but it took liberal consultation of a Czech dictionary, several long and difficult phone calls, a disgusting number of Euros and six long weeks of waiting before I finally signed for a shoebox wrapped in tattered brown paper. Underneath the wrapper, the box is plain white card, devoid of logo or lettering. These are not designer shoes or even a branded product. The artisans who craft these shoes don't advertise; if you don't know by raw female instinct that you need them, then you will never justify paying the price. They're work wear for ladies who's living depends on having sculpted calves so perfect that they put anything in nature to shame. Reverently, I unwrap the tissue paper and gently place The Shoes on the counter, each sole meeting the plastic surface with a satisfying clonk. The six inch tall, clear acrylic platforms gleam under the vanity lights. Tight vinyl straps and a torturous looking arch make no concessions to comfort, but I can't wait to put them on.
Even though it's a special occasion, getting dressed doesn't take me too long. After all, I'm not wearing much. A quick brush of hair and twenty minutes spent deliberately over-applying my make-up, and I'm ready to go. Pausing only to drop my bag off in one of the cloakroom lockers, I stride confidentially, but carefully in my new shoes, into the main event hall. I'm pleased to see I've dressed appropriately; the early-morning event staff have now been joined by a small crowd of attendees, all looking just about as slutty as I feel. In fact, I spot the exact same skirt I have on, being worn by a tall man, prancing towards me with a somewhat awkward gait. He smiles at me. Out of habit, I smile back briefly and look away, but as he passes by I can't help staring at his behind. The back of his skirt is hitched up over a wide beige plastic disc, protruding from between his buttocks. It takes a few seconds for me to realise he is not only wearing a butt plug, but proud enough of it to show the world. I blush, without knowing quite why I'm so embarrassed. What had I expected instead?
By now, the neatly arranged rows of stalls and trade stands are almost all complete, with just a few vendors frantically trying to attend to their customers while giving their displays the finishing touches. There is little variation in the types of goods on display, being either pornography or sexual apparatus, but there exists almost infinite variety within those two broad categories. I stroll by trestles laid out with dildos of all sizes, colourful displays of butt plugs and stack upon stack of DVDs with titles like "Inter-racial Gape Midgets 7". By far the largest and most prestigious stands belong to web sites, some of which I recognise from my own late night lustings via internet. I pause to watch the models working it on the Deutschefistenficken.com spread. A girl, younger than me but clearly far more confident, is chatting to members of the public beside a laminated display board showing photographs of her with the same enthusiastic smile she wears now, but with her arse hole gaping wide open or stuffed full of cocks. She's small, barely over five feet tall, and slim to the point of appearing skinny. Her jet black hair is cut in a severe, neat bob, just below her ears. Light olive skin, smooth and perfect, is visible in abundance because she wears nothing save for a tight, white t-shirt emblazoned with "Deutschefistenficken.com!" and a pair of cheap trainers. My eyes, and no doubt many others, are drawn to the tangle of dark hairs nestling between her narrow thighs.
Just as I am edging my way closer through the crowd, to see if I can overhear her conversation, she is joined by another woman. Everything the younger girl isn't, I realise with a start that recognise her. Going by the name "Olga Blond", she is as famous for her grotesque size as she is for her brutal treatment of the slaves she dominates in her videos. A touch of pink rises to my cheeks as I recall how, as I watched her perform, working my pussy with frenzied fingers, I would wish that I could be the poor slut on the screen, and wish that it was my arse Olga's fists were roughly penetrating. Now, in the flesh, she looks even more intimidating, naked to the waist, white flesh rolling over the waist band of her leather skirt, and yellow hair plaited into a pair of pig tails, she looks for all the world like a porny reimagining of a Viking warrior woman. The two awestruck fans instantly recognise her as well. Quick to grasp the opportunity, they take turns posing for photos with the pair of starlets, who to their credit remain as enthusiastic as ever, striking ever more provocative poses. Before long, the fans are gurning at the camera while Olga points four fingers between her colleague's eagerly spread buttocks. I can hardly believe it when, with the younger girl nodding and urging her on, Olga slides her fingers up into her proffered anus.
The hand seems to slide in easily. Plenty of evidence on the printed signboards testifies to the fact that the girl is no stranger to this kind of treatment, but I am still astounded to watch as Olga's knuckles enter, and she not only allows it, but seems to be enjoying herself. Her anus contracts around Olga's wrist, and I watch mesmerised as Olga begins to pump her fist like a battering ram, gradually beating past all resistance. More and more of her thick forearm is engulfed by the stretching orifice, and within a minutes she has buried it almost to the elbow. Her partner is making a lot of noise, eyes tight shut, legs starting to buckle, but Olga isn't finished yet. The chubby fingers of her free hand grind their way into the girl's engorged pussy. Determined to fill the skinny torso bent before her, she pistons her arms back and forth until she has forced both her arms elbow deep, a large bulge plainly visible in her victim's belly.
It is at that moment Olga looks up from her work. Her eyes meet mine, then dart quickly down and back up again, in an act of professional appraisal. “You like this?” She calls, beaming at me. “Come up here! I'll do you too!” At that moment, there is nothing I want more than to feel Olga's thick arms ruthlessly stuffed deep inside my body, but for some reason I demure. I don't even remember turning away, but moments later, I find myself aimlessly striding around the hall, quick, agitated steps making my irritated confusion all the more apparent. Why did I run away? Even now, I can feel the familiar heat between my bare thighs at the thought of letting Olga have her way with me. Here I am, doing the thing I've planned for and imagined for months, and still there is some part of me clinging to my old life and unwilling to let it go.
“May I help, or are you just browsing?” With a start, I realise the last several minutes I spent lost in thought, I have been vacantly staring at one of the less professional looking displays of sexual apparatus. An over-weight, middle-aged man, simply but smartly dressed in jeans and a burgundy, thick cotton, collared shirt open at the neck, is eyeing me with a slight smile from a tall stool. His wares are spread out before him on simple trestles, draped with black fabric.
“I'm just looking... Thanks.”
“You sure? You've been staring at those butt plugs,” he indicates a group of stubby, beige plastic lumps, “for the best part of ten minutes. Don't be shy, now. I've seen it all, and then some.” He winks.
“Well, I'm really just looking... I don't have any money with me to buy anything, so...” My words tail off, sounding like an excuse, despite the truth behind them.
He nods. “Well, it stands to reason you don't have your purse with you, unless,” his eyes dart briefly down to the hem of my skirt. “No. Never mind. You're in luck, anyhow. I've brought along some demo models. I'd be happy to loan you one, if you're planning on sticking around the con all day.” As he talks, he lifts the lid of a trough on the trestle beside him. I catch a whiff of disinfectant. From inside he produces an anal plug. “How about this one?” He dries it on a towel. “You can pop round the back and put it in now, if you like?”
Before I know it, I've let him usher me though a curtain, into the service area behind the stall. It's a cramped little space, piled high with cardboard boxes. Most of them are empty, presumably having contained the stock currently on display, but a few remain unopened. “I'll... uh, give you some privacy.” He hesitates for a moment, possibly hoping I'll invite him to stay. I don't, and he backs out, closing the curtain as he goes.
The plug in my hand, doesn't look like a huge one. It's cream coloured, with an even, lozenge shaped bulb topping a narrow stalk which flares at the base. I estimate it can't be more than two inches across at the widest point. In a way, I'm slightly disappointed; having spent months getting off to videos of holes being stuffed with huge dongs, this feels like an anti-climax. I suppose you've got to start somewhere. Wrinkling my skirt up over my hips, I consider my next move. I suppose I'll need some lube. I could spit on it, I guess. I bring the plug to my lips and once again notice the strong disinfectant smell. As I roll my tongue over the dome's tip and slide my lips as far around the bulb as the will go, I can't help playing with my clit, thinking about just how many butt holes this rental plug has been in before I put my mouth on it.
It doesn't take me long to realise that slobbering all over the toy isn't accomplishing anything. It's getting wet with spit, but I can tell it's not going to be slippery enough to penetrate anything easily, let alone my nervously clenched butt. I sigh and look around for inspiration. It's not until I resort to reading the legend stamped on the brown shipping boxes stacked up shoulder-high beside me that I sigh with relief and giggle quietly at my ignorance. E-Z GLYDE AQUEOUS ULTRA / 24PCS / FAMILY SIZE. Ripping open the carton, I withdraw a litre sized, pump-top bottle, filled with clear gel. It takes several pumps of the nozzle before a cold globule of gel lands in my palm. I pump twice more before carefully bending forward and edging my feet apart, my tall heels making me go a little knock-kneed. Keeping my palm cupped and level, I reach slowly back behind me before finally clapping my hand between my buttocks in one sharp motion. My anus contracts with shock as the palm full of cool gel splashes between my legs, but soon relaxes once I begin spreading it around with my fingers. There must be a knack to doing this neatly, I muse, unpleasantly aware of rivulets of gel beginning to trickle down my thighs.
Sitting the plug on a low stack of unopened boxes, I give it a wipe over with my slippery fingers. “Well, here goes...!” I mutter to myself, stepping forward and straddling it. With one hand nervously playing with my pussy, I squat down until I feel the top of the top of the plug nestling between my buttocks. I wriggle until it meets my anus, the lube an unfamiliar sticky sensation between my cheeks. Taking a deep breath, I sit down a little further, shifting some of my weight onto the smooth lump at my back door. The pressure is uncomfortable, but I can't feel anything going in so I press down a little harder. I can feel something now, a sort of burning, stinging sensation that grows the more I push down, until it becomes painful and, seeking respite, I straighten up, leaving the plug on the box below me.
My fingers work their way to my arse hole, probing the source of the tingling ache I feel there. My anus is hot and clenched tightly into a hard knot. With a sigh, I try to force myself to relax. Palming another pump of lube, I poke the tip of my index finger into the centre of the constricting ring. Gently twisting and poking, I ease more of the digit inside, lubricating the tight passage as it goes. As I work, I feel my bum muscles relax, spasmodically at first, then more smoothly, until I can squeeze a second finger in with relative ease.
Feeling more confident, I withdraw my fingers and lower myself onto the plug again. The hot ache returns, but this time I steady myself and the plug with a hand on its wide base, and gently rock my hips to-and-fro. The discomfort doesn't get a lot worse, but I can definitely feel something happening. Gyrating against the thick, domed tip, my sphincter begins to be forced open, yielding to my efforts to drive the plug into my body. With my hole spread to accommodate its thickness, the even, tube-like body of the plug enters with relative ease. Fingertips flick over my clit as I bounce lightly up and down, stuffing a little more plastic up my butt with each impact.
All of a sudden, my buttocks hit cardboard and my anal ring closes around the thin stem of the plug. I emit a grunt of surprise, shortly followed by a triumphant “Yes!” Behind me, a sharp rasp signals the curtain has been drawn back, the old man stepping through just in time to watch me pulling my skirt back down, covering the plug protruding from my rear. “You... uh... Need some help, back here?”
I'm flushed and breathing hard. “I think I can manage, thank you.” Indicating the opened case, “I used some of your lube...”
“For that little thing?” His eyebrows shoot up. “You should have said, if this was your first time. Well, now it's in you'd better hold on to it. Just let me have it back before the end of the show, or before, if you want to move up to something... larger.” His hand on the small of my back propels me out through the curtain with the speed that only the implied threat of molestation can.
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To be continued...
