victim of war


I warned her. That’s all I can say. Months ago, Bast (at my never-ending encouragement – ok, some might call it harassing) picked up the very same little silver bullet that rocked my world. And when my little bullet bit the dust (overuse, you say? Bah! no such thing) I warned her the same thing would happen to her.
As you might recall, I went out and promptly picked up the Space Explorer Vibe as a replacement. Twice the price, fifteen times the fun. So when Bast came crying on my shoulder that her bullet had passed on to the place where all good little vibes go when their job is done, I suggested she try the Space Explorer Vibe. A powerhouse of pleasure (though mine has seen better days and I’ll likely need another one soon – addiction, thy name is orgasm). Her clit would thank me, I assured her. Secondhand, of course. <grin>
Of course, I also just wanted another reason to go sex toy shopping. 🙂
While Bast was debating the relative merits of the bullets and eggs at her disposal, I trolled the shelves looking for new fun in the name of battery-powered operation. I found it in the Power Pulsonic Wand – review to come later, after I stop laughing – which basically looks like a bullet on a stick. Sure, sure, a flexible stick, but a stick nevertheless. Still, it had pulses and straight vibe available, and a variable + and – speed. Seemed good to me. The girl in the store tested it for me, Bast and I picked up our goodies, and off we went.
Last night, anxious to try my new toy, I settled down into the covers, spread my legs and turned my new little toy on. It was wonderful – a terrible tease on its lightest setting. But I like it that way – almost like a man teasing me – and the stick definitely made it wonderful for insertion. Things were really humming now (yeah, pun intended).
Just as I was reaching my peak, just moments before I would really start going crazy, the damn thing quit on me. Kapoosh. And yes, that is a word. A far more polite word than the ones issuing from my lips when I realized my brand-new, ninety dollar vibrator had bit the dust after ONE use.
Now, I’ve got to clarify a few things. I was not whaling away with this thing. No suspending from chandeliers or using it to open new orifices. Simple, normal masturbation, a little inside, a little outside, not even pressing hard. But suddenly kaput. De nada. Zip.
After a few more well-chosen, far-from-ladylike words, I stood up, went to the table, grabbed my trusty (thank God this thing never lets me down) Space Explorer Vibe and went about finishing my business.
Which leads us to the point in the story where I’m standing in front of the sales clerk at the sex toy shop, trying to get an exchange for a really crappy ninety dollar vibrator. I’m standing there and I’m trying very hard not to blush. Because I know what he’s thinking. He’s thinking opening-new-orifices kind of masturbation, and what could this lady have been doing that killed the vibe in ten minutes flat?
I lied, of course. He asked if I’d used it and I said no. (You’d lie too, don’t you dare say you wouldn’t!) After all, I’d cleaned it very well. No one was the wiser.
But the damn men would not give me an exchange, or a refund, though they were all perplexed as to why it wasn’t working. They tried THREE sets of new batteries while I watched. I stood there in front of them, most of the patrons of the shop looking on curiously, while ninety dollars mentally slid from my purse and into the sewers. Finally, in a fit of frustration, salesman #2 took the vibe away with him to the manager’s office.
I don’t know what orifice they plugged it into behind closed doors, but he brought it back working fine. And now I had nothing to scream about – I could hardly demand an exchange for a working vibe – so I wrapped up my little treasure on a stick and brought it home with me. I have no idea how long it will last, poor fragile little thing, but it appears I’m stuck with it for now.
But don’t worry. I washed it thoroughly and played with it very gently when I got home. I treated it like the fragile virgin it is.
So ends the story of the victim of war (that is Bast’s summation, incidentally, choked out between gasps of laughter as I told her my story).
Vibrators, beware! Vikki’s on the loose! <grin>

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Vikki McKay
By Vikki McKay

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