Ned Samuels - Hand maid

Sure, there were several options: (1) she could go outside and get herself raped – an easy enough prospect in this day and age, yet all too dangerous for her own taste given the association of rape and violence; (2) she could call a friend and ask him to rape her (but that would ruin her resolve to make this weekend entirely on her own: (3) she could search for some finer object with which to penetrate pussy. She decided upon the latter, fortunately for her and society and for, as things would turn out, everyone directly and indirectly involved with her life.

She soon struck upon some phallic items in the kitchen, her favorite being the trusty cucumber, the standard carrot, the slightly exotic half-sour pickle, and finally simply a tube-shape applier of frosting, which though a little hard around the edges, could with care approximate the cold cock of the rapist.

Vern went with the cucumber first. It was a bit cold and slimy at first, but as soon as she was able to go beyond this, it was quite desirable. She slowly tickled the outer rim of her cunt, basking in the glow created by the smooth skin. She marveled at how the glistening vegetable skin merged with her own tissue and drove her to a keen state of passion. Then she pushed the vegetable a full halfway into her cunt, excited beyond measure by the sensation. Suddenly, she was rudely interrupted by the rude sound of her doorbell. Without thinking, Veronica automatically pulled out the vegetable and walked over to the front door. "Who is it?" she asked.

"Electric meter," he said.

Oh no, Veronica thought. She was really stuck for a response, just could not come up with an excuse, so she quickly blurted, "Go away."

The young man was no doubt surprised and certainly not willing to destroy his route to suddenly. "Now wait a minute, mam, may I ask you just what's going on. You know, I have a job to do."

"Uh… I wasn't told you were coming."

"We come the same time each month."

For a minute Vern was tempted. After all, the young man had a rather sensual voice, and for a fleeting instant, she imagined seducing him once he was inside, taking his cock out of his uniformed trousers and sucking him as he put down his meter records and abandoned all thoughts of work.

But, no. She had made a resolution: this would be one solo week end. She'd get through the entire two days, entertained simply by her own efforts, without outside stimulation, without the aid of a single solitary soul outside of herself.

"No, I'm sorry, but I'm in no shape to receive visitors."

"No shape to receive visitors?" he repeated in credulously.

Perhaps it was the arrogance and sureness of her reply, perhaps the novelty of the situation, but he found himself quietly, almost meekly walking back to his truck and scratching his head.

That's that, Vern thought eyeing the cucumber and getting herself ready for a quick renewal of some action.

Suddenly the phone rang. Oh no, she thought, what wag could this be, rudely interrupting my sweet solitude, but again, rather than just ignoring it, she found herself dutifully answering – perhaps out of habit, perhaps simply to stop that annoying ringing which could possibly go on ten, fifteen times.

"Hello," she chirped.

"Veronica, how are you."

It was none other than John, and Veronica had a quick reply, "Oh, John, I was just thinking of you."

"Is that right. I'm complimented… I think."

"What's up, John."

"How about dinner and a show tonight, that's what's up. I have front row seats to that big new musical."

It was tempting. John, for all his faults, knew how to show a girl a good time, was willing to part with the green stuff enough to ensure entertainment – the whole bit: fine food, a good show, a good after show snack, then, of course, a nice evening of sensuality. Now, how did that compare to a cold cucumber, romping on her own rug, twisting her imagination, overworking her body until she would be too exhausted to know what was happening. But that was okay. If anything at all, Vern was a woman of decision, and once a decision had been made, she'd stick to it. She got rid of her friend easily enough, then returned to the kitchen and looked at her favorite cucumber. It was shinier than usual (she was aware of the cause of that phenomenon) which made it look all the more desirable.

Just looking at the scintillating object made Veronica hot, and the closer she moved to it, the hotter she became. It was sitting – almost innocently, like some addition to a salad or garnish for a main course – waiting for some assignment of role and action. Vern felt the heavy weight of her breasts as she approached it, and was aware of her supreme nakedness, the radical sensuality of her body. Would she be able to sustain her masturbatory fantasy throughout the weekend, forego the usual pleasures of entertainment and the flesh which could be hers for the taking, and sustain an effort, not built on reality, but mere whimsy and fantasy?

One whiff of her woman stuff on that vegetable was enough to make her feel optimistic on this regard. Forward she walked until she was face to face with her full mirror. Not bad, she thought, one piece of action. Her breasts, for all the manipulations they'd been through recently, looked fresh as could be; her legs were long, firm supports for her solid trunk, moving upward to a firm "V" which held her womanly treasures within.

She turned around so that she could glance at her broad, womanly back, which looked every bit as enticing as her front, all smooth and lovely. Of course, there were a few scratches, some red lines leading from around the side of her breasts to her lower back, then swirling suddenly upward toward the back of her neck. She pushed her dark brown hair upward in a bun. She was happy to see how surprisingly elegant she appeared – and that was a feat, looking truly elegant when in the buff.

She planned her strategy. The world, given her fantasy approach, was entirely open to her, an unwritten book for which she had blank paper and a welled inked pen. Would it be a night of elegance, of fashionable sport in high society, another orgy, hot and bothered like her little film experience, or perhaps more young cock, those juicy, ripe examples of boyhood who couldn't wait to get at her own ripe cunt and drive her almost wild with desire.

She wanted John, that was for sure. Why? After all, he was directly available in real life, a big hulk of a stud who could offer her a variety of experiences – from a hot dance in some hip disco, to a more stately evening in a society club, to a bound less orgy, all experiences he'd readily presented. Somehow, this touch of reality gave a presence to her imagination, rooted it on firm ground, and gave true continuity.

She'd remembered that John once offered her a most unusual experience, not unusual by any conventional standards but unusual in light of what was everyday to Veronica. He once approached her in the office and the following ensued.

"Veronica, you'll never guess what I have in mind for this weekend, plans in which I'd like you included."

"Mysterious, aren't we?"

Vern didn't like guessing games, never did, so she handled her lack of enthusiasm by some pointed sarcasm.

"Well, since you're so positive about it, I rented some equipment."

"What kind of equipment," she asked – but picturing kinky sexual apparati, like rough trade, or some sort of exotic costuming.

"Look, it's straight and simple, and a lot more wholesome than I'm sure you have in mind. What I'd like to do is something a little off the beaten track, different from our wild parties and society jaunts. I want to get out there, out where things are natural and real. You see – I rented some camping gear – not just your usual stove and trailer but the tough stuff, a little pup tent, and a guide to take us into the mountains where we can really get it on with nature."