42. Chapter 40
Emery
“Is that a…”
“Yep,” I respond to Oakley’s unfinished question. “That’s a vibrator.”
“He sent you a…I didn’t know they came in that color.” Oakley reaches out and prods the purple box sitting on the dining room table. “And isn’t that…I don’t know, big? Like, too big?”
I side-eye her and remind myself that she is nowhere near as experienced as I am. “It’s larger than average, yeah, but it’s not too big.”
“Is it like, battery-operated? Or do you need to charge it?”
Faking the confidence that I need to get through this entire situation, I pick up the box and open it up so that I can pour everything out onto the table.
A booklet.
The cock, which would actually look like a real cock with veins and everything if it wasn’t neon purple, in its plastic packaging, with an arm protruding out from the bottom that I think is reasonable to assume it’s supposed to rest against my clit.
And a thin black charger cable.
We both kind of stand there, her in her pj’s and me in my panties and shirt, staring at the items on the table. She hasn’t even had her coffee yet.
Who does this? Like, seriously, who gifts someone a sex toy? I can see the humor in it being a gift at like a bachelorette or divorce party or something, but not randomly on a Tuesday morning.
I awoke to the box and no Xavier.
My feelings are confused about this, which is irritating me. After last night, I have questions. So many questions. He can’t just cut the bow off my panties while I’m sleeping and not say a word about it.
And then he didn’t even try to sleep in my room. I’d been prepared to ask him to leave, but he didn’t even ask.
And what the fuck was with that answer?
You never asked me to leave.
His answer kept me awake far too late in the night. He’s right. I never asked him. Why hadn’t I asked him? I totally could have. I could have stared him in the eyes and asked—no, told—him to leave.
But I never did. Why?
Did I honestly believe he wouldn’t leave if I asked?
His answer last night implied that he would have respected my request.
Which means that the next time I see him, all I need to do is ask him to leave and he will.
Right? And then he’ll be gone, and I won’t have to see his face every day.
My room will be exactly the way I left it each morning, mess and all.
Oakley and I can go back to doing our own grocery shopping and cooking.
We can reclaim our space.
Except, our space now has this purple vibrating cock.
I pick up the black cable and answer her question. “It looks like it needs to be charged.”
She reaches for the toy itself, her face very pink, but she powers through. “It’s, uh, heavier than I thought it would be.”
Oakley offers me the cock, and I take it, not quite sure I can believe we are passing a sex toy back and forth.
“Oh, wow,” I agree, because yep, that is heavier than I thought it would be. Not ridiculously heavy, but not light, either.
“Was there a note this time?” she asks, eyes flicking to the black box and back, before she picks up the instructions and flicks through the first few pages. “Also, feel very free not to share any future information about this, er, gift.”
I huff a laugh and shift the tissue paper around until I find the note and hold it up. “You sure? I’m sure there is something salacious in here. Hudson’s notes always match the gift.”
A spark of interest flashes in her eyes, but then the pink in her cheeks flares to an almost red. “I’m sure.”
She hands me the instructions, then busies herself with starting her coffee.
I check the time on my phone and figure I have time to deal with this and Hudson’s note before I need to get ready for my first class, so I pack everything back into the box and take it to my room, thinking that privacy is definitely a requirement for this note.
With the door shut behind me and my blanket pulled up over my waist, I open the letter, bracing myself for whatever unhinged thing he has written today.
Kitten,
A sex toy for my fuck toy.
If you choose to use this gift, it comes with three rules.
1. You must send me a photo as you are starting.
2. You must send me a photo when you are finished.
3. You are only allowed to use the fourth setting.
Hudson.
The fourth setting?
Within seconds, the instruction manual is in my lap and open to the How to change the settings page, which conveniently has a graphical representation of what the settings feel like.
Setting one is a straight line.
Setting two is also a straight line.
What?
Oh, wait, I see. It’s higher than the first one, so I take that to mean it must be more intense.
Setting three is a wave, right in the middle.
Setting four is a series of triangles from the baseline to almost the top of the range, with a small gap in between each triangle.
I stare at it, my brain automatically making a vibrating sound in my head that matches the diagram.
vvvVVVvv vvVVVvv.
That’s…diabolical. How would anyone be able to orgasm on that? You’d get close and then, bam, it would go away. Over and over. It would be torture.
Ah. That’s it, then. Torture. What an asshole.
I scan the rest of the settings, and there is one that looks like a square wave, another that I think is maybe a pulse? And about six more that are a mix of variations and combinations of the first six.
Turning back to Hudson’s letter, I reread it, wondering if there is any wiggle room at all. But nope. That rule is pretty rock solid. Heat pools in my core, and I try to ignore it, because this is absolutely not turning me on. I forbid it.
The letter needs to go with all the others—in the journal he gave me. And he needs to be given a piece of my mind.
Forcing myself out of the bed, I grab everything I need from the desk and go back to the bed, shuffling everything around until the journal is unlocked and in my lap.
I flick through the pages, glancing over the previous entries.
Some of them have been long, stream-of-consciousness thoughts and feelings. Others have one of his notes stuck to the page before and then my response is on the next page. There are even a few messy sketches, since the pens can’t give me the shading I need, but they get the message across.
I get to yesterday’s entry and turn to the blank page, carefully using some washi tape to attach it before starting my reply on the next page.
Daddy,
That setting is mean. It’s not even worth using! Not that I’m going to use it. It’s going to get buried at the bottom of my drawers. I’m not even going to take it out of the packaging.
I can’t believe you sent me that.
Seriously.
Poor Oakley will be scarred for life knowing I have a vibrating purple cock in my bedroom. Every time she hears an odd noise, she is going to wonder if I’m getting it on with myself. So weird.
But seriously. This gift is naughty. You shouldn’t have sent it.
Kitten.