Sex Toy Tales: Tales

I like to fuck. In a fuck or get fucked world, I'm the girl, I'm supposed to get fucked. But like I said, I like to fuck.

Maybe it started with the butt boys. Oh, but it probably started before them. I'm not saying the boys were my first. Then again, I'm not saying they weren't. It was the butt boys who gave me the hunger to fuck, the boys who showed me the power and desire of the fuck, who taught me to crave the undulating of bodies slamming and slapping in the rhythm and against the rhythm. Boys just seem to know how to have fun, they know how to fuck. So yah, it started with the butt boys.

Having someone bent over or writhing beneath me is all the same, gender-wise, and it's all very different. I'm not saying I would do the boys still, and I¹m not saying I wouldn't. But the girls…girls know how to take it. A good chick likes to get fucked.

Now I know that callin' 'em chicks can sound derogatory, it's not. I use ‘chick’ with the highest regards. And the ones I call chicks probably call themselves chicks too. It takes a lot to stand up and say you're a chick. It takes a lot to get fucked like I'm talkin', and to be a good fuck.

Like this one chick, she couldn't wait for me to strap it on with her. In fact, she needed it so fast, she was always trying to get me to pack. But I don't pack. So she did the next best thing. And I'm telling you this chick was all-the-time crazy to get fucked. She made me a special strap on. It was a beauty.

I still have it today, wouldn't be caught dead without it, and wouldn't trade it for the world. I'm talking, no manufactured deal for this girl. I'm sold on this used-to-be a one of a kind. The thing was pure genius with a touch of class and individualism. I like that, class and individualism.

I started callin' it The Snap-on Strap-on. The name stuck, I heard it the other day in that well-lit, frequented, women-owned, adult toyshop one block over from Main Street. My chick, she made up a bunch and they stocked 'em. Hot items too, cause it's not what she does for a livin', she can only make so many, and I think girls are finding out that the personal touch with these beauties can be real handy.

What do I mean by that? Have you ever used 'em? Strap ons? I mean think on it. If you're not packin' then you're not ready. Do you warm her up first then say, “Oh excuse me dear while I step into this ugly, drab, black harness.” Then you know what happens. You fight with the damn thing, a tangled mess wrapped around a stiff backing that always seems to be on the wrong side until you work out all of the angles. That done, your next worry is gettin' into the contraption. Meanwhile your girl's coolin' off.

Worse than that, you jump off her bed to cram one foot at a time into the leg loops, and you end up fallin' over, eliciting whoops and hollers of laughter from above. And I'm not un-athletic, and I'm not saying I had been drinking or was on anything, you know. But if you're still thinking on it, you tell me how you've pulled off being suave with those manufactured strap ons. Maybe something like, 'excuse me a moment while I freshen up,' as you make the mad dash elsewhere so you don't look like a fool. Like I said, your girl's coolin' off, you know.

Now let me tell you about these beauties, these Snap-on Strap-ons. Man, you can get these things on anywhere anyhow. You can get in 'em and out of 'em fast, real fast, in case you had to either way. I'm not saying I ever had to get out of 'em fast, I'm just saying it's an option. But I will say I've had to get in 'em fast.

Like that one time she had to have it, you know. We were in a memme' mobile, a small sedan, and I wasn't gonna play gumby, but she had to have a little somethin' somethin' and I was right there with her. I'm talking I was right there, wetter than a slip-and-slide at a family picnic on a hot July day. Nothing to worry about though, I had a Snap-on Strap-on and was ready for action in seconds.

This thing is as crazy as her. It has snaps on every strap, at every juncture. She took those beefy, plastic snaps, like you'd find on dog collars, and put one on either side of the waistband, and one on each leg strap, all in the back, off to the sides, adjustable too. In the front, a rubber ring, held in place with those silver, flat snaps that you'd find on denim jean jackets, and the works had no backing. No backing. I remember going into the toy store with her when she first presented her invention, the girl behind the counter was aghast, opening up her sweet, tiny mouth in horror, scrunching her baby-blues and freckled brow, “No backing? How does the dong stay in place?”

“YOU are the backing,” came the reply. And it works you know. No stiff, fussy, triangular shaped piece of vinyl or leather to chafe the crease of your thighs to your pussy if you're a skinny drink like me. And the best part, the dildos are more easily exchangeable without breaking the action too long, if you know what I mean. With no backing, I've got it down one-handed, while the other hand stays busy in the slick and slippery.

But that's not what I was trying to tell you. It's not about the dick, it's about the fuck. It's about the chicks who like to get fucked. And I love to fuck. To fuck or to get fucked. Well, like I said, I'm supposed to get fucked, but I so like to fuck.

I like to crawl up between a pair of thighs and bury myself in their adjoining crevice, open, wet, and inviting. Maybe one leg is bent upward, hung over the crook of my elbow so I can grasp a fleshy thigh as I thrust in the missionary position, our torsos sopping with sweat, gliding over each other, nipples plucking at nipples.

Chicks are fascinating to fuck, and I like to be sunk home as any man does, as any boy needs, as any girl can do. Flip them over with some slap and tickle before greasing my silicone prick and hammering it home, watching her ass cheeks ripple in response to my erotic pummeling. Smacking sounds of naked skin greeting, whimpers and moans entering in chorus, white knuckles gripping hip handles, and the body beneath, flushed and tensed in its build to release.

And I need this. I need to fuck. And sometimes the fuck is so alluring, so powerful in its promise that I beg to get off beforehand. “Get me done so I can last,” as if I were a young, pubescent male ready to pop with the opening of the latest, coveted issue of Penthouse.

I'm not saying it's all like that, but I like to fuck for hours, where my knees get raw, my pubic bone believes that the dong is now embedded, calcified in, and muscles ache with the burn and twitch in exhaustion, and my clit is so hard that I know it would hurt to touch or that I'd pop off with the wafting of a mere breeze.

It's not about the dick, it's about the fuck. I like the fuck and I often come at the same time, in waves of spasms as she sits aloft, humping and pumping until she squirts her juices down my rubbery rod, over my flat, thin stomach, trickling past my hips and through my groin. The wetness like a salve soothes and softens the fierceness of my fuck, and it threatens to take me into a dizzying euphoria of a post-fuck snooze. But I don't want to go there, and wish she wouldn't let me. Some do. But not a chick, a chick likes to get fucked.