I returned for another bout in Jekyll’s car, determined to either ditch him or drown him in my juices (over-reactive fight or flight actions are my conduct of choice when frustrated).
In the brief slip of time between arriving home from work and leaving to meet Jekyll, I tossed into my gym bag a vibrator, condoms and the unopened tub of Crisco on the chance we’d test its reputation as the fisting and handballing underground lubricant of choice.
During our warm-up chat comparing who had the most unproductive work day, Jekyll’s eyes widened and he demanded I remove my pants. I glared in response and said mine would hit the deck as soon as his were off.
He asked if I wanted my clit licked.
My shoes, jeans and underwear were in a pile before I could get my tongue into gear to respond verbally.
I pulled a towel from my bag to place under my backside in anticipation of flooding his face and caring about his car’s upholstery. Jekyll asked what else was rattling about in the bag and I said the Crisco hadn’t been opened.
It was like a pervert family Christmas morning when we removed the plastic lid and peeled the tub’s protective silver foil. We looked, poked our noses in and dipped our fingers as if the vegetable shortening might come to life and bite us. We rubbed the white grease between our thumbs and fingers until it turned clear and our digits slippery. It tasted bland but acceptable enough if dollops reached our mouths during hands-on testing. We pondered if people really used a cake-making ingredient to insert human body parts into other human body parts or if we’d been taken for a ride. We wiped our hands on the towel and placed the open container on the dashboard for later. The electric blue tub and its pound of contents stared at us mockingly as if we were too scared to play.
Jekyll folded his legs into car’s floor cabin and licked, fingered and slurped until all I could hear was my breathing. I went to a glorious place where my body turned on and my brain turned off and nothing mattered but the tiny mass in my centre where our surfaces connected.
My hamstrings strained to secure my body higher up the backrest and allow Jekyll’s fingers more room to move. I wriggled into his first two, burbled something unintelligible when the third entered and lost the power of speech when the last finger slid against the upper lining of my vagina.
So close to making the car rattle on its axles and forgiving Jekyll for any sin of the past, present and the entire fucking future. Please, body, I will crawl along a highway of broken glass to pass the stubborn gatekeeper between tension and release.
I asked Jekyll to rest his tongue when the cruel remnants of medication dangled relief an unreachable grasp away. He noticed my stagnation and enclosed his thumb in his hand, toying with my already-stretched cunt. We played with pushing and holding, retreating and re-trying, stretching and contracting.
“Feel that,” he said.
My right hand groped a digit-less forearm and I yelped.
“Where are your fingers?” my last functioning braincells asked.
“Inside you, silly.”
He guided my hand to the bottom knuckle of his thumb, the last undulation my vaginal entrance was reluctant to accommodate.
“Want to try the Crisco?” asked Jekyll.
“Why the hell not?”
He allowed his vaginally-lubricated hand to slide out and mixed my secretions with the greasier substance. I stretched and relaxed to settle myself for the battle of the last knuckle.
Jekyll’s hand slithered to its previous progress mark within seconds, and I heard him whisper, “Ninety-nine per cent, want to try for the last bit?”
“Please,” I said.
I didn’t have time to finish my sentence because he was in. Almost an anti-climax.
My brain exploded.
Jekyll tried to articulate the moment but my mouth uttered a jumbled, “Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, overload.”
He asked what was wrong.
“Shut up! And don’t move.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, brainy full. Shuddup.”
He closed his mouth but twisted his hand a few degrees at a time to test the effect. I reacted with yeses and nos as his subtle movements translated into buzzes of pleasure and pangs of discomfort. He said I felt full inside, which I agreed with but also found hard to believe considering his hands are of average size.
The oh fuck, there’s a whole human hand in me concept loosened its hold and I marvelled at the everyday miracle of women popping miniature humans out of their bodies.
I felt his tensed forearm again and marvelled at the I-don’t-know-what of the last few minutes. Like the night I was close to handballing Hyde, there were no sexual connotations at this stage; we were awestruck by the mechanics rather than the sensations.
Jekyll asked if I wanted a photo.
“Um, yes, no, oh, I don’t know, I don’t think I could look at it. Oh, maybe, I don’t know. Can you reach your phone like that?”
His spare hand was within reach of his mobile phone resting in the centre console. As he fiddled with the settings, I spread my thighs to minimise the effect of eating too much comfort food over winter in a surge of camera shyness and silly vanity (in case I did want to peek at the photo one day).
I caught sight of the stump of Jekyll’s arm between my legs when the flashlight illuminated the cabin. I reached mental overload again and it was time for his hand to be removed.
The extraction of his hand was like giving birth to the head of a giant octopus and his fingers were its tentacles. They kept coming out and coming out and I nearly yelled at the never-ending slippery intruders to get the fuck out of my body. A lifetime later my vagina was my own and thankfully Jekyll’s octopus child turned into a hand again.
We wondered and analysed and kissed and decided we were rampantly in need of a good old-fashioned fuck. The night so far had been surreal so Jekyll continued the theme and lubed my anus with his greasy hand. He ordered me on all fours as he wiped his hands and applied a condom.
We muddled about in the confined space and found a happy medium with my face wedged between the seat and headrest and my legs splayed wherever they fitted. Jekyll covered my back from behind and did a rollicking good job of pounding my arse.
He is a confident lover but purrs with the best when he receives compliments, especially my dead-honest feedback between moans and gasps that it’s been the best-feeling anal sex I could remember.
“In how long? Weeks, months, years?” he asked during thrusts.
“I don’t know.” Oooh. “Probably forever. Don’t know if it’s you or, hmmm, the heavier lube or both but, ahhhh, I don’t remember backing into a cock like this to get more.”
He’s sweet (and backhandedly asking for more) when he says if I keep talking like that he’s going to come.
I provoked him with the most vulgar dialogue I could channel and was drowned out when throaty groans and wails signalled his orgasm. He collapsed on my back as I fell down the seat in a helpless lump.
We cleaned ourselves and congratulated each other’s talent for causing so much mayhem in barely an hour. As I searched for my belongings, Jekyll offered to send the photo to my phone.
My skittishness returned.
“Okay, but not Bluetooth because it’ll open on the screen and I can’t look at it yet. Send a text and do not dare text me for the rest of the night, because I’ll forget and open it accidentally.”
I ignored the discreet buzz as the image hit my inbox and skipped to my car, forgetting how to drive and where I lived and how I managed complex tasks like remembering which traffic light meant stop and which said go.
My leg and glute muscles are strained from maintaining anatomically unusual positions but the important bits have bounced back to normal. I’m curious to try his hand again now the ignorance and apprehension have been dealt with and I can focus on how it feels.