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Message-ID: <31427asstr$995058604@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Desdmona22@aol.com
Subject: {ASSM} RP "Revealing Vignette" by Desdmona {FF, humor}
Date: Fri, 13 Jul 2001 17:10:04 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d


This is a reposted story. It's a series of stories about John and Kathy, and 
how they become aware. I'm reposting because the third in the series is about 
to be unveiled.
As always, if you're not suppose to be reading this, then don't!




Revealing Vignette: Journey Into Sexual Awareness II
By Desdmona


 
My husband John and I had been working diligently, like rabbits stoked up on 
Viagra, on ways to improve our sex life. I think he secretly suspected I had 
overdosed on Spanish Fly or something, but then he wasn't complaining. The 
usual once-a-week had spiked all the way up to three or four. Initially, I 
was sore and found myself entering the grocery store like I'd just climbed 
off a bucking bronco. I was walking gingerly and discovering I had muscles in 
places that had lain dormant for years. My body was saying, "OK, if you're 
going to treat me this way, then all my sinew are fighting back." I imagined 
this is what they meant by "working through the pain," but eventually I got 
used to the rigor. The perpetual smile on my face was proof positive.

It was a Thursday when my friend Miriam suggested we have a sex toy party. 
The idea sounded appealing, and I joked about it being like a Tupperware 
party. And as it turned out, that's exactly what they were like, or so Miriam 
said. I asked her just exactly what we have to "burp" to keep the freshness 
in. Miriam didn't know much more about these kinds of parties than I did.

She giggled and told me, "Well, they both sell plastic products."The decision 
was made and the date was set.

As with all parties, I stood in front of my closet and debated what to wear. 
This time was a little tougher - I had no idea what the runways of Paris had 
decreed one should wear to a sex toy party. Miriam, on a whim, had suggested 
we make it a formal affair. I died laughing with the idea of thirty to 
forty-year-old women in prom dresses looking at motion lotion and dildos. So 
we decided to make it casual, but sent out formal invitations just for kicks. 

You are cordially invited to expand your
horizons, test new products, and generally
find out how everything in the Xanadu catalog
really works. 

Of course most of the members of our car pool and PTA would never admit to 
knowing what Xanadu catalogs were. In fact, I was sure several would show up 
with the idea that it was some kind of vacation-get-away party, or a Disney 
party. 
 
I decided on jeans and a white peasant blouse. The collar and sleeves were 
flouncy, which sort of fit my mood. It had a scooped neckline that showed a 
bit of cleavage. I knew if I bent over, my cleavage would turn into the Great 
Divide. I had genetics to thank for my oversized bosom. My mom had them, my 
grandmother had them, and my great-grandmother had them. If we all stood side 
by side, we could chart the evolution of breasts in the family. I had an 
inkling that they could be traced all the way back to prehistoric times. I'm 
sure Darwin would be pleased. 

I decided I was in the mood to be daring. I arrived at the party feeling 
sexual and playful. Miriam had directed everyone to toss their coats on the 
bed in a back bedroom. I took a minute to look at myself in the dresser 
mirror, doing the once over obligatory adjustments that women do when they 
remove an outer garment.  

I hadn't noticed the body in the corner until she slurred out, "You look just 
fine, honey!"

I didn't recognize the sound of her voice or her silhouetted form.

"Uh, thanks! Do I know you?"

"I don't think so, honey, but you can call me Vignette." She reached to shake 
my hand. I found that odd. I wasn't sure how many hands I had shaken in my 
life but I was certain the number decreased dramatically when I restricted 
the count to women. She had a firm grasp on my hand, but instead of shaking, 
she pulled me closer and faced me.  "And your name is?"

"Oh I'm sorry," I said. "My name is Kathy" I felt like a recalcitrant child. 

"Nice to meet you Kathy. Has anyone ever told you that you have great tits?"

That silenced me dead in my tracks. Males had been telling me that since the 
sixth grade, when Steven Johnson trapped me up against the fence at recess to 
cop a feel. As I got older, some did it with a little more finesse, but never 
with more zeal. 
But no female had ever told me that before. I stood there, mouth agape, 
trying to mumble something and thought Bell Palsy victims had better luck 
than I was having. My face heated with embarrassment.

She moved a little closer until her body made contact with me. I could feel 
her nipples against mine. She was quick, and I was dumfounded, so I wasn't 
prepared when her hand reached around the back of my head and pulled me to 
her. Since my mouth was still hanging open, it was easy for her to slip her 
tongue inside. And she did. 

It happened so fast and was so bizarre that my eyes never closed. She wiggled 
her tongue deep and continued to hold my head in place. Her nipples were like 
tiny rocks trying to embed themselves into the fleshy part of my chest. She 
got hold of my surprised tongue and began to suck it. Quick,slurpy sucks. 

It was an odd sensation. My tongue was a pulley to my womb.She sucked and it 
jerked upwards like an ascending bucket in a wishing well, coming up to the 
surface filled with all the wet of its cavernous hole.

As quickly as she started, she stopped. She said something about seeing me 
later in the other room and she skittered out the door. But I just stood 
there. My mind was racing. What the hell had just happened? She had kissed 
me, rubbed her glass hard nipples against mine, and had nearly sucked my 
tongue down her throat. If I wasn't grappling with the after effects, I might 
have thought it was all a dream. I think I preferred thinking it was a dream. 
Or a mirage. But for a mirage, it had the softest lips I had ever felt. 

The sounds of raucous laughter from the other room reminded me I was there 
for the party. I hurriedly rechecked myself. As I had suspected, the blush on 
my cheeks was high. Well, there was nothing to do about it - I'd just let the 
others think it was from being at my first sex toy party. 

Everyone was scattered about with glasses of wine and plates of appetizers in 
their hands. I couldn't help but look for Vignette. What kind of name was 
Vignette, anyway? Isn't a vignette a short scene of some sort? Well, she was 
short and she certainly gave me a scene I wasn't soon to forget. 

I spotted her over at a table. The merchandise lay, covered with a 
tablecloth, like the Secrets of the Mighty Unknown. I came to the party 
expecting to see things I had never seen before. Chalk one up for intuition - 
that had happened almost before I got my coat off.

I realized then that Vignette was the woman putting on the party. Apparently, 
accosting the guests in the back bedroom was part of the pre-party warm-up. 
Well, I was all warmed up, so it was time to party. I took a deep breath and 
headed toward the wine and food.

Everyone mingled for a while. I managed to down two glasses of wine and was 
working on the third when Miriam told us it was time to start. As Vignette 
started her company spiel, it gave me a chance to really look at her.

Yes, she was short. Shorter than me by about three inches, which made her 
about five foot four. She must have stood on her toes when she kissed me 
earlier. She had cropped red hair. I suspected perhaps L'oreal #52: Titian 
Gold. Her nose was small and upturned and her eyes were brown. But not that 
dull brown like muddy water, but earth brown with a glittery sparkle. Nothing 
dull for our Vignette. Her eye make-up however, was a bit overdone. The only 
other place I had ever seen that color of teal was in a sixty-four box of 
Crayola. She had outlined her eyes like a nine-year-old tracing the lines 
before coloring. But even with the exaggerated tint, her eyes remained 
sparkly and friendly. 

She was dressed in a magenta shirt that had to be ninety-five percent Lycra, 
and it clung to her form like Saran Wrap. And there were those nipples that 
had rubbed up against me, poking out very friendly-like. Didn't those buggers 
ever soften up? Her skirt was only slightly looser, very black, and very 
short. Micro-mini is the fashion term, I believe. So this is what one wore to 
a sex toy party! I was sorely overdressed.

She started out standing, but soon chose to sit back on a barstool with her 
legs crossed. She spieled along, and while she told us all the benefits of 
selling "Eroti-Toys" she uncrossed her legs. In true Basic Instinct/Sharon 
Stone style, she let us all know that in the sex toy party dress code, 
panties were purely optional, and Vignette had opted to go without.

I felt warm again and mildly disappointed. The move had been too brief for me 
to determine if L'oreal #52 was a color choice that covered all. I sipped my 
wine.

Of course everyone else had gotten the same peep show I had. A silence fell 
over the room like nerve gas had been piped in through the vents and left us 
all speechless. Vignette had our undiluted attention.

She reached under the tablecloth and pulled out a small bottle of oil. We sat 
glued, like children at a magic show watching the magician pull the rabbit 
out of the hat. She opened it and poured a small amount on her thigh and 
began to rub, slow strokes back and forth. The smell of cinnamon permeated 
the room. As she stroked, she spoke in soft tones, with intermittent moans.

"Ooh, the more you touch, aah, the more the oil will, mmm, heat up!" Her bare 
leg was shiny and slick. And her fingers glistened as they massaged her thigh.

"Anyone want to try some?"

I took another sip of wine.

Hands raised in the air, with echoes of, "Me me me!"  I visualized Horshack 
on "Welcome Back Kotter" and smiled. It didn't keep me from sticking my hand 
out to have her pour a little in my palm. It _was_ warm. She suggested we rub 
it over an area with a pulse point, "like a wrist or your neck, or ...." She 
left the sentence open-ended as other pulsating areas reeled through our 
imaginations.

I chose the safety of my wrist and began to rub. It began to heat and send 
tiny sensations up the length of my arm. It was a slow building fire that 
coursed through my veins. In a matter of minutes the whole room was full of 
oohs and ahhs.
Vignette stuck her fingers in her mouth and sucked the oil from the tips. Not 
as vigorously as she had sucked my tongue earlier, but enough for me to see 
the slight indentations in her cheeks. 

"And it's edible too, ladies!"  Her words were slightly garbled around her 
fingers. I stuck my wrist up to my mouth and sucked. Then took another sip of 
wine ... mmm, cinnamon schnapps.

Vignette reached under the blanket and pulled out a vibrator. I guess now 
that we were percolating, it was time for the big guns. It was plain, cream 
colored, about six-and-a-half inches long, and utterly phallic. She turned it 
on and pointed out it had three speeds: Nearly a man, Like a man, and Who 
needs a man. She laughed at her own joke and looked directly at me. I laughed 
too. Sure it was a nervous laugh, but what was I suppose to do, standup and 
yell, "You're scratching up the wrong cat post!"  But the heat I felt, 
coupled with the moisture between my legs, put a hole in the theory that I 
wasn't enjoying her attentions. So I sat like everyone else and watched 
Vignette's performance.

The tension inside me released a little when she pulled out the attachments 
for the vibrator. It had six. Five of them were identifiable, but the last 
one bore a striking resemblance to the tentacles on the alien in that 
Sigourney Weaver movie. I could just see me visiting the ER with this thing 
caught up in my vagina, the ER personnel asking what it was, why had I put it 
there, and had I been baking because there was a strong smell of cinnamon. 
With me mumbling something about it not being my fault, that Vignette told me 
to do it. The laughter began to bubble up inside me, spurred on by the 
emptied third glass of wine.

Vignette sensed the slight change in mood in the room and immediately went 
back to the table. This time it was a dildo. Large, thick and rubbery with 
replica veins. It was flesh-colored. She took it by the base and ran it 
slowly down the front of her lycra shirt. It was more effective than any 
whistle she could have blown to get our attention. Our muffled voices halted, 
and we again watched the woman in charge. Vignette cooed something about 
imagining how good this would feel when the real thing wasn't available. 
Shoulders relaxed and eyes went dreamy thinking about just that. She pulled 
out three more dildos of varying sizes and slight differences in the 
mushroomed heads.

"It's just like Lay's potato chips, ladies. One is never enough."

She passed around the toys so we could feel how some were more  "flesh-like" 
while others were more like basic hardware. Comments were bandied about in 
regards to the guys who had modeled for them, and several wanted to know 
where those men were now, and could we call them?

The wave of heat that I had been riding was beginning to dissipate when 
Vignette pulled out a string with maybe six or eight black beads lined up the 
length of it. She popped one into her mouth and let the rest hangout from 
between her lips. I was reminded of a long piece of spaghetti until she began 
to systematically push all the balls through her pursed lips. She kept her 
lips tight and forced them in one after the other. I thought there was no way 
all of them would fit, but they did.

We sat waiting to see what she'd do next when she grabbed the string and 
pulled with all her might, letting out a guttural howl. I thought about the 
places those beads could go and I felt a familiar twitching.I immediately 
decided that my mouth wasn't where I'd like to try - dental accidents seemed 
a risk to avoid. 

Vignette hopped down off the barstool and walked over to the table with her 
back to us. We sat on the edge of our seats waiting for her next little 
demonstration. Our attention never wavered. She lifted up the tablecloth and 
pulled something from beneath it, not allowing us to see it. I knew that 
curiosity was known to kill a cat, but in this case, it was more likely 
feeding my pussy.

She gathered up the tablecloth and wrapped whatever she had taken out in it, 
causing a couple items to fall to the floor. She reached over to get the 
dropped items, never once bending at the knees. The jury was in: L'oreal #52 
was saved just for the her head. Light brown hair adorned her elsewhere. 
Trimmed neatly, of course.

Vignette stayed in that position, bent at the waist with her legs straight. 
Passing her previous audacity, she allowed us plenty of time to make out the 
color of the pubes, the crevices it covered, and the humidity factor. Her sex 
was as wet as mine and, I'd be willing to wager, most of the others in the 
room.

I had never sexually wanted a woman, and it wasn't that I wanted one now, but 
I couldn't help admire her. She was the boldest woman I had ever met. She had 
single-handedly seduced the entire room, and, I might add, made our 
purchasing decisions much more difficult. I wondered if her boss had any idea 
that when he complimented her on putting her "all" into the job, if he knew 
just how much that meant.

The room hummed with electricity waiting for Vignette's next move. She 
started to talk at us through her legs, forcing everyone to look at her. She 
moved her hips so much that it almost seemed her nether lips were doing the 
talking. I wanted to giggle, a laugh to hide the real feelings this odd woman 
was causing in me. I imagined she was waiting for someone to come forth and 
touch the treasure she seemed to be offering so freely. Even the absurdity of 
her talking through her legs was arousing. My mind was coming up with all 
sorts of odd ideas. Like, what if when you went to order lunch in the 
drive-through, this was the "box" you had to speak into? I was hoping she 
would stand up soon, just for my peace of mind.

No one else said a word, either because of shock or because they were having 
the same reactions I was. Once again, Vignette had our total attention. She 
finally stood up and faced us. Her face was flushed red from the blood rush.

"I have one more thing I want to show you, before I go to the private room to 
start taking orders." I had forgotten that Miriam had said when you book a 
party, they ask if you have a room where orders can be taken in private, so 
that customers could order without embarrassment. Miriam had set up her guest 
bedroom for that purpose.

The table was covered with varying gels, powders, and a few books. Also 
different sized vibrators in all the colors of the rainbow. Oddly enough, 
there was a teal one in the back that exactly matched Vignette's eye shadow. 
But she didn't go to the table.

She lifted up the wadded tablecloth to reveal the "toy." She called it a 
Venus Butterfly, the coup de grace. I automatically assumed it was something 
utterly feminine. I had never seen one before, or even heard of one. It was 
pink and shaped rudimentarily like a butterfly. But it was the ugliest thing 
I had ever seen. They missed the mark on the name - there was no way that was 
a butterfly. It reminded me more of the old cocoon the butterfly emerged from.

I thought I was prepared for anything Vignette might do, but I wasn't. She 
carefully removed all the other items from the table and then scooted back, 
sitting. She held the "butterfly" in her hand and opened her legs wide, 
placing it over her fully exposed mons. Straps fit around her waist, holding 
the toy in place. She fiddled with it a little and then moved her hands away. 
She was completely covered now by the toy with only small bits of pubic hair 
poking out from the sides. Obviously, Vignette knew the power visual aides 
could have when selling products. She pointed out to us how each area of a 
woman would be stimulated with this toy, anal, clitoral, and vaginal.

I thought what if I died and my kids found my sex toys. They would die of 
embarrassment. Of course it could be worse, I could be using theVenus 
Butterfly when I died. I could see the headlines now "Woman Stimulated to 
Death by Insect Carcass." OK, so discretion was called for. I'd been 
stimulating myself most of my life, after all. I guess I could continue to be 
discreet if it meant I got to have this toy.

As long as I didn't have to look at it.

Vignette hopped down from the table, pulling me from my reverie. And in 
perfect Vignette style, she kept the stimulating toy in place.The buzzing 
sound hummed in the background as the Queen Bee ended her presentation. And 
you just knew that plenty of nectar was being produced.

She left the room. We sat in silence. No one knew what to say. Normally we 
were all talkers, but this kind of situation had never come up at the PTA 
meetings before.

Finally, Miriam, in perfect hostess style, said, "'ll order first," and she 
disappeared behind the back bedroom door. The rest of us sat and stared at 
the vacated table, afraid to look at each other, as if the words "I'm 
aroused" might be written on our foreheads.

The silence was truly deafening, and I knew somebody better say something, so 
I said, "So the real question is, do you think Vignette cums quickly or it 
takes awhile? I want to know so I can judge how soon I'm going in to place my 
order."

Everyone laughed. The mood lightened a bit. We began to chat and go for 
drinks. A few reached for snacks. I was simply parched. I was pouring one 
more glass of wine when Miriam came out, carrying a moderately sized, plain 
brown paper bag. We turned to look at her. She grinned from ear to ear.

The obvious question was asked, "Does she still have it on?"

"Uh, yeah, she does. Except for the humming, though, you would never know."

What a perfect little ploy Vignette was using. Make you order her goods with 
an audible hum droning in your ears. Was anyone even going to be able to 
write a legible check? I imagined John getting the canceled checks in the 
mail and asking, "Honey, why does this one to Eroti-toys look like you 
suddenly contracted Parkinson's disease?"

Everyone was dying to know what Miriam purchased. She pulled out the hot 
"motion- lotion" that came in varying flavors. The consensus was this was 
everyone's favorite item. And why not? Nothing since Baskin Robbins could 
please the senses so easily and still maintain its variety.

And so woman after woman entered the room, came out smiling with brown paper 
bags and always the same question: "Is it still on?" And they all answered 
the same: "Yes."

Finally, it was my turn. I'd been thinking of what John's reaction would be 
if I came sauntering home with two grocery bags full of sex toys. He had 
sported a huge erection when I had left that night, knowing where I was going 
and anticipating when I got home. But I don't think he was quite ready to 
build a new armoire to hold them all. So I narrowed my choices down.

I half expected to walk into Miriam's bedroom and find a den of iniquity, 
with dildos hanging from the ceiling, naked pictures all over the walls, and 
the air filled with a fog of incense. Instead, I walked in, and except for a 
few big boxes against the wall and a card table with papers on it, the room 
looked no different than every other time I had been there.

Vignette was sitting on the bed. No one else had volunteered that this was 
her position. She was leaning back on her elbows with her right leg thrown 
over her left, locked at the ankles, dangling them off the side of the bed. 
She was Mata Hari, playing a seductive temptress.

"Kathy, I'm so glad you're ordering something. I'm sure you won't be 
disappointed." 

Her words were all business, but her actions told a different story. She 
stopped, lifted her legs up, bent at the knees, and opened them so I could 
see. And I looked, like a passer-by at an accident, drawn in by the curiosity 
of the sight.

"You want to see me close, Kathy?" Vignette purred. 

I did, she knew I did. I moved slowly over to the bed. The insides of 
Vignette's thighs were saturated with moisture. The humming noise was a bit 
louder with her exposed like that, and her musky smell drifted up to my nose.

"Come a little closer, Kathy."

I didn't hesitate, as if I was hypnotized. I bent down on my knees and looked 
directly at Vignette's pussy. If she closed her legs, she would trap my head 
between them. But she didn't. Instead, she opened them further and lay 
completely back on the bed. Down on my knees like that, I felt like I was 
worshiping some deity. Maybe I was, at the altar of Vignette. 

She began to writhe, muffling her moans with her own hand. Apparently, she 
was very close to orgasm from all the stimulation, so it only took briefs 
moments for her to climax. And just when I thought Vignette couldn't surprise 
me anymore, she whipped the butterfly up and showed me her orgasming sex. A 
milky white substance leaked out as her labia shuddered. I had never seen a 
woman climax, not even myself, at least not from this angle. It was beautiful 
and sexy.

She recovered quickly and just looked at me. I stared back. 

"Would you like to touch me, Kathy?" She asked huskily.

My genitalia vibrated as if all the different parts were joined in chorus, 
chanting, "More than anything in the world!" But a knock at the door broke 
the spell.

As I was driving home, I wondered if any of the other women had seen what I 
had. After all, her thighs were pretty soaked by the time I got there. It 
really didn't matter. I had enjoyed her performance from beginning to end, 
and now I was racing home to get to John. I couldn't wait to show him my 
purchase of the Venus Butterfly and experiment with it.

I wondered if we hadn't been interrrupted, would I have touched her? I think 
I might have. I was caught up in a sexual haze. Now I just wonder if the 
chance will ever come up again.


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