Page 9 of Penalty Kiss
"Register this as a deadly weapon. My cat fled the house and hasn't returned."
“This thing saves my back and my marriage. My wife prefers the bullet to me!”
I laugh despite myself. Clearly, these reviewers have never heard of subtlety. How intense can a device smaller than the size of a tube of lipstick possibly be?
I set the phone aside and examine the innocent-looking object in my hand. It's tiny, sleek and modern. And presumably easy to use now that I know where’s the “On” button.
Here goes nothing.
I take a breath and let my free hand drift across my skin, fingertips tracing the line of my collarbone, the curve of my shoulder. The touch is feather-light, tentative, like I'm introducing myself to my own body. My heart starts to beat faster, a flutter of anticipation mixed with nerves.
The mirrors catch every movement, reflecting my flushed skin from a dozen angles. For once, I don't look away. Instead, I let myself watch as my palm slides lower, over the swell of my breast, across the plane of my stomach. My skin feels warm, alive in a way that has nothing to do with the shower steam still lingering in the air.
The bullet vibrator sits cool and innocent in my other hand.
I press the button, testing it against my fingertip.
The thing comes alive like an angry wasp.
Holy—.
The vibration travels up through my fingers, making my whole hand tingle with an intensity that's somewhere between "massage setting" and "small earthquake." The reviews weren't kidding—this thing has enough power to level a small building.
But my body is already responding in anticipation, heat pooling low in my belly, and I'm too committed to back out now. I slide the buzzing device lower, over my ribs, across my hip bone, following the path my other hand mapped moments before.
Okay, Tara. You've got this. Just... find the right spot and...
I guide it between my thighs, searching, and the moment it makes contact with myclit—
YELP!
It's like being struck by the world's most overstimulated tuning fork. Panicking, I quickly click the button repeatedly to turn it off but the wasp only gets angrier.
I scream not with pleasure but shock, and decide to fling the thing across the room in pure self-preservation.
It lands with a soft thud behind my dresser, wedged perfectly between the wall and the mirror that leans against it, and keeps buzzing with the persistence of a provoked wasp nest.
Turn off!I will it silently, as if my brain can somehow remote-control the rebellious device.
It does not comply.
The sound fills the room—BZZZZZZZZ—a mechanical protest that's going to wake up my next house neighbors if I don't shut it. I scramble off the bed and crouch behind the dresser, trying to reach the thing with my fingers.
No luck. It's wedged tight, and the angle is impossible.
Plan B: broom handle. Which immediately turns into a jackhammer in my hands.
"Just turn off!" I hiss at the offending object, jabbing at it desperately.
The broom handle slips, I lose my balance, and I end up sprawled on the floor in nothing but a towel, wrestling with cleaning supplies while my bedroom sounds like a construction site.
This is definitely not how the website said this would go.
After another minute of increasingly creative contortions, I finally manage to wedge the broom handle at just the right angle to knock the vibrator free. It falls to the floor and rolls under the bed, still shrieking.
I army-crawl after it, grab it, and fumble for the button until blessed silence returns.
I collapse on the floor, clutching the tiny demon like it personally insulted me. The ceiling mirror reflects back a disheveled, towel-clad woman who just lost a wrestling match to a lipstick-sized toy.
