The Black Mamba

Written by Tara Tainton

Saturday, 28 March 2009 12:58

Harry tottered from one wide foot to the other, focused intently on the machine-made member proudly standing permanently erect on the shelf before him. He wasn’t intimidated. He just wanted to feel that capable for a day, to be equipped so sufficiently and able to provide that kind of fulfillment. “Full-filling” is the word that actually came to his mind as he thought of stuffing his wife’s cunt with every inch of the black rubber extension of himself.

He stood among strangers, each of them claiming their own private section of shelving in the sex shop. If Harry wanted to inch towards the slimmer torpedo-like vibrators, he’d have to wait until the man standing six feet to his right moved on. It was the unspoken etiquette guiding visits to such a store. All wondered if their innermost desires or self-deemed deviant habits were somehow determinable by the merchandise their field of vision happened to pass over.

Harry surveyed the others in the store, wondering at their own secrets and private lives. Perhaps the tall man to his right with the uncommonly long mustache had an entire collection of cock rings, mostly leather and chromed studs of course, to coordinate with his biker leather. The shorter gentleman with the eyeglasses to his left probably wasn’t that interested in edible undies and was just waiting his turn to pray before the altar of dildos. And there was the middle-aged couple in the far corner snickering at the leather face masks. Were they newly acquainted and quizzing each other’s taste or was this just a regular visit for this week’s new toy?

Harry’s chest burned with envy, and the image of his wife’s rosy face flashed in his mind. That should’ve been us. He studied the anonymous couple in a quick glance again. The woman’s smile pressed her plump cheeks up around her eyes, nearly hiding them as she took her lover’s hand and leaned into him to hide her shyness. Samantha.

“Excuse me, um… Do you mind if I, uh...” It was the man on Harry’s left, pointing towards the stock of dildos.

“No, of course not,” Harry managed while clearing his throat to summon his most masculine tone. He stepped back toward the middle of the room, nearly bumping into the freestanding rack brimming with the youngest, most innocent faces peering out from Blue Boy, Mandate, and Jock. The enormous black cock loomed in the distance now. It leered at him pompously, daring him to claim it for his own. Harry had already made up his mind.

Harry feigned interest in the nearby display of flavored lube, fingering the individual boxes and even reading the limited instructions and warnings. The store’s clerk leaned on the wall at his post behind the counter, oozing “Baby” this and “Baby” that into the phone pressed against his thick brown lips. Harry wondered if the employees in these places were actually instructed purposely to ignore the customers, to avoid eye contact, and to pretend their sexual preferences and perversions were going completely unnoticed.

Turning back towards the wall of synthetic penises, Harry found the short man had left the spot available again. He moved swiftly in—before being delayed another half hour—and peered up at the Black Mamba residing on a high shelf just within his reach. The weight of years of self-emasculation lay heavy on his arm and his desire to grasp the glossy box that showcased the tempting member in a clear plastic window. It’s now or never.

Harry’s hand twitched as it slowly rose. His fingers tentatively pointed toward the object of his desire. It didn’t matter if anyone was watching or not. After all, whatever might be running through their imaginations at that moment had to be more flattering than the reality of Harry’s prudent existence. All that mattered was taking one step closer towards validating his desire to bridge the gap between the man he was and the man he wanted to be.

As the tips of his fingers nearly touched the casing, he was bumped abruptly by another shoulder butting against his. The Black Mamba leaned forward as Harry’s round fingers jabbed the box. It rocked backward, hesitated, and then arced forward into a swan dive towards the cold tile floor.

“Ah, sorry, man.” The man with the overgrown facial hair had neglected to watch where he was going while gawking at the cover of the latest issue of Gent. He nearly stepped on the Black Mamba that now laid precariously, still prominently centered in its protective packaging despite being suddenly dethroned.

Harry had to touch it. In his hands, it was closer to him than it had ever been. The anatomically correct masterpiece felt more a part of him, designed with his own needs in mind. Its fully engorged ten-inch length of smooth black rod was heavy, prominent. Through the marred plastic film, he traced the blue-black veins webbed around the mass, imagining its pulsing throb as if it was his own tool. He was overwhelmed by its masculinity and the implied strength in its girth and weight: the depiction of proficiency.

For a moment, Harry beamed with the unfamiliar feeling of self-assurance. As if in a trance, he caught himself walking towards the pay counter without replacing the implement on its designated shelf.

“Naw, that can’t be right! You’re actually buyin’ somethin’ this time, man?” The clerk behind the counter smiled exaggeratedly. He noticed Harry’s unaltered blank stare and fingered the cash register. “None of my business. I’m just happy for you!” He didn’t say another word.

Harry just stood there, determining it was unkind to change his mind and ask to escape without the dildo. He emptied his wallet to pay the $49.99 bill in cash and watched in disbelief as the brown paper bag, barely able to enclose the oversized box, was handed to him with a courteous smile. He scooted out the door. The small bell on the frame rang harshly to announce his long overdue triumph.

On the drive home, the Black Mamba, still encased in brown paper, sat upright in the passenger seat. Harry had actually considered buckling it in for further protection before he snickered at himself and shook his head. Damn expensive toy. That was nearly three hours of wages, but he felt every penny was worth it. And then it dawned on him.

Buying it was one thing. How could he possibly carry out the rest of his fantasy? He pictured his wife’s cherub-like face, her innocent smile, and her quiet way. Did she even know what a dildo was? Oh, God, what have I done? A persistent smile rested between his cheeks despite the fear that caused his heart to beat abnormally fast.

He looked over at the conspicuous package seated next to him again. He couldn’t very well stride right in through the door with it. He’d figure something out when he got home.

Harry looked down at the car’s clock. Seven o’clock. He should’ve been home over an hour and a half ago. Dinner would be drying in the oven as his wife attempted to keep it warm. She wouldn’t be upset. She wouldn’t even be worried. In fact, she’d by disappointingly understanding, as always. Harry couldn’t guess whether she was just an extreme optimist, or simply didn’t care anymore.

As he pulled into his drive, the late summer sun washed his humble home in a mocking glow. The garage door closed behind the car as Harry swung his beige trench coat over his shoulders. He shoved the large brown package between his suit and the coat, unable to button up around it. Still, the package was hidden, and his wife wouldn’t notice. She didn’t notice anything anymore.

He stepped into the kitchen, careful to remove his shoes before approaching the carpet, and made a bee-line for the staircase.

“Hello, Harry,” sounded from the direction of the living room.

“Oh, hello, dear,” he managed in return, never pausing along his path. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

He found himself standing in their bedroom at the foot of the queen-size bed and looking desperately for a suitable hiding place. There was little furniture and only a single closet that his wife referred to often for her hobby supplies and whatever else she busied herself with during the days while Harry was at the office. He remembered to close the door to the room and then pulled the secret purchase out of its sleeve of unmarked wrapping. He gently unfolded one cardboard end, and lifted the Black Mamba from its gaudy sheath.

The exquisitely lifelike texture seemed to writhe within his grasp, responding to the slightest pressure of the pads of his fingers as Harry examined it more closely than ever before. The bulbous head was pinkish-brown and so impressively designed. The lip was large but surprisingly soft. He assumed it must have the ability to make a woman’s inner depths respond in unfamiliar ways as it passed over the slightest ridge within.

Harry’s rare smile returned as he laid the rubber dong on the bed. The mass of black cock was completely intrusive and almost grotesque against the backdrop of china blue and country motif. Harry resisted the impulse to rid their home of it all together. He was drawn to the symbol of male potency. It was a gift he wanted to give his wife, an urge bubbling up from the depths.

It was stashed far under the bed, hidden well beyond the ruffled curtain of bed skirt. Harry changed into his dingy lounge clothes, and his slippered feet led him downstairs again.

He found Sam curled up in the corner of the overstuffed couch, intent upon the contents of the book she was reading. Her white fingers resembled those of a porcelain doll, very precise, very desirable. She dropped a paper bookmark between the pages and laid the book at her side. “I waited to eat with you, dear. I hope you don’t mind that it’s not freshly prepared.” Of course he didn’t mind.

He proceeded to his appointed high-backed chair at the dining table while Sam brought out the serving dishes and pulled out a chair at the opposite end. “I made one of your favorites: roast chicken and sweet potatoes.” She smiled at him lovingly, and quickly lowered her eyes to place a cloth napkin in her lap.

Harry carefully mounded large helpings onto his plate and set out to make them disappear, one at a time. Sam attended to her own plate, never looking up while she quietly consumed each forkful.

Harry liked this time, when he could admire her beauty and go unnoticed. He studied the roundness of her cheeks, growing in size with each bite taken. Her mousy brown hair was set in large curls landing on her strong shoulders and directed his eyes towards her ample bosom. She had always been such a beauty. He suspected she always would be. Her plump figure became her, emphasizing all of her womanly curves. He imagined she could have large, healthy babies.

An uneasy thread of pity fingered its way up from his gut, quick to remind him of the self-deprecation that colored every moment of his days. He watched Sam mouth a spoonful of mashed sweet potatoes and longed to know how those full lips would feel encircling his erect penis, how those long fingers would tighten around his shaft. She was such a demure thing, confident but modest. She was innocent, almost childish. That’s why he fell for her years ago, clinging to her desperately as if she was his savior, his muse that would help him create a beautiful life for both of them.

They were happier once, eternal honeymooners. They played together, laughed from the pits of their throats, and tumbled onto their bed to rip away the sheets and then their clothes. There had been stars shining behind the quiet contentedness in Sam’s eyes. And Harry remembered feeling like a man.

If he followed the urge hiding in his belly beneath the table, he’d walk over to her now, delicately lift her chin to face him, and show her the man he was inside, the man he knew she deserved. He would take her soft hand and lead her to the bedroom, lying her down on the crisp, quilted cover while he slowly removed her fitted clothes. She would look up at him with a curious but accommodating smile. She would recognize his intentions from the light of the flame in his eyes. She would know she was safe.

With her body lying naked and glowing in the lamplight, he’d stand beside her and soak up the complete view of every vulnerable inch of her lovely body. He’d sit beside her and trace the inside of her leg with a single finger while he drew the limb gently out to her side. And then, he’d take her. First, with his tongue searching for the heat between her coy pink lips resting in that dark mass of tight curls. Then, he’d unleash the new purchase from its hiding place.

He’d secure the Black Mamba with one hand at its wide base, holding it out of view, and dip his fingers in the warm female juices freely dripping onto the bedcover. He’d coat the immense cock with care and then allow it to prick her, nudging aggressively at first, and then penetrating the glistening creases with unanticipated ease. He’d allow it to force its way deeper inside, reaching to the very end of the tightening passageway with the entirety of his desire. He would pound against her mound, in and out, over and over, using the unignorable extension of himself to make her feel like the woman that she was to him.

But Harry was certain that scene would never take place. He could foresee Sam’s terrified eyes, immediately startled by her knowledge of the dildo’s very existence. He envisioned a look of utter disgust distorting her beautiful face and forming the very worst thoughts in her virtuous mind. She would throw him out of the house or never look at him devotedly again. Either way, it would be over, a crushing blow to the last pearl of hope in his life.

Sam continued to consider her dinner plate, savoring the morsels she loved to share with her husband, even at a distance. Harry’s presence warmed her in an assuring way. Each time he came in through that door, she knew they’d be okay for another day.

She observed the scant room from the corner of her eye, the white walls and bare corners. She lost interest in adorning their home when Harry did. When the children never came. She’d never understand quite how it happened, when something invisible crept into their marriage, into their friendship, and planted the seed of something hungry there. Over the months and then years, it had consumed nearly every ounce of joy in their life together.

Sam had recognized the beginning, though she didn’t comprehend what it was the beginning of, when a glaze passed over Harry’s eyes. The occurrence was so conspicuous that her memory still replayed the very moment that the burnished film fell across his black pupils, veiling or eating away the spirit that once resided there. The two of them were sitting in the paneled doctor’s office, holding hands tightly as they faced Dr. Phillips himself. The news wasn’t good; it was Harry’s body that rejected their dream of being parents. Sam had been deeply saddened, but Harry was heartbroken.

He didn’t touch her in the way he used to. In the most important way, he couldn’t. His fingers used to be firm and explorative. He was learning the ways of her body, its reactions to his. And Sam allowed him to discover at his own pace, waiting patiently for him to reach her level of experience, to be ready for what she had to show him. He was so proud then, feverish in fact. He reveled in pursuing her, in goading her into new discovery. And she let him believe he was.

Harry’s fork clanked against his empty plate, ringing sharply in the shared silence. He waited, as was his habit, and slowly sipped the last drops from his water glass while Sam finished her meal. She raised her eyes, but not far enough to meet his, and smiled at no one as she picked up her plate and silverware and reached out a hand for his.

Her voice wafted from the kitchen. “I was thinking of making it an early night, dear. I think I’ll run a bath and then tuck in.”

Harry finished wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Yes, dear.” He proceeded to his burgundy recliner and reached for one of his magazines from the day’s mail piled on the end table at his elbow. Within minutes, he heard Sam’s footsteps in the bedroom above followed by the sound of swiftly running water.

Sam stood before the large walk-in closet, scanning the shelves for anything new or out of place to catch her eye. One insight she did have into her marriage was Harry’s fondness for routine. It seemed that he gathered comfort from it—it was a facet of security or continuation in a world that had surprised him with the hand it had dealt him. Today, he hadn’t sought her out as soon as he came home, with his face showing that restful expression of reassurance that she would be just where he expected her to be. Instead, he’d gone directly upstairs.

She was never concerned about Harry. She trusted him. He was a kindhearted man, a loving husband. Yet, in her life that had grown limited—to serve only the role of keeping some semblance of light and peace in his eyes, and sometimes a smile appearing on his face—a break in the routine was excitement. Not an alarm, but a hint of possibility.

She frowned at the tidy closet lined with shelves and neat piles, and turned to face the near empty bedroom. Then she looked under the bed.

Harry had heard the fall of water stop and then the slurp of the drain. He paused in his reading and closed his magazine. He realized he wanted nothing more in that moment than to be near her, to crawl into the bed they still shared and take comfort in seeing that she was right there next to him, her nightgown neatly arranged around her. Perhaps she was still awake and they could read in bed together, and enjoy another peaceful length of mutual silence, the language they spoke so well together. That was when he could still feel the connection between them, a feathery string, which hung from one heart to the other reminding him that she was his.

He traveled up the staircase carefully, just in case Sam was asleep already, and slowly opened the bedroom door. Her bedside lamp was on, and she was reading beneath its bluish tint. The bed sheets were tucked high under her arms as she sat up against the headboard, intent upon the text. Harry smiled to himself as he realized she must have his favorite nightgown on, the strapless one, which he’d bought for her long ago on some spontaneous road trip across the country. Her figure was still as ideal as he’d found it to be then.

Harry prepared for bed in the bathroom and crawled in beside Sam. The freshly washed sheets felt cool against his skin, perfectly smooth and soft. He turned to look at Sam in her serene state, and she smiled for him again, her eyes never leaving the lines of words they followed. He reached for the book on his nightstand, but stopped himself. He returned his arm to his side again, looked at Sam once more, and slowly slid his opposite arm beneath the sheets as he leaned toward her.

He reached the creamy skin of a bare thigh and froze. He looked up at her, eyebrows raised in question, and she smiled again, her eyes still not leaving the book. He smoothed his hand over her hairless leg, over her waist, and to the side of her round breast just to be sure. She wasn’t wearing a nightgown.

“That tickles.” Her unexpected giggle sent chills down Harry’s spine running directly to the immobile equipment between his legs. He remained perfectly still while Sam laid down her book, and he waited for some word or gesture to put an abrupt end to the moment.

Sam only smiled, but this time, her eyes burned directly into his. “Are you going to sleep with your hand there all night, or are you going do something with it?”

His hand was cupping her breast, now holding the long nipple at the base of two fingers as he stared up at her sheepishly. Through his tentative expression, Sam noted the slightest glint in his eye. She placed her hand over his and, together, they held her breast. She squeezed tightly, helping her husband to gather the full mass in his hand. She could see the change in his eyes as they squinted with expression and deep concentration, reflecting a flood of thoughts rolling behind his brow. His lips curled in a precarious smirk, and he pulled his wife down to him.

She smiled her approval in the sexiest curve that Harry had ever seen. He lowered his mouth to taste her lips, and surprised himself as he sucked on them one at a time, removing the taste of her sugary lip gloss. He hungered for more, and took her entire mouth in his as her tongue reached the roof of his mouth and sent shivers throughout his body. “Samantha,” he murmured as he released her. He hadn’t called that name in years.

He was summoning a ghost of the past, a memory he clung too so tightly that it existed almost as reality. Sam purred beneath him as his fingers drew circles around her nipples before lifting them to his mouth. She arched her back to reach him more quickly and winced as the sharpness of his teeth pricked her provocatively. She opened her eyes, searching his for the proper motive, and then shoved him on his back.

Harry was stunned by her force. He couldn’t remember Sam being the aggressor, only pouting in that bashful way as if begging him to be her predator. Sam’s long fingers worked quickly to unbutton his nightshirt then yanked at the drawstring of his pants. He didn’t know what to do or if he was supposed to. She was now leaning over him, her angelic face expressionless as she drank in the image of his naked form.

In that moment, Harry felt reconnected to his life. He felt in touch with his own body, the reality of it pressing him down into the mattress. He owned his desires and let them rise to the surface of his skin in a great rush. He could see Sam’s as well and the way they made her complexion change. When her eyes met his again, he could see through them to the femaleness inside her, to the woman longing for him. She needs me.

Before he could reach for her, Sam was tugging at his side, motioning for him to turn onto his stomach. He didn’t pause to consider the peculiar request; he just followed instruction. As the smoothness of her palms warmed his skin, running down his back and over his ass, a tear slid along the bridge of his nose. Years of tension seemed to seep out of his pores as the hands worked more deeply into his flesh and concentrated on the rise of his ass.

She drew his hand to the wetness forming between her folded legs and encouraged him to delve into the warmth. His fingers found the tight folds familiar and traced her shape as her moans fell to his ear. He felt her fingers slide along his crack, creating a sensation completely unknown to him. They circled the tightness of his anus, and his body responded by rushing blood to his groin in oscillating waves. A discomfort rose there, bearing down on the sheets, before Harry could realize the significance. He only felt the weight of his body shift as Sam stepped off the bed, her fingers never leaving the sensitive ring of tiny nerves.

He strained to push himself further into the mattress, yearning for a release of the pressure building almost too quickly to control. He wanted to save it for her. He tensed against his body’s impulse, clutching the edge of the mattress beside him as a cool roundness pressed against his ass. His mind beyond comprehension and body in a state of exultant distraction, he released his quivering muscles and unconsciously welcomed the Black Mamba inside his virginal hole. He gasped as a long, guttural moan escaped from his mouth, his body clenching the intruding object and luring it more deeply. With a final charge, the Black Mamba demanded Harry’s surrender, and he shuddered uncontrollably with long overdue emancipation.