Red lips, puckered and pouting, their tips coated with the moisture and glistening juice her fingers had coaxed from deep in her tubes. Holding the brush firmly, the handle aimed at her body, Joanne reached down and spread her labes a little wider, pushing them open the smooth, practiced way a "Hustler" model opens herself for the camera. And all she had was a plastic substitute for fat throbbing cock. Well, she thought, you played the hand you were dealt.

And the hand she was playing now was a desperate, starved one, something that made her blush with a kind of shame even as she brought the tip of the handle to her open snatch and started to wiggle it inside her. God, if someone saw me! she thought. I'd die. But I need something!

"Oh, Jesus!" she blurted as she worked the thing into her pussy. It was slick and stiff, entering her easily, and she stretched and strained, working herself around so she could best accommodate the unbending erection of the plastic tool. Was this what women did with those cock-shaped vibrators? she wondered. Maybe it would be better with a vibrator. You'd have that thing buzzing as it went inside, the tingle shooting through your pussy walls as you took it up you. They were a little thicker too, those vibrators, more like three stiff fingers worked into a tight wet hole – where did you find them, for God's sake? Did you go to the drugstore and tell the clerk, "I want a vibrator. About nine inches long. Black if you have it in that color. Or red?" How in the world did you go about getting one?

I am desperate, she told herself, stricken with a sudden feeling of revulsion. What am I doing to myself? I am – I am… "Oh, God, Jesus!" she yipped suddenly, and the thing was in her, maybe four inches of stiff plastic rammed up her twat, and she couldn't get arty more of it inside her because of the angle at which she sat, but maybe, oh, Christ, maybe she didn't need any more of it!