Let’s shall.

The smallest plug slides home with only the smallest difficulty. It’s designed to be felt but not hideously uncomfortable. In this case it probably is though, since she’s clenching so hard she could turn coal to diamonds.

The Hitachi is plugged in and I strap it to her inner thigh with a couple of Velcro ties so that the head stimulates her clit directly. It will become painful in time, even at the low setting it’s on now, but for the present it’s low buzz is a pleasant vibration that seems to work well as a soundtrack, interspersed as it is with the occasional muffled gasp and moan.

I’m not often asked how I got into this line of work, as you can well imagine. By necessity I avoid personal attachment, and those clients I have are rarely willing to question my qualifications, but it’s actually pretty simple. It’s a family tradition going back to the late 1800’s. My great great grandfather started The Work in Whitechaple. My great grandfather was in his 20s when he carried it on in New Orleans. Grandpa was quite prolific in California in the 60s. It was dad that shifted the focus from **** to **** in the 80s. All I did was monetize it and slightly modify the business model. It’s a lot easier to indulge a passion that you get paid for.

I pull out a couple pairs of Bluetooth earbuds, note the color, and slip the pink ones into her ears; the white ones go into my own. I thumb two MP3 players to life. Mine plays Shriekback’s “Nemesis”, the playlist is composed of ‘80s and ‘90s Goth/Industrial. Hers is currently playing “Baby Shark”. Her playlist is part of the contract. It’s weird , but I didn’t pick it.

I tweak her left nipple and pick up the pliers.