It’s surprising the places from which sources of inspiration can arise. What’s sometimes more surprising are the timeframes from which they emerge. Like memories from childhood and adolescence, they can linger in the dusty hallways of our minds, waiting for the right moment to draw them out, open them up, use them.
‘The Ginger Effect’ for instance. For the uninitiated, it’s a movie. A somewhat adult-themed movie. It borrows its title from one of its stars, a certain Ms Ginger Lynn Allen. I don’t remember when I first saw the film. Twelve years ago? To be honest, I don’t even recollect how I came to have it in my collection. I think it used to belong to a friend of a friend. A battered VHS cassette, with neither case nor label. It looked seamy even before it got anywhere near the VCR for the first time. It still does.
None of that is especially important though. What is important to this tale is one of the film’s half-dozen or so scenes. Around midway through proceedings, the rather splendid Ms Allen takes on two men, the ubiquitous Peter North, and some dude whose name I don’t know, and can’t be bothered to look up. Things in Pornoland are ticking along nicely (and in somewhat archetypal fashion, given how these things usually progress) when suddenly Ms Allen is on her knees, wrists handcuffed behind her back, sucking Mr North’s lengthy schlong while The Man with No Name works a string of blue beads into her liberally lubricated anus. Having secured all five beads inside her, he then proceeds to finger Ginger to a climax, withdrawing the beads one by one as she comes.
What struck me about the scene was the effect the beads seemed to have on her orgasm, particularly on how prolonged it seemed to be. Of course, the whole thing could have been exaggerated for effect, to keep the punters happy. But having watched the scene a couple of times, I didn’t really believe that was true. After all, no one was shoving garish adverts for anal beads at me. And Ms Allen seemed so sincere in her response to No Name’s efforts. She may well have been demonstrating what a competent performer she was, but I preferred to subscribe to the opinion of a friend, who once described Ginger as “a girl who seriously likes to fuck” during a pub discussion of porn actresses.
Amsterdam’s Red Light DistrictFlash forward half a dozen years. MW and I are in Amsterdam. Sight-seeing somewhere slightly north and east of Dam Square, we find ourselves in the infamous Walletjes - Amsterdam’s Red Light District. As well as the window girls and sex shows, we discover a healthy selection of sex shops. Passing one particular display, my eyes lit upon a set of five beads strung on a piece of white cord together with a thumb-sized ring. The beads were almost the exact shade of blue as the set I seen inserted into Ms Allen’s backdoor. And suddenly, from a film I hadn’t seen in years, hadn’t been consciously aware of in almost as long, inspiration struck.
“How would you feel about trying out a set of those?” I whispered to MW, pointing the beads out to her. Exactly why I whispered to her is anyone’s guess. The Walletjes is literally awash with sex, we were standing outside a shop that didn’t have a product for sale that wasn’t related to fucking in one form or another, and I was trying to be discreet? Go figure.
“What do you do with them?” MW asked.
No matter what city you’re in, talking about anuses in the street is not a good idea, on so many different levels. Spying a convenient bar, we retired to partake of a cold Amstel, and a quiet corner where I could explain in full without feeling like I was being regarded by passers-by as some kind of pervert.
The longer I talked, the brighter MW’s eyes became. Eventually, having delivered my sales pitch, I sat back and finished my beer.
“Well?”
MW grinned back at me, and I knew we’d shortly be making a purchase.
“I’d love to know where you get your ideas from,” she laughed.
I smiled as enigmatically as I could, the image of Ms Allen on her knees playing just behind my eyes. I felt somewhere between a pervert, a thief and a fraud.
The beads cost us the princely sum of nine euros - a little over five pounds in Sterling. We cast our eyes over a few other goodies while we were inside the shop, but there was nothing that captivated our minds in the same way. It felt like we were trying to buy something else for the sake of it. And so with just one small brown paper bag nestled securely in my coat pocket, we headed back out onto the canal side.
That evening, having dined and drunk well at a number of places in and around the Leidseplein, we headed back to our hotel. With something new and exciting waiting to draw you in, it can sometimes be difficult to keep the proper focus on the fundamentals. MW made sure that keeping my focus wasn’t going to be a problem. She dimmed the lighting, then slowly unzipped and stepped out of her dress, revealing the black lace ensemble she’d selected while I’d been in the shower. I stood on the other side of the room, eyes locked to her as I stripped. Naked, I walked over to her, my cock already climbing to find her touch. We kissed, full and slow, standing in front of the tall window. Neither of us tried to move the action away from the glass, to break off and draw the curtains closed. Outside, the night was full of the lights and the sounds of the Vijzelstraat. We didn’t think anyone would be watching us, but we didn’t care if they were. We hadn’t come to Amsterdam for sight-seeing alone: we’d come to lose some of our inhibitions, to be seduced by the city’s atmosphere.
Perpetual slave to my peccadilloes, I slowly removed MW’s bra and panties, leaving her in just the deep suspender belt and the black fully-fashioned stockings. I drank her in with my eyes even as my wandering hands attempted to devour every inch of her flesh. Finally, I pressed her back against the king-sized bed, so that I could kiss my way along the trails my hands had already marked. As I pressed my lips to her nakedness over and over again, I turned my body so that I lay in the opposite direction to MW.
When I first bent my head to kiss her sex, I could see that she was already wet. I opened her slightly with my fingertips, explored the smooth skin inside her labia, dipping fractionally inside her to lubricate my caresses. With one moistened finger, I busied myself with drawing leisurely circles around her clitoris, while the other hand slowly invaded her most intimate place. When she reached out to press my mouth towards her, I knew that she was ready for my tongue.
I adore going down on a woman. To my mind, being permitted to press my mouth against a woman’s sex is a privilege, a reward. It’s a complement I always endeavour to repay in full. I kissed my way across her trimmed mound, up and down her labia, opened her slightly so that I could run the tip of my tongue along the moist cleft, cradled her buttocks in my hands so that I could open her more fully, explore her clitoris, press my tongue deep inside her, slowly fucking her with my mouth. In return, she ran her fingers over my trembling balls, stoked my cock with a soft and languid hand. I resisted her efforts to draw me to her own mouth. I wanted her to be the focus.
Listening to her sighs, I withdrew the anal beads from where I’d secreted them beneath the bedclothes, together with a small tube of KY. I lubricated the beads generously, then MW’s rosebud. She jerked slightly as my finger worked the cool jelly inside her. Then, putting my tongue to work against her clitoris in earnest, I began easing the beads inside her, one by one. They were small, no more than a centimetre in diameter, but I took my time all the same.
I could see everything.
When I’d finished, a short length of the cord and the thumb-sized ring were all that remained outside her anus, dangling down against her buttocks. I estimated that MW was two-thirds of the way to her orgasm. I picked up the pace a little, moving with her as her hips rolled against the bed, as her body ebbed and flowed. I gently drew her clitoris into my mouth, drumming it mercilessly with the tip of my tongue. I could feel MW’s body stiffening beneath me, her thighs twitching restlessly, her breathing ragged as her orgasm began to flower. And as her gasps became cries and she began to shudder, I hooked my finger through the ring and began to pull, not hard, but steady, keeping the tension on the line all the time. I licked and I watched. The first bead popped through the taut ring of muscle, and MW’s cries seemed to go up by half a note, half a decibel. As each bead emerged, the sounds of her pleasure would peak momentarily, settling fractionally before the next bead found its way outside. I tried to imagine how it would be for her if instead of five beads, there were fifty.
The fifth bead emerged. Even with that small number, there was little doubt that MW’s climax had been drawn out. Had it felt more intense though? I dropped the beads to the floor, turning around to kiss my wife’s face. Her eyes were closed, the tension in her glowing face sponged away by her climax.
“So do they work?” I whispered.
She smiled, nodding, already reaching down to find my cock, guide it inside her.
“Next time,” she said a little breathlessly, “I want you to pull them out while you’re fucking me.”
“Yes, ma’am”
So that’s it: story told. If there’s a moral, it’s only this: be prepared. Not for inspiration itself. How the hell would that work? No, just be prepared to take full advantage of it if and when it sticks its head up and takes aim.
And try not to be surprised where it comes from.
Oh, by the way. The other dude in that scene with Ginger (apparently) was Tom Byron. Never let it be said I’m not a reasonable - or resourceful - man.
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We Were Wolf
Very nice story.
Do you use the beads now?
That was a lovely and well-told story
Whoa! What a really good writer you are! That was a beautifully hot story. Thank you!
Rosie and Remittance Girl: thank you both for the complements.
Ed: the beads are something we employ as an occasional spice. The fear is that - like so many things - if they are overused, their potency will be dulled. But yes, they are still taken out of the toy drawer from time to time, when the mood demands…
That was indeed lovely!
And your final comment - about the importance of novelty — yes.
Wow, that was indeed hot. Nice blog you’ve cultivated, EA, it’s nice to see more and more talented writers settling down at IB.
I’ve never been a bead fan simply because of the string. The knots just kinda seem…icky and uncomfortable. There are new toys out there now that are like beads on a string but made entirely of silicone. Gotta love new innovations…
O: I’m glad you enjoyed the read.
Red: thank you. I know what you mean about the string. We’ve seen the all-silicone varieties, but haven’t acquired one as yet. Maybe on our next trip to the Netherlands…
I agree about cockrings.
Bought one recently.
When i used it tonight with wife,
orgasm was so intense, it felt i was about to come out of my mouth!
That’s certainly one intense-sounding orgasm, James…
~EA