I love anal. I’ve preached it, I’ve given advice on it, and because I’m classy, I’ve worn the proclamation on a t-shirt. I also consider my love of anal play to be my superpower. But it’s not a gift that gives me telepathic abilities or superhuman strength. It does, however, give me power over Mr. Kink. He craves it, delights in it and devours it. It’s kind of like the intoxication of Poison Ivy’s kiss or the delicious high of Sookie’s faerie blood to vampires. But with less mayhem and murder.
Even though it’s pretty high on the list, my ass isn’t the only thing Mr. K loves. He’s also rather fond of intimate dinners, late night cuddling and my little stainless steel plug with the blue topaz crystal base. Just the thought of me wearing it under my clothes is enough to send him into a tailspin. It’s one of his favorite toys and he loves to play with it, pulling it out and pushing it in again. And again, and again.
My plug is always part of my outfit when I have a date with Mr. K. Like my necklace or lip gloss, I feel naked without it. It pleased him to see it snug in my ass when he found me half-naked on my knees last week. He kissed my cheek lovingly, shoved my face into the pillow and did things to me that would make the devil blush. But somewhere in the midst of tangled body parts and powerful orgasms my plug went missing.
We searched the bed and the floor. We even looked through his clothes. Nothing. It was gone. What was next? File a missing plug report? Staple photographs on street signs offering a reward?
I wasn’t terribly concerned because it often falls out during *ahem* heightened states of arousal, but we know when it happens. We feel it. This time I didn’t. I brushed it off, though, assuming we’d find it later in the sheets or wedged between pillows. But as I sat on the toilet, successfully peeing in front of Mr. K, my thoughts migrated toward my ass. Was it in there? Would I feel it? Of course I would and Mr. K agreed. I dismissed the idea of a secret agent compartment in my ass until a momentary twinge raised the question again as we drove to dinner. I needed to hear him agree with me again to banish my worry, but he wasn’t so sure anymore. And neither was I.
A few minutes later, I stood in the stall with my jeans around my knees, my finger in my ass and the tip touching the base of the plug. My heart felt as if it would burst as one thought exploded in my brain: How the fuck was I going to get it out? I knew Mr. K would come to my rescue without hesitation, joining me in the ladies room to examine my ass. But being the ‘glass half-empty’ person I am, I feared the worst.
What if he couldn’t retrieve it? Would I have to go to the emergency room? Would I lose my title as Queen of Anal? Would I flag metal detectors for the rest of my life? They were all valid questions. Except the last one. Realistically, though, I knew a panic attack wasn’t going to change the fact that I had a plug up my ass. I calmed down, held my breath and pushed the plug down until I could grab it with my fingers. I didn’t breathe again until I felt its weight in the palm of my hand.
The waitress was oblivious to the small object I laid on the table as Mr. K ordered our drinks. He glanced at it and barely raised an eyebrow when asking if I wanted to share chips and salsa. It seemed as if nothing was out of the ordinary. I suppose it wasn’t for us. But I was a little disappointed there was no need to excuse himself from the table and bend me over to execute a search and rescue.
The situation had FAIL written all over it, but I can’t help but laugh at the comedy of it. Especially having heard about Liri’s ‘case of the disappearing plug’ just days earlier. Heather and I were all like THAT’S IMPOSSIBLE! But it is possible, obviously. Also, I’m pretty sure ass fingering isn’t a common occurrence in that particular ladies room. And I’d be willing to bet my ass that anal plug recovery is even less of one.
