Taste 2021 edition, p.135
Taste: 2021 Edition, page 135
When you get around to the toys, think of being impaled by the Impaler, her text states.
How did she sniff out what I’m about to do? She must’ve used her own vibrator so much she’s gained a psychic superpower. Or maybe she was bitten by her vibrator—by its Bluetooth, perhaps?
Precious pings again. This time, it’s the eggplant emoji.
I’m busy, I reply and silence Precious before grabbing the work phone once more.
As my finger hovers over the start button, I do my best to thwart Ava by not thinking of the Impaler.
Riiight. As everyone who’s ever tried not to think of something knows, the more you try, the more you end up thinking of the forbidden object.
And that’s doubly so for when said object is as hot as the one I have in my mind’s eye.
Fine. Whatever. I might feel better if I picture yummy lips touching my clit instead of slug jelly.
The image of hypnotic lapis lazuli eyes firmly in my head, I set a timer and press the start button.
Bzzz.
I drop both the phone and the vibrator as a powerful orgasm unleashes a wave of endorphins into my system. A full-on, toe-curling orgasm—as amazing as it was unexpected.
As the last spasms ripple through my body, I stare at the toy dumbfounded.
Did that just happen?
Is this a military grade vibrator, or did I just develop the female counterpart to premature ejaculation?
Chewing on my lip, I open the laptop and look at the testing document.
“Was orgasm achieved?” You can say that again.
“How many times?” Once so far.
“Session duration?” No clue. I put down a microsecond.
What now? Maybe I do the same test one more time? After all, whoever put the handwritten notes together implied there would be multiple sessions.
When I attempt it, I grunt in pain instead of pleasure. My clit is super-sensitive from the last go.
I might have to give it a little break.
With some trepidation, I snatch the dildo from the suitcase and open the packaging.
Again no instructions, just a small packet of lube and the thing itself—huge and made of the same squishy material as the vibrator, only avocado-green instead of pink.
I don’t mention this in my work report, but this thing reminds me of an alien tentacle. I mentally dub it Glurp.
Taking Glurp in my hand, I uncharitably compare him to my exes’ equipment.
Yup, Glurp is a big boy, almost frighteningly so.
Opening the lube, I nearly drown Glurp in the viscous liquid and bring up the mental image of the Impaler as I slide the tip into my opening.
Hmm.
It fits and feels kind of nice already. The prior orgasm must’ve gotten me ready for this.
I push Glurp deeper and pick up the work phone to bring the tentacle to life.
Bzzz.
I don’t instantly come this time, but the vibration or whatever it’s doing feels amazing. My inner muscles tighten, and I feel like I’m on the verge of something truly intense.
A few interesting options show up on the app, like A-spot and G-spot stimulation.
I’ll have to test them all, but for now, I decide on the G-spot because it’s the one I’ve actually heard about.
I jab my finger at the G-spot button.
Glurp begins to lightly twist inside me, as if zooming in on a target.
Bing-bing.
The videoconferencing app on my work phone hides part of the Belka app screen.
Crap. It’s Sandra, my boss.
What the hell does she want? There’s micromanaging, and then there’s interrupting your loyal employee from finding Nemo.
I stab the screen to reject the call.
The videoconferencing app expands to full screen.
Oh, shit.
I must’ve fat-fingered it.
“Hi, Fanny.” Sandra’s eyes widen. “Am I interrupting something?”
I redden like a boiled crab and swiftly disable the video.
Did she see anything? Can’t be—the camera was aimed at my face, not at Glurp.
At least I hope it was.
But then why the question? Maybe she figured something was up by the blissed-out look on my face?
“I just wanted to make sure Project Belka is on track,” Sandra says apologetically, and I realize I haven’t responded to her still.
“Don’t worry about a thing,” I half say, half squeal. “It’s in good hands.”
I have no idea if she hears or responds because at that moment, Glurp finally gives my G-spot a knockout.
I bite my cheek to prevent a moan from escaping as my eyes roll back in my head.
“Thanks,” Sandra says. “Email an update when you get the chance.”
“Yes!”
She hangs up.
I extricate Glurp from myself and rush into the bathroom to splash some icy water on my overheated face. Leaving Glurp behind to be cleaned, I get back and record this session in the document.
They better allow me to move departments. After today, I can never work for Sandra again, or look her in the eye.
Also, can one develop a fetish this way? Next thing I know, I’ll need Sandra to call me every time I get hot and heavy.
Looking into the suitcase, I debate what to test next.
The buttplug catches my attention.
It’s small enough not to be intimidating—a good thing for me, a butt play virgin.
I take the package out and read the title.
Anal Belka.
Does Belka mean something besides the name of this project?
A quick search reveals that Belka is actually a common word in various Slavic languages. It means beam in Polish (ouch), egg white in Macedonian (weird), and squirrel in Russian (hmm, okay). Given Vlad’s country of birth, I have to assume the title of both the toy and the project means the latter.
In which case… an anal squirrel? Sounds like a rodent obsessed with keeping his park nice and tidy. Who decided that was a good name for this thing?
Then again, Ava told me about the time they had a guy come to the ER with a hamster stuck in his butt—so rodents in butts must be something people are interested in doing. Why not a squirrel, too?
I can never tell Monkey about this. As a rodent herself, she’ll be scarred for life. At least in the case of this Belka, no animals need to be harmed.
Placing the work phone on the bed, I lie on my stomach and squirt the lube that came with the squirrel toy into my butt.
The things I do for science.
Or quality assurance.
Or a paycheck.
Feeling naughty, I place the tip of the toy at my opening and push lightly to see how much resistance my body provides. There’s some, but not as much as I expected.
Well, okay, the squirrel is small.
I get bolder and increase the pressure.
There’s a small hint of discomfort, and then, like a baster into a turkey, the squirrel dives right in.
6
Whoa. That feels strange. But also kind of good, maybe? I can’t decide.
I set the timer on the phone and load “Anal Belka” as the toy on the app.
A few new controls appear on the screen that weren’t available in the case of the vibrator and Glurp. For example, there’s a button named “Out” and one named “Deeper.”
I’m not ready for deeper just yet, and out is premature.
I press “On.”
The squirrel begins to vibrate.
The feeling is odd, but not unpleasant. As I adjust, I feel ready to brave more, and a button that says “P-spot stimulation” catches my gaze.
I’ve never heard of a P-spot. Then again, I’ve never heard of the A-spot either. To be honest, I didn’t even know there were “spots” in the backdoor area, but I guess there must be since so many women like butt play.
I hesitantly press on the P-spot button.
The squirrel stops vibrating and gently burrows deeper into me.
Weird.
It keeps moving.
Wait a second.
It stops. I feel it whirling around as if looking for something, then it starts moving again.
What the hell? I jab the stop button.
Nothing happens. The squirrel continues on its merry way.
I frantically press the out button.
The squirrel stops.
Whew.
Wait a second. The squirrel is whirling around again, as if rooting for something inside me. Not finding whatever it is, it burrows even deeper.
What the fuck? Does “P” stand for pancreas? I think that’s an organ in the digestive system, but there’s no way that’s a fun spot.
I scan the screen in panic.
There’s a help button here, plus a few more that don’t look promising.
I punch all the non-help buttons at once.
The squirrel keeps going deeper.
I’m beginning to freak out. What if “P” stands for the pituitary gland in the brain?
The squirrel stops. An error pops up on the screen, stating, “Prostate not found.”
Prostate? Oh, no. Women don’t have one—at least not in the butt area. There’s something called Skene’s glands on the front side of the vagina that are sometimes referred to as “the female prostate,” but that’s clearly not what the squirrel was looking for.
Through my panic, I begin to parse out what happened. The squirrel must be from the batch meant for the male sex. When the Impaler wrote the app, he forgot to account for a situation where someone who wants P-spot stimulation lacks a prostate to stimulate.
It’s not a surprising bug, but it is a major pain in my ass—and that expression has never been this literal.
I swipe angrily at the error message until it disappears from the screen. Then I pound the out button.
The error comes back, and nothing else happens.
Out of options, I click the help button again.
A sound resembling a dial tone emanates from the phone.
That’s not good. I bet that’s meant to dial customer service when Belka toys get into the hands of real customers. This early, I doubt anyone’s going to answer that call. Not that I’d know what to tell them if they did.
Frantic, I drop the work phone on the bed and grab Precious to dial Ava.
“I’m a little busy,” she says in lieu of a hello.
“This is a medical emergency! Code red. I’m not joking, this is—”
“Whoa, slow down, slow down. What happened?”
“I have a squirrel stuck in my rectum. Or maybe my colon. Somewhere up there.”
A moment of silence, then: “Is this a joke?”
“I wish! I was testing the toys and—”
Ava sounds like she’s got something stuck in her throat. “So the squirrel is a toy?”
“No, I mean a real fucking animal.”
“Hey, you never know. I’ve heard of lots of things stuck in there. Fruits, vegetables, keys, candles, coffee and peanut butter jars, lightbulbs, deodorant, smartphones, bottles of body spray, Buzz Lightyear—”
“That’s not making me feel any better.” I squeeze the phone tighter. “What should I do?”
“Go to the ER,” she says.
“How about something less drastic,” I say, picturing how embarrassing such a trip would be—especially since my name is Fanny.
For the rest of their lives, the nurses would tell everyone, “The patient’s name was Fanny, and she had a toy stuck in her fanny.”
Ava takes an audible breath. “Do you have any abdominal pain?”
“No.”
“How about bleeding?”
All blood drains from my face. “This just happened. You think there could be bleeding?”
“Unlikely, if there’s no pain. Just make sure not to reach in there with tongs or anything that could cut or bruise the area. That includes your nails.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I’m not an idiot. At least not more of an idiot.”
“Okay, but just keep in mind: There are cases where tongs have gotten stuck along with the original object.”
“No tongs,” I say firmly. “What can I do, though?”
“Other than going to the ER? You can try to poop it out.”
I feel a pang of hope. “You think that would work?”
“If it’s small enough, it should come out the way it came in.”
I look at the empty box from the toy. “How small is small enough?”
“I have no idea. Did it go in easy?”
My face reddens. “Kind of.”
“Then maybe it’ll be a case of easy come, easy go.”
Ugh. “This isn’t funny!”
“Look, I’ve really got to run. Keep me posted. If you decide to go to the ER, come here, to Presbyterian.”
I grimace. “I’m trying the poop method first.”
“Eat some fiber,” she says. “Better yet, a laxative.”
With that useful advice, she hangs up.
As I place Precious back on the bed, I see something on the work phone that chills my bones.
The help call looks to have connected somewhere.
“Hello?” I squeak into the receiver. “Is someone there?”
“Ms. Pack,” says a familiar, Russian-accented voice. “I strongly disagree with your plans and am on my way to take you to the ER immediately.”
7
“No, don’t! I’ll call 911. Don’t come here!”
No reply. He hung up.
Growling in frustration, I click the help button again.
A sound resembling a dial tone emanates from the phone once more, but when I wait and wait, it doesn’t connect anywhere.
Maybe I can call him directly?
Sure. Just as soon as I magically figure out what his cell phone number is. Unless… maybe Sandra knows?
Ugh, no. I don’t want her involved. She’ll either have a heart attack from thinking the project has gone awry, or from laughter when she learns what’s happened.
How does the Impaler even know where I live? Did the app access the work phone GPS, or did he simply take a look at my employee file?
Anyway, the how is not important. The fact that he’s going to be here is. It’s bad enough he overheard the whole “squirrel in my butt” conversation with Ava—a fact that makes me want to crawl into a ditch and die. If he comes here and needs to rescue my ass—literally—I might just melt from mortification.
There’s only one thing to do.
I must poop out the squirrel.
Having a clear-cut goal feels good, so I cautiously stand up.
Still no abdominal pain, so that’s good. Unfortunately, the squirrel doesn’t start moving down with the pull of gravity—on some level, I was hoping it might.
Fine.
I shuffle to the bathroom with a stiff gait. So this is why they call this style of locomotion “having something stuck up the butt.”
I get on the toilet and wait.
Nothing happens.
I strain.
Nada.
After a few minutes of pointless waiting, I recall Ava talking about fiber. Getting up, I stiffly shuffle into the kitchen and grab an apple.
Crunching it, I return to my white throne.
Nope.
Oh, who am I kidding? I know fiber needs more than minutes to do its thing.
Getting up, I try pacing the apartment.
Doesn’t help.
I roll out my yoga mat and do a Standing Forward Bend.
Not even a little stomach cramp.
Doing other poses doesn’t work either—neither the Downward-Facing Dog, nor the Triangle, nor the Seated and Supine Twists.
Monkey watches me do all this with an unreadable expression.
“Don’t judge,” I tell her and prepare for the big guns: the Wind-Removing Pose, where you’re on your back and your knees touch your chest.
Even this mighty yoga weapon doesn’t work.
Okay. I need to be ready for the eventuality of seeing the Impaler—and I’m a mess in ways beyond foreign objects in my rear end.
I quickly change my drab casual dress for a prettier one, grab my makeup kit and a mirror, and perch on the toilet (hope springs eternal) to make myself look semi-human.
Lipstick is easy. Lashes too. But no matter how hard I work on the missing eyebrow, I fail to make it look like the sister of the other—barely a second cousin is the best I can do.
Maybe I should get rid of the remaining one right now? Problem is, I don’t own a razor, and I don’t dare play with the hair removal cream under the current circumstances. The last thing I want is to end up with bald spots on my head or hair removal cream in my butt. Or worse.
The eyebrow situation adds to my frustration.
Who does he think he is, coming here like this?
Well, I guess he thinks he’s my boss squared. Probably realizes that having the power to fire me allows him to do what he wants. Probably doesn’t like the sound of the lawsuit my parents would file if I somehow died because of the squirrel. Still—
The doorbell rings, sending my pulse through the stratosphere.
He’s here!
Even the prospect of the upcoming humiliation doesn’t loosen anything up—so much for stories of people soiling themselves out of fear. Then again, there’s also a conflicting “anus clenching in fear”—so maybe that’s what’s happening here?
My work phone rings. Then Precious joins in.
Feeling like I’m about to die, I answer.
“How are you feeling?” the Impaler asks.
I gulp. Is that genuine concern in his voice? “Never better. You didn’t need to come. I got this—”
“We’re going to the ER.” The statement is a command with no room for negotiation. “Do you need help coming out?”
Am I hearing a threat in that question? Will he break my door down if I answer the wrong thing?
Nah. His kind need to be officially invited to enter someone’s home.
I rub my burning cheeks. “I can walk.”
“See you soon then.” He hangs up.
I text Ava an update, grab both phones, shuffle over to the door, and put on a pair of sneakers.
Here goes nothing.
I open the door.
He’s here, in all his mouthwatering glory.
