Lobster Man and the Haunted Toy Store

Alfred Hitchcock’s “Psycho” – 1960

 

Several Halloween’s ago, hubby coaxed me into visiting a haunting establishment: a journey I submitted to with trepidation, embarrassment, and anxiety. The fear of the unknown gripped me as if entering a spooky house after dark and peering into demonic chambers with a weak flashlight and thumping heart.

It was an unforgettable, impressionable scene: a horrific step into an unknown realm with exaggerated body parts, animalistic moans, and a zombie-like goon squad. It was a place where dashing out the door was as terrifying as entering. Once inside, the only option was to swallow my fear like women in the videos did with those elephant cocks.

We selected an adult book store/theater along a depressing stretch of highway in a nondescript concrete building. A few beat-up cars lined the parking lot, the store lights flickered, and I sat imagining the horrors within those walls from the safety of my car. I needed a few tokes to calm my nerves before entering the chamber – which in retrospect, only exaggerated the paranoia which followed.

It was a foggy night with few cars on the road and the glow of the book store sign reminded me of a Bates Motel sanctuary for weary pervs. The stigma I felt entering the building was quickly squashed by the goon squad welcoming committee. An oafish, mute man of about 8-feet tall leered at us as we walked in and adjusted our eyes to the bright neon of a plastic pleasure dome. There was no friendly welcome to this hellish place: no smiling Wal-Mart greeter to assuage my fears.

Behind the counter stood a bizarre-looking man giant bent over looming at a Playboy magazine with a puffy red face and neck bulging from the neckline of his shirt. Was he overcome with sheer horniness, a third-degree sunburn, or roid-rage? I still don’t know. Thankfully, lobster man failed to acknowledge us as we skulked through the store entrance.

Above his head and scattered about the store were large television screens blasting scenes of bondage, primal sex, and women with contorted faces. I paused to watch a video aimed toward a standing women’s pussy with her one leg extended out to the side. She moaned with pleasure as a large cock pounded her from behind then paused and slowly moved in and out in shallow thrusts just inside her vagina.

She furiously rubbed her clit and howled like a cat in heat before squirting a fire hose stream aligned with the camera view. At that time, I was just learning about female ejaculation, and this video captured my deep imagination as she repeatedly came each time that cock pulled out.

As the cock came inside her and that sticky liquid oozed from between her legs, I felt my own pussy twitching with excitement and I felt a certain “squirt envy” for her accomplishment. As I pondered the physics of the scene, the lobster-faced goon beneath the video screen coughed and jolted my bewildered trance. He stared hard at me, likely wondering why the newbie ogled the screen with the wonder of a tourist in front of the Mona Lisa.

Peter Lorre
Peter Lorre

Hurriedly, I disengaged his penetrating Peter Lorre stare and searched for hubby, the one human in the building I was reasonably sure could return some perspective to the scene. Turning to escape the goon squad, I bumped into a scruffy-looking gent perusing the video rack of bi-sexual male porn. I swear he licked his lips and parted his squinting lids to eyeball the frightened girl adrift among daunting over-sized dildos, heinous-looking butt plugs, painful nipple clamps, and electro-shock thrills.

Just then, I caught an overhead video of a women lying on her back being faced-fucked by a cock the size of a submarine. As she stared up at her tormentor, she mustered an occasional smile with her eyes as the unrelenting cock continued thrusting deep into her throat and plowed her esophagus. This anatomical wonder captured my attention as my THC-haze tried to map the logistics of throat fucking and the actress’ feigned enjoyment of the assault on her digestive system.

“Come here,” shouted hubby from a nearby wall of toys and I scurried to join him and his discovery of pervy sexual delights. A couple passed by giggling at the bondage toys they collected and I blushed with embarrassment that I knew nothing of spreader bars, urethral plugs, and cock cages.

Aries Blake

“You should try this,” hubby said, proudly displaying a shiny bullet vibrator.

“Use it on the way home in the car.”

The thought of pleasuring myself with him beside me in the car further cajoled my altered state into a paranoid urge to slink out of the store.  I struggled with visions of myself bound and gagged in the adjoining theater, an experimental sex victim at the mercy of Halloween’s Michael Myers and his grimy coveralls.

Collecting my wits, I wandered into the dildo isle where I felt comfortable perusing the offerings and selected a thick 8-inch curved whopper I was sure would not disappoint. Women rode cocks in videos above my head with a dancer’s finesse and derrieres of sculptural artistry. Never mind analyzing their physical prowess now, my altered state had convinced me I was out of place in the Land of Oz, and the wizard behind the curtain amused himself at my expense.

“The horror. The horror….” Marlon Brando was with me.

 

Armed with a dildo clutched tight against my chest, lube, a bullet vibrator, a vibrating egg, and some cock rings, I scurried past hubby leisurely perusing  some lingerie and stockings for me. The horror of squeezing into an ill-fitting lace body suit and prancing about as a sex kitten at my age spawned visions of Phyllis Diller and sent me spiraling into a dissociative state.

Piling the toys in hubby’s arms, I bolted for the door past lobster man, a gadfly creep leering at customers, and the mute goon by the exit. With walls closing in and the floor slowly falling, I jumped out of that sex dimension and into the foggy, damp parking lot.

Safe in the car driving home and coming down from my 420 haze, I laughed as hubby and I recounted the scene. We enjoyed embellishing the drama — as we do with every good story — and categorized the scene as a bad Peter Lorre horror movie.

Hubby convinced me to try the vibrating egg in my pussy. Pulling my pants down and fingering my pussy, I anticipated sexual pleasure like the woman squirting in the video, and I eagerly spread my legs.

Hubby rubbed my clit as I inserted the plastic egg, turned it on, and slowly relaxed enough to enjoy the sensation. At that point, I knew I would become a lover of sex toys and increasingly less mortified to visit adult toy stores. The bumps in the road jolted the egg inside my pussy and intensified the thrill.

I lay my head back and concentrated on that vibrating pleasure sphere in my pussy. As we rounded the next corner, hubby jumped on the brakes as the headlights revealed a sideways car on the road with lobster man and mute boy standing on the road brandishing chain saws and over-sized, pointed sharp dildos.

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