Data Point: The Number is Two
Per W’s instructions for this timeframe while he’s gone to Florida and before we go to NYC after Christmas, I decided to wear chimeballs to my coochie waxing appointment.
“Wear” is a bit of a misnomer. W’s chimeballs are weighted balls, like Ben Wa balls but larger, heavier, and made of steel. I call them “chimeballs” because they do exactly that–make a chiming sound when they are shaken. They are pretty, and shiny, and make a lovely tinkly sound.
Yeah, I like them.
Also, whereas Ben Wa balls come in twos, W has a bunch of the steel ones. I (think) six of the large size ones, which are about an inch and a half across, and eight or more of the small, half-or-three-quarter-inch size (W can correct me on sizes if I’m wrong.) W has used them on me with varying degrees of pleasure and pain. (I know, a surprise, right?) Pleasure when he uses just two or three or even four of the large ones, pushing them deep inside me and then either using his hand or cock to fuck me into bliss. Pain when he shoves as many as he possibly can up there–and then does the same thing.
I played a new game though, seeing as I was only playing with myself, and didn’t have W to use the chimeballs on me, to torture me or pleasure me with them.
So I tortured myself.
Oh, not physically (or not really) but more emotionally. I “wore” three of the balls to my wax appointment–stuffed right up my pussy, right where she was going to be working.
I’ve never worn them out anywhere (that I can recall) but I have worn them around the house at W’s, until gravity helped expel them from my body. (There are several ways to retrieve them once inserted: gravity–one can jump up and down to assist this method; the “bearing down” method, which is exactly what it sounds like; or W’s favorite method: reaching up and digging them out with his fingers. The last method is queerly pleasurable, even in its extreme discomfort. Sometimes, all three methods, employed simultaneously, are necessary.) But I had never worn them out in public for an extended period of time.
I wanted practice. You know, “data points,” as W calls them.
But laying there on the wax-girl’s treatment bed, my legs spread as she hovered over that most intimate part of my body, wasn’t really part of that. That was just…humiliation play. Visited upon myself. Would the balls be detectable? Would they slip out? Would they make a sound discernible to her as I shifted position?
The answer to all those questions is, thankfully, “no.”
However, she may have noticed the extra swelling of my cunt lips, caused by the weight of the balls pressing against the walls of my vagina, by gravity pushing them down against them, and by my own, helpless arousal caused by these physical sensations–and the anxiety and embarrassment I felt.
Or not. Who can say?
I am fairly certain, however, that anyone outside the door when I (stupidly) decided to use the restroom after my appointment probably heard the sound of a chimeball clanging–loudly–against the porcelain of the inside of the toilet bowl, as gravity ejected it from my body. Only one, though. Two of them were still lodged in there, waiting to be removed, several hours later when Ad got home.
Data point: apparently, the number of chimeballs I can wear “out and about” comfortably (and without spontaneous ejection) is two.
Safely ejected. And no, that isn’t lube on them and my hands. Did I mention that I like them? A *lot*?