Vibrating anal love beads

Back in time again, to the beginning of my second year at university. The following action will actually take place in the same bedroom that would later be involved in the ‘Voyeur Mother‘ story. Again, Lilu’s blog has a bunch of other embarrassing Too Much Information stories, if mine doesn’t make you squirm enough — which I find highly unlikely.

Vibrating anal love beads
I looked down at plastic, pink spheres, graded in order of size, neatly strung together to form a chain of ten. Someone had left them on the kitchen table — a present? For me? I tentatively reached forward to pick them up when one of my female house mates walked into the kitchen, looked down, the blood draining from her face.

“SEB! Stop!” My hand stopped mere inches from the purple balls. I turned around and looked at her. Her eyes were large, afraid and she stood transfixed, simply staring at the string of beads on the table.


“Th-th-those are… vibrating Thai love beads!” I recoiled and quickly scampered to a safe position behind her, peeking over her shoulder at the dirty, sinful orbs. “Love-what?” I was a late bloomer. I hadn’t a frickin’ clue what love beads were, or why they would be on my kitchen table. In retrospect, it’s even more shocking to realise that she knew what they were. She quickly told me what they were and what they were for. Ew.

Skirting around the outside of the kitchen, holding onto the worktop for support, I made my way to the sink to grab a spatula and some washing-up gloves. “So why are they on our kitchen table?” I scooped them up, holding them at arm’s length. I teased my house mate a little with my beads-on-a-stick. She screamed and ran away. But then I started to think about things: if they’re not mine, and they’re not hers, whose are they? I quickly ruled out two other house mates — they were even more vanilla than I — which left just one other house mate. The dark horse. The sex pest. The one with an Asian girlfriend that looked about 12 years old. Philip, or Phil as he preferred to be called. It was all slotting into place: he’d just come back from a trip to the Far East and he certainly had all the tell-tale signs of being a bit of a bedroom odd-job.

If the kid-like girlfriend wasn’t enough, let’s just say that when I walked into his bedroom and found a couple of restraints tied to the head of the bed, I knew they weren’t for his girlfriend. And neither was the ball gag or spiked paddle, if the noises we’d heard in the middle of the night were anything to go by. Phil, it’s safe to say, was a bit creepy.

So with the spatula extended as far away as possible, the malevolently whiffy beads hung over the end, I walked towards to his bedroom and knocked.

“Come in.” I shuddered. I bet he’d used that line before, whispered huskily to his strap-on wielding pre-pubescent girlfriend. I pushed the door open and he quickly smiled. “So that’s where they are!” Another shudder as I drop them onto his bed and make a hasty exit, keeping my eyes to the floor, saying nothing. My house mate is waiting for me as I leave his room, her big eyes silently asking how’d it go? I shrug listlessly and head back into the kitchen to wash my hands and put the kettle on.

I thought that was the last time I would see anal beads. I was wrong.

This is where it gets bad. You probably want to look away now if you don’t deal well with visceral, gory imagery.

A few months passed. Life in the house went by with absolutely no talk of love beads, sex toys or any other kind of interesting apparatus. We even learnt, in time, to turn a blind eye on the Filipino sex slave that he’d probably drugged and brought back to England for his vile bedroom antics.

And then one, dark, stormy night I was sitting in the kitchen enjoying a particularly fine spaghetti bolognese — is there any other pasta dish at university? — when the phone rung. Ring. Just another forkful; perhaps someone else would come to pick the phone up. Fat chance I thought, cudding, chewing, ruminating on the pasta. Brring-ring, chew-chomp. I hate being interrupted by the telephone. It’s so presumptuous to think that someone on the other end actually wants to pick up and that they’re not in the middle of something else. Rrrrrring. I sigh and pick up the phone.

Hi. Is Phil there? It’s his mum. I need to talk to him. It’s an emergency.

I call out his name, no response. Louder, still no response. “He’s probably asleep” I say, sighing down the phone. Really, it’s an emergency, could you go wake him up?

Knock. Knock. No response. I push my ear up against the door. Muffled grunts? The noises of Phil waking up from a deep sleep? Still no response. Knock. Thump. His mother’s voice still weedling away in my ear please, Seb, wake him up, his dad’s just been rushed to hospital. I’m hammering away at the door now — maybe he’s not even in, maybe he’s over at his paedophilic flight of fancy’s flat. Screw it, I barge through the door, his mother’s whining finally pushing me over the edge.


Ball-gagged and restrained — his wrists to the bed, his legs to his wrists. Take a moment to get a good mental image — OK, are you there now, with me? — his legs were up along each side of his head, his body bent in two. His waxed, smooth ass fully exposed. Just visible, at the eye of the storm, was a hot-pink shiny hemisphere. A wire ran from his puckered orifice to the control box held in his nubile teen’s tiny hands. She was wearing tall heels and not much else.

As I walked further into the room his eyes bulged and looked to the phone still held in my hand.


His girlfriend had finally unbuckled the ball-gag.

“It’s your mum. Should I tell her you’re busy?”

Meeting Casanova
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I am a tall, hairy, British writer who blogs about technology, photography, travel, and whatever else catches my eye.