Wake Up to a Good View This Morning

You keep walking anyway. Your feet carry you deeper into the aisles and you don't stop them.

"First time?"

The voice comes from your left. Warm. Amused. Not mocking—just knowing.

You turn.

She's standing at a booth marked RING EROTICS in clean white lettering. The booth is smaller than the others, almost modest, but the lighting is softer here. Intentional.

She's wearing a fitted pink dress that hits just above the knee. Her dark hair pulled back. She's smiling at you.

Not a sales smile. Something more patient than that.

"I—" You clear your throat. "Is it that obvious?"

"Mmm." She tilts her head. Studies you the way someone studies a spreadsheet they've seen a hundred times. "A little. You've got the look."

"What look?"

She studies you. Her eyes move over your face, your posture, your hands — you realize your hands are fidgeting with the lanyard around your neck — and she takes you in the way someone takes in a sentence they've already read.

"You look," she says with a smile, "like a little boy who wandered into his parents' bedroom."

The flush hits you like a wave. You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

"Hnnh — I —"

She walks over to you. Reaches out and takes your hand. Not hard. Not demanding.

The way a mother takes a child's hand in a crowd. She pulls you gently toward her booth and your feet follow because what else would they do.

"Come over here," she says. "It's alright. It's a lot the first time."

You let her lead you. You don't know why. You don't know why you're letting her. She's younger than you. She's smaller than you. But her hand is warm and certain and your hand is not certain about anything and so you follow.

You're at her booth now. The tables are covered with objects. Shapes you don't recognize, shapes you half-recognize, shapes that make your stomach flip when you realize what they are. Devices in neat rows. Packaging stacked behind her. A small screen playing a loop of product demonstrations — bodies, curves, the flash of silicone.

She lets go of your hand. You feel the loss.

"I'm Robin," she says. "This is my booth. My company."

"Robin," you repeat. Your voice sounds thin.

"Ring Erotics." She gestures at the booth. "I design and build sexual devices. Stimulators. Toys. Tech for men and women."

She says this the way someone might say they design kitchenware. Direct. Unembarrassed. "I started in college. I'm an engineer by training. I like solving problems."

You nod. You don't know what to say. You're standing in front of a table full of sex toys and a woman who builds them is explaining her business model and you can feel the heat in your face and the tightness in your chest and the stirring — no. No. You will not think about the stirring.

She picks something up from the table. A dildo. Large. Larger than — you look at it and your stomach does something complicated.

It's anatomically detailed. Veins. A ridge. A head. It's the kind of thing you've seen in the ads that pop up on the sites you visit late at night, but you've never seen one in person, never held one, never been this close.

"I do a lot of research," she says, turning it in her hand. "Did you know a woman has multiple erogenous zones inside her vagina? Not just one. Several. And only some men have a cock sized to activate them all."

She looks at you.

"Have you ever seen a real cock?"

The question lands. You blink.

"I — what?"

She smiles. Warm. Patient.

"A cock. A real one. Not in porn. In person. A cock that belongs to a man who knows what to do with it."

"I — no. I mean. I have a — I've seen —"

You want to say I have one. You want to assert something. Your manhood flares, some instinct to push back, to say I'm not a boy, I'm a man, I have a cock, I —

She touches your arm. Light. Warm. The flare dies.

"Don't worry, sweetie. I'm sure yours is perfectly adorable," she says.

Adorable.

The word undoes you. You don't know why. You don't know why that word, of all words, makes your face burn and your chest tighten and something in your stomach turn over. But it does.

Adorable is not what a man wants to hear. Adorable is what you call a puppy. A kitten. A child's drawing. Not a man's — not a man's cock.

She sets the dildo down and picks up something else. A model. Anatomical. A woman's — a pussy. Molded in silicone, detailed, lifelike. Lips. A clitoris. An opening.

"This is modeled on a real woman," she says. "One of my contractors. She was kind enough to let us scan her." She turns it in her hands.

"See the lips? The inner labia? The clitoral hood here —" she traces a finger over it, clinical, precise "— and the vaginal opening. The whole structure is designed to receive. To be filled."

You're staring. You can't not stare. You've never seen — you've never been this close. Porn doesn't count. Porn is flat, distant, a screen. This is here. This is in her hands. This is real.

"Have you ever seen a woman's pussy?"

Your mouth is dry.

"I — no."

She nods. Unsurprised.

"That's alright. Pussy can be intimidating for a boy like you. Sex is scary, isn't it?"

"I — it's not — I'm not scared —"

"Hmmhnnn," she makes a soft sound. Not disagreement. Acknowledgment. The sound a mother makes when a child says he's not tired.

"It's alright. That's why I have these models. So boys like you can see their first pussy. So I can help guide them."

She holds it out to you.

"Touch it."

Your hand moves before your brain catches up. Your fingers touch the silicone. It's soft. Warm from her hands. The lips yield slightly under your fingertips.

"Good," she says. "Now would you like to give it a little kiss?"

You look up at her. She's watching you. That small smile.

"It's alright. That's what these are for. Go on. It's okay to be nervous but I promise you're safe. I want you to. Really. Give it a little kiss."

You lean down. Your face is burning. You press your lips to the molded lips of the model. Light. Brief. You straighten up and you're breathing hard and you don't know why.

"Good boy," she says. Quiet. Warm. The words course through you like electricity.

She sets the pussy model down and picks up the dildo again. She turns it in her hands, considering it the way someone considers a piece of fruit at a market.

"Isn't it beautiful?" she says, and she's already placing it in your hands before you can answer. "You can see why most girls want a nice thick cock, can't you?"

You nod. You can't help yourself. The cock is in your hand. It's so thick. Your fingers —

"Your fingers don't close around it," she says.

She looks down at your hand. At your fingers. Your face burns.

"It's alright. Boys like you are always surprised how different it is," she says.

You look at her. She's watching your hand on the dildo. Watching your fingers.

"I — I don't —"

"A real cock is heavier. Thicker. Longer." She says this factually. Not cruelly. The way a teacher describes a specimen. "Most boys don't realize. They think what they have is — well." She pauses. "They don't know."

You're holding it and your hand looks small around it and you can feel your face burning and you can feel something else, something worse, something stirring in your pants.

You try to think about something else. You try to think about the flight. About Fred. About the gaming pavilion. About anything.

"Now," she says. "Would you like me to show you how they work?"

"I — what?"

"Sex," she says, matter-of-factly. "Why don't you show me. Guide the cock into the pussy."

She picks up the model pussy and holds it. She nods toward the dildo in your hand.

You move. You don't know why you move. You bring the head of the dildo to the lips of the model and you press and the lips part and the dildo slides in — slowly, because it's thick, because the opening has to stretch — and you watch it disappear into the model and your mouth is open and your breathing is ragged.

"Good," she says. "See how she stretches? See how she has to open to take it? That's what a real cock does. Can you imagine how she must feel? Being stretched like that? Being filled?"

You push the dildo deeper. Your hand is shaking.

"You are doing so well," she says as she watches you use the dildo to stretch the pussy. "And now, in and out. Show me how it fucks."

You start to move it. In and out. The mechanics of sex. You're using a dildo to fuck a pussy while this woman you just met watches and smiles at you.

You've seen it in porn, you've imagined it, but you've never — you've never done this, never held a cock and guided it into a pussy and worked it back and forth.

Your hand moves and you watch, mesmerized, as the dildo slides in and out and you can hear the soft sound of the silicone and your face is on fire.

"Good boy," she says. "Keep going."

You keep going. In and out. Your arm moves. Your breathing is loud. You can feel your own cock start to rise as you watch the cock in your hand work the pussy.

"Mmmm —" The sound comes out of you. A whimper. You didn't mean to make it.

"That's it," she says. "Nice and slow. See how she takes it? See how she's made for this?"

And then she looks down.

You follow her gaze.

There's a tent in your pants. Your erection. Straining against the fabric. Obvious. Visible.

"Oh," you say. "Oh god. I — I'm sorry. I —"

She doesn't look upset. She looks pleased.

"There he is," she says. Warm. Almost tender.

"I — I'm sorry, I didn't — I can't —"

"Shhh. Shh shh shh." She reaches out and touches your arm again. "It's alright. It's completely natural. Boys like you get overwhelmed by their penises. It's not your fault."

Boys like you. Overwhelmed by their penises.

She nods toward your tent. "He's very excited, isn't he?"

"I — please —"

"Shh. It's alright." She steps closer. Her voice drops. Softer. More intimate. "Is your penis overwhelming you right now, sweetie? Right here in my booth?"

Your throat is tight.

"I — yes."

"Say it."

"I — he's — my penis is —"

"Your penis is overwhelming you," she says. Patient. Coaching.

"My penis is overwhelming me."

"Good boy."

The praise hits you and something in your chest cracks open.

"And did you hump your hand this morning, sweetie?"

You look at her. How does she — how could she —

"I —"

"In your hotel room. Before you came to the convention. You woke up hard and you humped your hand."

"I — yes."

"Say it."

"I — I humped my hand. This morning. I —"

"Good." She's watching you with that warm certainty. "And now here you are at my booth and your penis is so hard again. Isn't he?"

"Yes."

"Say it."

"My penis is — my penis is so hard."

"Good boy. He's been hard for a while, hasn't he? Since you walked into this aisle. Since you saw the booths. Since you saw me."

"I — yes."

"Say it."

"He's been — he's been hard since I — since I saw —"

"Since you saw me. Good boy."

She steps closer. Her voice is low. Intimate. For you and no one else, even though the convention roars around you, even though people walk past the aisles.

"Would you like me to help take care of your little guy?"

Your mouth opens. Closes.

"I —"

"It's alright. You can tell me."

"I — yes. Please."

"Good boy."

She reaches down. Her hands find your zipper. You feel the pull, the unzip, and your heart is pounding so hard you can hear it in your ears and the convention is loud and bright and none of it matters because her hand is sliding into your pants, into your underwear, and her fingers find your cock.

"Oh," she says. Soft. Warm. "There he is."

Her fingers close around your shaft. You're so hard. You've never been this hard. You've never had a woman's hand on you and she's holding you and her grip is warm and certain and your hips buck without your permission.

"Hnngh —"

"Shh. Shh. It's alright. I've got him."

She doesn't move her hand. She just holds you. Lets her fingers rest around your shaft. Lets you feel the warmth of her grip, the weight of her hand. Your cock twitches in her palm and she smiles.

"He's so eager," she says. "So stiff. He's been waiting for this all day, hasn't he?"

"I — yes —"

"Say it."

"He's been — waiting — all day —"

"Good boy."

She starts to move. Slow. Not stroking yet — just shifting her grip. Her fingers slide a fraction of an inch up your shaft and then back down. A small motion. Barely anything. But your whole body tightens.

"Shh," she says. "Easy. Easy. I'm just getting to know him."

Her thumb finds the underside of your shaft. Traces a line upward. Slow. So slow. She reaches the head and circles it once — just once — and your hips buck again and a sound comes out of you that you don't recognize.

"There," she says. "That's where he's sensitive, isn't it? Right there under the head?"

"I — yes —"

"Good. I want to know. I want to know everything about your little guy."

Little guy. The words land even as her thumb circles again and your legs shake.

"Keep going with the demonstration," she says. She nods toward the dildo still in your other hand, the pussy model still on the table. "In and out. Show me how a real cock fucks a pussy."

You start again. The dildo slides in and out of the model and her hand is on your cock and the two sensations are layered — the silicone resistance of the model, the warm grip of her fingers — and your body doesn't know which one to respond to.

"That's it," she says. "Good boy. In and out."

Her hand begins to move. Matching your rhythm. When you push the dildo in, her fingers slide down your shaft.

When you pull the dildo back, her fingers slide up. The two motions locked together. In and down. Out and up. In and down. Out and up.

"Mmmhhh —" The sound comes out of you. A whimper. You can't help it.

"Look at that," she says. "Look how her pussy wraps around him. How she grips him so tight. That's what a real cock does to a woman."

Your hand moves the dildo. In. Out. Her hand moves on you. Down. Up. The two rhythms in sync.

"But your little guy wouldn't fill a pussy like that, would he?"

"I — no —"

"Say it."

"My — my little guy wouldn't — wouldn't fill a —"

"That's alright." Her hand moves. Steady. Certain. "Pussy isn't for him, is it? He'd rather be in your hand —"

In and down. Out and up. In and down. Out and up.

"— In your hand while you sit in the corner like a little boy watching a real man fuck. Just like you are doing now. Just like this."

"Oh god —"

She squeezes. In and down. Out and up. In and down. Out and up.

"Shh. Shh. It's alright. It's ok to be the boy who watches. That's your spot, isn't it? That's where you are supposed to be. Sitting in the corner. Watching. Humping."

"I — yes —"

"Good boy."

"Because he's not for fucking, is he?"

In and down. Out and up. In and down. Out and up.

"I — no —"

"Say it."

"He's — he's not for — for fucking —"

"That's right, good boy." Her fingers tighten slightly. "You're for the corner. And he's for humping. He's for my hand. He's for making his mess. That's what he's for."

Something lets go. Not all at once — more like a fist unclenching, a held breath releasing. You didn't know you'd been holding on.

"Say it."

"He's — for humping. He's for — your hand —"

"Good boy."

Her hand moves faster. Just slightly. The rhythm picks up. Your hips respond before your brain does, rocking into her grip, thrusting in time with the dildo.

"You know what I think about," she says. Her voice drops. Intimate. The voice of someone sharing a secret.

"Every time I sell one of these cocks to a woman. I imagine her at home. Opening the package. Taking out her new cock. Holding it for the first time. Warming it up with her hand. Her mouth. Getting it ready for her pussy."

Your hand moves the dildo. In. Out. Her hand moves on you. Down. Up.

"I imagine her husband asleep beside her. His little penis soft in his underwear. And she slides it in —"

Your hips thrust.

"— and her pussy stretches. For a real cock. For the first time. Like she's finally losing her virginity. Finally being penetrated by a cock that fills her pussy. And as she slides that new cock in and out of her hole, her husband is right there sleeping —"

Her hand slides. Up. Down. Up.

"— he's asleep, while she pushes that cock deep into her pussy and fucks herself to her first real orgasm, stretched and filled and full and he doesn't even know. And he won't ever know."

Mmmhhnnn —

"But here's the part I like best, sweetie." Her thumb circles the head of your cock again. Your legs shake.

In and down. Out and up. In and down. Out and up.

"After she has come from having that thick cock inside her, after she has split herself open on it, and stuffed herself full of it —"

In and down. Out and up. In and down. Out and up.

"— after she has experienced the most intensely satisfying pleasure she has ever known, she'll never look at her husband's little penis the same way again."

Your hand moves faster. Your hips thrust harder. In and down. Out and up.

"She knows now," Robin says. "She knows what a real cock feels like. She knows what it feels like to have her pussy filled. To be satisfied. And every time she lets her husband climb between her legs and hump her —"

Your hips thrust into her hand. In and down. Out and up.

"— she'll be thinking about the real cock in her bedside table drawer. She'll be thinking about that spot deep inside her pussy that feels so good that his little penis can't reach."

You're thrusting faster now. In and down. Out and up. In and down. Out and up.

"And she'll know how small his really is. How sexually inadequate he is. How letting him fuck her ever again will be nothing more than an act of charity. A wifely duty. A kindness."

Your hand pushes the dildo. In. Out. Your hips. Her hand. Down. Up. Push. Hump. Your hips. Her hand.

"And this cock —" she turns her head to look at the dildo in your hand "— this cock is molded on the real thing. A real man. A man whose cock now fucks and fills all those women while their husbands lie in bed asleep with their small, limp penises."

Your hips. Her hand. Down. Up. Push. Hump. Your hips. Her hand. Down. Up.

"Every woman who's bought one of these from me has gone home and fucked another man. Not her husband. Another man. Bigger. Thicker. A man who fills her pussy the way her husband never has."

Nnnngh —

"And her husband doesn't know. He's asleep. Or at work. Or right there beside her. And he doesn't know that his wife has been stretched by a real cock. That she's come on a real cock. That she cuckolded him. And she'll never un-know it."

Her hand tightens. Her pace increases. Your hips buck to match.

"Your little guy likes that too, doesn't he?" she says. She's not looking at your face. She's looking down. At your little guy. "He likes thinking about all those men whose wives cuckolded them and their small penises with my toys. He's so hard. So stiff. He's been needing this all day."

"I — I —"

"Shh. It's alright. Let him. He needs to make his mess."

The dildo. The pussy. In. Out. Your hips. Her hand. Up. Down. Up. The two rhythms syncing, tightening, accelerating.

"Good boy. Good boy. That's it. He's right there, isn't he? He's ready."

"I — y-y-yes —"

"Good boy." Her hand moves. Certain. Unrelenting. "Come on, then. Time to empty your little balls for me. Hump my hand. Make your mess."

You can't stop it. You can't — you don't want to stop it. Your hips buck and your hand stops moving the dildo and your whole body tightens and —

"Nnnngh — oh — oh god —"

You come. In her hand. In your underwear. Spurt after spurt and she's holding you and she's cooing softly and the world whites out for a moment.

“Nnngh — oh oh ahh — ffffuh —”

"Good boy," she says. "Good boy. That's it. Let it all out. Empty yourself all out for me."

You're shaking. Your breathing is ragged. The convention roars back in — the noise, the light, the people walking past — and you're standing in her booth with your pants unzipped and her hand in your underwear and you just came in a stranger's hand.

She withdraws her hand. Slowly. She reaches up and takes the hem of your shirt and wipes her fingers on it. Casual. Unhurried. Like it's the most natural thing in the world.

She tucks you back in. Zips you up. Her hands are certain and deft and you stand there and let her because what else would you do.

"There," she says. She smiles at you. That warm, knowing smile. "That's better, isn't it? He's not so overwhelming anymore, is he?"

"I — yes."

"Good."

She turns to her table. Picks something up. A lollipop. Pink. Wrapped in cellophane.

She holds it out to you.

You take it. You don't know what you're supposed to do with it. You stand there holding it like an idiot.

She laughs. Soft. Warm. Not unkind.

"Here," she says. She takes it back. Unwraps it. Holds it up to your mouth. "Open."

You open. She slides it past your lips. The sweetness hits your tongue.

"Good boy," she says.

She turns you by the shoulders. Gently. The way you'd turn a child. She pats your bottom. Once. Twice.

"I have customers coming, sweetie. But you come back later. I want to show you something really special."

sweetie.

The word follows you as you walk away from her booth, the lollipop in your mouth, the damp spot in your underwear, the flush still burning in your cheeks.

You walk back into the roar of the convention and you don't know what just happened to you. You don't know what you just did. You don't know why you're already thinking about coming back.

But you are.

This is the first in a new series about a man, a convention, a sex engineer, and the booth that will position him — one silicone model, one guided demonstration, one whispered 'good boy' at a time.