An Extremely Pure Young Woman

She is just about as innocent as any girl you could possibly meet. One glance at her and she lets out a scream like a nine-year-old, with both straps of her large tartan backpack resting on her shoulders, making her already small frame look even tinier. Her bobbed blonde hair gives her face a round, cute appearance, slightly marred only by the braces on her teeth and the Hello Kitty glasses that cover her eyes like a pink veil. She never wears heels; she always sticks to those matte black pumps which blend perfectly with her loose black trousers that hide any hint of shape. She keeps everything suggestive hidden away: no bright lipstick (she almost rubs it off every morning in front of the mirror), and she pairs this with thick sweaters and short, neatly trimmed nails, using only clear varnish to protect them. She is 25; until now, she has never been intimate with a man. Judging by her appearance, you would likely guess that. Her innocence makes some men feel she isn’t worth the effort, while others take occasional chances to try out their poor pickup lines on her just to see how she will react. She always reacts in the same way: turning an incredibly red face from blushing and avoiding men for most of the rest of the day. It didn’t take much to make Eleanor blush—a sly innuendo here, a glimpse of skin there—and soon she is as red as a tomato. Today was Friday. Fridays are special for her; not because she goes out—because she stays in every other night and would never go out otherwise. Going out at night is how everyone else becomes vulgar and lewd. She tried it once, paying to get into a club, reaching the crowd before a man grabbed her waist without warning. She rushed straight to the toilet to cry through the rest of the evening. Since there were only two ladies’ toilets in the entire venue, the queues were terrible that night. But this Friday, she was staying home once again. And just thinking about it made her blush. It begins slowly with a bit of white wine (non-alcoholic, naturally), as she hates the taste of alcohol and finds people seem so horrible when they drink it. Yet the mere taste is enough to make her feel tipsy thanks to the placebo effect. She has a book that she bought online long ago; discreetly packaged with no details on the box except for her address. It is a compilation of short stories, full of naughty tales where each chapter gradually becomes lewder and more candid. Every Friday, she reads it religiously. As she drinks more wine and turns through the chapters, she undresses bit by bit as time flies past. Little by little, she blushes harder while unconsciously beginning to touch herself. Gently, ever so gently, she works her way into a small frenzy. She reads deeper and deeper until she reaches that one story near the back. The one story that makes her freeze in stillness, anticipating every word. Only breaking her stoic silence and motion to turn the page smoothly, caressing it as if it were the lover she never had. That final tale is filled with chains, gags, kidnapping, blindfolds, and above all else, fucking. The last words of that story cause her to bite her lip in tension, anxiety, and desire; then it ends. Nothing leaves her feeling so unfulfilled as those painful words drift past her mind before she starts preparing. Everything she owns was purchased online because God forbid anyone discovers she has all this hidden away in her plain flat. That is why she never brings anyone back here. Her bedroom surrounds her with black sweeping elegance, featuring a strange box sitting oddly at the foot of her four-poster bed. She unlocks the bottom drawer beneath the bed, panting and breathing short bursts of excitement as she opens it; everything lies out in perfect order with delicate precision. The keys are placed first, naturally. She hooks them up next to the electromagnet attached to the roof on one side of her bed. When turned on, the keys stick there until it is all over—a process so familiar that she has lost count of how many times she has done it. Standing naked before all her toys, her anxiety clear as day with her knees practically knocking together, quivering and wanting. First comes the gag, most important to her because God forbid the neighbours hear her sounds. It is a cock gag, large and looming in her view. Slowly, gulping and coughing initially, it goes on tight enough to last the night without leaving marks on her delicate face. To her, the latex hood next is vital—not so much for action as for meaning—because this hood symbolizes everything about tonight: a black, shiny, smooth latex mask with only eyeholes and chunky pink lettering glued to the forehead spelling out “SLUT”. The word lingers in the back of her mind as she pulls the snug, tight mask on. If she is blushing now, no one would ever know. No one but herself. Leather cuffs come next; their keys remain under the bed until she is finished. So she locks herself in and hesitantly retrieves the last item from her forbidden drawer. It is a dildo: plain, simple, vibrating of course, black with veins, not very large, yet that is all she needs—all she knows. She fits it simply with a click onto the rod protruding from the box at the foot of her bed—a fucking machine connected to the wall socket via a timer which activates both the machine and the magnet for her release. She sets the clock for nine hours; it will begin in five minutes, right at midnight. Not much time left. She positions herself carefully just before the rod so that the dildo rests nestled between her delicate lips—open, rosy red, and eager for what is to come. She locks her legs in place at the corners of the bed, takes a deep breath (or tries to, given how difficult the gag makes it). Finally, with shaking hands fumbling slightly, she secures one hand first, then struggles briefly before sighing as her remaining hand locks into position. And there she is for the night. The moments pass slowly, anticipation rising in her eyes as time slides by until… with a faint click of a switch, the machine begins its enduring assault as the key above her left hand clicks onto the magnet. Helpless. She remains seated being driven hard by the dildo; every thrust makes her gasp as it almost splits her dainty frame in two, growing harder and faster. Her anticipation is finally satisfied when quite shortly into it, she gives in and comes. Only an almighty squeak escapes from her body contorting under the strain of the cuffs and machine. She always gets so worked up that not long after starting, she finishes her anguished writhing in pleasure and looks hopefully at the digital clock on her bedside table, hoping time is passing faster than she thought. 12:11 it flashes. The pleasure builds again; still gasping from the dildo’s relentless effort, Eleanor decides it will be a long night ahead. A very long night indeed.