She Was A Doll: My Shameful Weekend

I’m trying to live with the most shameful, erotic, strange, disgusting weekend of my life. It’s not easy. I consider myself a normal guy but I’m wondering if I overstepped the mark. I’ve been thinking of begging for Jesus to save me but I’m not religious. I am, I suppose, a naughty little filth-bucket. I went and did it.

I fucked an inflatable doll.

It was disgusting. Shameful. So I fucked it again. Oh dear. And again.

Why? I hear you ask. You’re a normal guy. You’re not bad looking. You’re not “sad” or “lonely”. No, you’re right. I’m not.

Then, young sir, WHY DID YOU FUCK A BLOW UP DOLL?

I suppose, to paraphrase the great Sir Edmund Hillary, the intrepid explorer and conqueror of Mount Everest, I did it because THEY ARE THERE.

They exist. Some bugger invented them. They were made for fucking. So, I wanted to try it. I’m in a relationship. I’m happy. I love sex. But I like to take the occasional solo flight too. And, with these dolls, the temptation was just too much. And who really wants to resist temptation? Resist, and you’ll never have any fun. Now, that really is for losers.

And so, I did it. I had to.

But it was not straightforward.

Firstly, there was the continual nagging guilt. A guilt that’s kind of hard to put into words. It’s akin to be caught humping the new sofa by your mother. Or being spied touching up a family pet in the wrong way.

Or at least it was for me.

I’ve never touched up a pet, I might add, be it cat, dog, Vietnamese pot bellied pig, hamster or goldfish. Or been caught astride the arm of a sofa (although my eyes have shifted longingly towards a few piled up cushions).

Then there was the continuing excitement. The thinking about it. That started even before the package-a plain brown parcel, of course-arrived.

I’d ordered a cheap one. I didn’t want to become obsessed with a beautiful $1,000 lump of plastic. Mine cost less than an average night out. I didn’t pick it for any other reason than the cost. Although, I had insisted on the traditional three realistic holes. I have some standards.

(It was actually meant to be a “Puerto Rican Jenny from the Block” model; it turned out to be more “Jenny from the Docks”.)

Anyway, it arrived within 24 hours and I put it in a cupboard to await the weekend.

My eyes were drawn to that cupboard for days. It seemed to have a radioactive glow. Every now and then I kept hearing my doll calling me: “You don’t want to wait until the weekend. Take me now, you naughty boy!”

See what trouble I was already in? My doll had a voice!

Then, there was doll etiquette. I was a virgin. I did not know what to do. Do I give my doll a name? Do I dress her? Do I blow her up each time or leave her inflated and sit her in the window like Norman Bates’ mother?

The Norman Bates’ mother thing proved a right turn-off. I would have to keep the puff to inflate her each time I wanted a ride.

The name: would naming her make me a crazy person? Any name would have to be exotic-like Takita or Consuela or Fahita. Maybe not Fahita. Spicy Mexican did not agree with me.

For top tips on use, I went to the Internet. Yes, I know, it seems simple enough: put a little lubricant on your old fella and slip him inside. But I wanted to check what the veterans did, and there are plenty out there. For a start, there are loads of Yahoo! groups dedicated to Love-Doll loving. They are loaded with members and messages, photos of love dolls in different positions, dressed and undressed, sitting at desks, being pummeled by thin, fat, hairy, smooth men; dolls for women too-with rubber dicks like half-inflated balloons.

And there are loads of film clips. Men in anonymous-looking rooms, lying between lifeless legs and humping away. Masked men lining up two “lovers” to take them doggie-dolly style in turn (not to make the dolls jealous?).

Appetite whetted, my time came. I puffed and puffed and Tatiana-for that is what she had become-appeared.

It was an exciting, frustrating, arousing, confusing experience.

The holes were, ahem, a little tight. We tangoed together into different positions. Found one we liked. Stuck with it. I got greedy. Moved on top. The air shifted inside Tatiana. Her legs swelled, then her arms, her pelvis. Ouch. It all depended where I put my weight.

Our first night ended in one of those strange half-climaxes and I was glad to pull Tatiana’s plug-although not completely put off.

We agreed on a second date. When I’d got my breath back.

I decided she needed some stockings to add to the thong and t-shirt I’d placed over her small, pointed, plastic breasts. I casually popped a pair in my shopping basket at the superstore and rushed home.

The excitement was too much. Mid-morning, I was bringing Tatiana back to life. I began to dress her and discovered the stockings were tights. A schoolboy error. I quickly made them crotchless with my fumbling fingers.

Going to work, I suddenly found that Tatiana and I had clicked. Huge excitement. Much panting (me) and squeaking (Tatiana).

At the end my legs went to jelly. I walked to the bathroom like a newborn foal.

A fair-minded kind of guy, I used all of Tatiana’s holes and ended with a money shot across her balloon-like buttocks. Hurrah!

I only ever planned to keep Tatiana, my experiment, for the weekend. In the end, she stayed three days. Then it was goodbye. Ours was a love that burned brightly, but briefly. Now I can’t stop thinking about her.

Of course, she doesn’t call and I doubt she thinks about me at all.

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