A moan escapes my lips as I ride the crashing waves of my orgasm, my body shuddering as the pleasure pulses through me. My hips press up instinctively, my pussy throbbing and sensitized from the relentless hum of the Turbo Massager. Even after I turned it off, a deep ache lingers, my clit still buzzing from the vibrations that rolled through me moments before.
This massager is anything but subtle. Its thick, round head bludgeons me in my sensitive spots, making me spread my legs wide just to let it nestle perfectly against me. I find myself adjusting it at different angles, letting each shift bring a new sensation—whether it's the soft, silicone head hammering my clit or the variety of vibrations teasing the opening of my pussy. Every subtle shift feels like it awakens a fresh nerve, sparking a new wave of warmth that leaves me craving more.
I turn it on again, its weight heavy in my hand, grounding me as I roll it over my slick skin. The steady, pulsing pressure builds as I climb through the speeds, teasing me with a slow, controlled intensity, before finally hitting that peak vibration. My fingers tremble as I hold it, the vibrations so powerful they make my thighs quiver, sending me over the edge again in one unrestrained, rolling orgasm that seems to leave every part of me tingling.
When it's over, I lie back, breathing heavily, feeling the soft throb still echo in my pussy, my clit sensitive to the faintest brush. My eyes drift down, and I can't help but notice how completely drenched the massager is, the entire head glistening, soaked through with a combination of my own wetness and the fancy lube—a testament to just how relentless, just how consuming that experience was. I set it aside, satisfaction settling over me like a warm blanket, and closed my eyes, savoring the decadent release that leaves me utterly and beautifully spent.
Wow. Just wow. I've no doubt now that the Turbo Massager is a bestseller in Kharat.Ph.
I lie in bed for a few minutes, still in a state of orgasm coma. My body and mind just want to turn off their factory settings and stay in this blissful haze forever, my muscles loose and pleasantly heavy as if I've melted into the sheets themselves.
With a final, deep breath, I force myself to move, feeling a comfortable ache settle into my limbs. I peel myself from the bed, toss my clothes and the massager into my laundry basket, making a hazy mental note to wash it later, and head to the bathroom. Under the hot spray of the shower, I let the steam soothe away the last traces of tension, my mind drifting in a pleasant haze as the water trickles down my skin.
After drying off and wrapping myself in a towel, I check my email. A new message from Janine sits at the top, outlining my schedule for the day. She suggests I explore the Kharat.Ph website to get a feel for the brand and absorb their approach to "luxury intimacy products." For the first day, I suppose that's the best thing for me to do. I follow her instructions and scroll through Kharat.Ph's pages.
The site's minimalist theme greets me with soft, neutral tones—creams and blushes that seem to draw me in without urgency. As I scroll, images and descriptions blend seamlessly, every detail arranged with a quiet kind of intention.
At the top, a slim navigation bar holds tabs like Personal Massagers,Luxury Lubricants, and Sensory Play. Clicking on Personal Massagers, I find a grid of items displayed like art pieces: a sleek, rose-hued device against a dark backdrop, a bottle of lube resting on polished marble. Instead of blunt descriptions, each product reads like an invitation: "Thoughtful design for your sensory adventure plays" one promises beside a polished silver massager.
The About Us page opens with a simple, elegant quote in Ferguson "Fergie" Montalban's own words: "To love freely and openly is to truly embrace life." Below, a short bio introduces Fergie as the visionary founder of Kharat.Ph, an intimacy brand he launched in 2019 after making waves in the world of avant-garde fashion.
Known for pushing boundaries and bringing his bold, creative eye to every project, Fergie had found the fashion market stifling and oversaturated. He sought a fresh canvas, one where he could make a unique impact.
In Kharat.Ph, he saw an opportunity to champion the "Love Freely, Love Openly" movement and create a line of love products that honored personal connection and uninhibited self-expression. What began as a boutique collection quickly grew in popularity, especially during the pandemic, as people turned to self-care and intimacy in new ways. Today, Kharat.Ph is a space for exploring and celebrating sensuality without shame, an ethos that Fergie describes as "a quiet revolution of love and comfort."
With Fergie at the helm, Kharat.Ph continues to thrive, offering not just products, but a philosophy: Celebrate pleasure. Honor desire.
By the time I'm done exploring, my initial embarrassment has faded. They've built this site to feel like a private, inviting space, more an invitation to explore than a typical store. Not bad. If I were a customer, I'd feel empowered by their words, my hesitation giving way to an almost rational curiosity.
I can see why Kharat.Ph is gaining traction. It's a brand that respects its audience without pushing them, and—though I wouldn't admit it aloud—it does make an impression. I allow myself a small, approving nod.
Once I'm done perusing Kharat's website, I decide to keep the momentum going by tackling some overdue errands—namely, sending Lolita to the grooming clinic and arranging a laundry pickup. Lolita, however, isn't as thrilled about the productive day. She watches me with a sharp, skeptical gaze as I approach her with her carrier.
"Come on, you," I murmur, gently scooping her up. As I coax her into the carrier, she gives me a warning hiss, her tail flicking with irritation.
"Don't give me that attitude," I say, snapping the carrier door shut. "You're overdue for a grooming session, and now that I have a job again, we can re-establish some standards around here." Lolita glares, flattening herself against the back of the carrier, the picture of dignified resentment. I stuff my dirty laundry into a large eco-bag, wrestling with the handles to keep everything contained. Once it's all in, I set the bag by my front door, tucking it against the frame so it's ready for pickup.
With everything in order, I head to the car. It's been sitting idle far too long, thanks to my reluctance to waste gas during those months of uncertainty. But, again, with my new employment, I allow myself the small relief of being able to drive, of knowing I can finally refuel. There's a familiar satisfaction in slipping behind the wheel. Life's rhythm is finally settling back into place.
Arriving at the grooming clinic, I brace myself for the possible encounter with the rude staff. But when I step inside, I'm met with a bright-faced young woman who smiles at me from behind the counter.
"Hi there! Here for grooming?" she asks, glancing at the carrier with a look of pure cheer that Lolita, unsurprisingly, does not share. She lets out a soft, disapproving yowl, affronted at the very sight of such optimism.
"Yes. She's overdue," I reply, setting the carrier on the counter with a controlled hand. "A thorough grooming session, if possible. And please have her delivered back to my place after."
"Absolutely!" The girl smiles, passing a blank sheet of paper to me. "Just please write down your address here."
After leaving my address with her, I pay the grooming fees and the extra delivery charge. "Thanks."
"Thank you. We'll take good care of Lolita for you," the girl says, bright and cheery.
When I finally stepped out of the grooming clinic, I feel the quiet satisfaction of a day well-handled. Two errands crossed off without any fuss, and for once, I'm able to appreciate the small return of normalcy.
___________
When I got home, I noticed right away that my eco bag full of dirty laundry was no longer sitting by the door. The hallway was empty and quiet. Finally, that's been handled. I'm relieved that my crumpled clothes were no longer waiting for me at home. I pictured my laundry being carted off to diligent workers who'd seen it all. They'd toss my disheveled mess into the machines, fold each piece neatly, and return it smelling fresh and clean, restoring a little dignity to my life.
Just as I was about to key in my door and finally slip into my apartment, the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps echoed down the hallway. I glanced over my shoulder to see none other than Ms. Alcantara. She walked with an air of high-brow efficiency, her tailored blouse crisp and her heels clicking sharply with every step.
"Oh, Ermita," she called out, her voice carrying the same tone she'd use to call over a disobedient dog. She lifted her chin, her gaze landing on me with a look of reproach. "Your laundry service was just here." She begins.
"Ah, yes." I nod, confirming what she just alluded to. The way she says it makes it sound like it was just a coincidence, but I know she's been watching, biding her time, probably waiting for the exact day that my laundry won't be picked up right away so she can report me to the building admin.
"They returned this, and I thought it best to keep it safe," she announces, her voice thick with self-importance. With a grand flourish, she reaches into her handbag, her eyes flashing with a look that tells me I owe her some deep gratitude. Slowly, she pulls it out—and I feel the blood drain from my face as I see exactly what I hoped it wouldn't be.
The Turbo Massager is held in her delicate hand with an air of casual authority, giving the impression that it was her civic duty to "retrieve" it on my behalf.
My heart lurched out of my rib cage. My mouth went dry, and my cheeks heated up as I took in the sight of the sex toy gleaming in her manicured fingers. My mind instantly flashed back to earlier: the head sloppily soaked in my own pussy juices, thick and unmistakable, leaving a slick sheen over the entire rounded tip.
"Oh, uh... yes, that's mine" I suppress a grimace.
"Yes, yes, I thought it best to retrieve it myself," she says, oblivious to my horror as she examines the massager. She clicks it on, and it roars to life, vibrating with a loud hum that reverberates down the quiet hallway. "I tried it earlier, and I must say, Ermita, it's quite powerful. You young women certainly know the best gadgets these days."
My mind is racing for an escape, but Ms. Alcantara's attention is fixed on the massager.
Horror paints my face as she brings my unwashed Turbo Massager to her cheek, pressing it in small, circular motions. She closes her eyes with a contented sigh. "I had no idea you were so thoughtful about skin care," she muses, completely oblivious. "It's wonderful for facial muscles! Far better than those silly creams."
I swallow, a surge of mortification nearly sending me over the edge as I watch her trail it along her jaw, then across her other cheek. She hums approvingly, as if this is the best spa treatment she's ever given herself. The memory of how sloppy it had been after I orgasmed several times hits me all over again, and I nearly wince, my hand hovering out, unsure whether to grab it back or bolt down the hall.
"Oh, I—I do find it relaxing, yes," I squeak, fighting the overwhelming urge to disappear into thin air.
She finally opens her eyes, looking at me with what I can only describe as condescending approval. "It's good to see you investing in proper self-care, Ermita," she says with a small nod, as if I'd finally managed to live up to some invisible standard.
"Yes," I whisper, clutching my hands tightly in an attempt to stay calm. "Can I have it back, please?"
"In a moment," she said impatiently, clutching it as if I'd interrupted a very important presentation. "It really does seem to do the trick. I don't suppose you knew it's good for reducing puffiness?" She opened her eyes, flashing me a self-satisfied look, completely missing the horror etched across my face.
To add to my mortification, she sniffs the damned thing, lifting it up toward her nose with a delicate but purposeful motion. Her nostrils flare as she leans in slightly, eyes narrowing in concentration. "Smells a little odd, though" she murmurs. "Floral but with a hint of something I can't quite point a finger to."
Oh God. Just give it back please.
She clicks the device off and examines it. "Indeed. Perhaps I'll consider ordering one myself. Do let me know where you bought it, won't you?"
"I'm not sure." I lie without thinking. "It was a gift from a friend." I say a silent prayer for this conversation to end soon.
She finally extends the massager toward me, holding it just out of reach. "Be more mindful about where you leave your things in the future. We can't have the standards slipping in the building."
"Oh, y-yes," I stammer, taking it from her as quickly as possible, clutching it behind my back like a ticking time bomb. "I'll keep that in mind."
With a final, superior smile, she nods as if she's done me an enormous favor. "Good. Always a pleasure to see you making an effort, Ermita." Her disposition seems to have improved after her short encounter with the Turbo Massager. And with that, she turns on her heel and strides down the hallway, walking away with authority.
I stand there, frozen in place, The Turbo Massager feels like it's burning in my hand. When I finally gather myself enough to unlock my door, I slip inside and lock it behind me, sinking against the cool floor as I ask myself: What. The. Hell. Was. That?