Reader Confession – Mr Retired From Everything

Tie & CarrotYou’re probably all girls here, talking about fantasies, frustrations and things that shouldn’t turn you on but do. But I’m going to tell you my story anyway. I think it’s important to impart my experience.

I’m a bloke—yeah, you guessed that—but I’m not a young bloke, or a looker or even sex mad, it’s just this one thing that…well, I adore, even though I shouldn’t and don’t anymore. Maybe I’m a bit mad, a bit sick, I don’t know, it’s just how I was made, I guess. I’m taking a deep breath here, and to be honest going out on a limb writing this all down, but I’ve been assured of anonymity so I’ll share my story and it can be a warning, a turn-on or even just a laugh at a perverted old man. I’ll let you decide when you reach the end.

I like shoving things up my bum. Haven’t always but I can pinpoint when it started, it was when I retired. I suppose it was just too much time with her indoors. Sent me mad it did. It wasn’t so bad when I was at the factory all day and I only had to see her in the evening and at weekends. Well, then I was at the Three Horseshoes most of the time with the blokes, you know how it is. A pint and a chat, put the world to rights.

But as soon as I retired that was it. She came down on me like a ton of bricks. “Do this. Do that. Why are you just sitting there doing nothing all the time?” I kept telling her that I’d worked all my life. All day, every day. On my feet fixing the machines when they buggered up and maintaining them so they wouldn’t.

So I just sat there in the living room, getting more and more depressed because she wouldn’t give it up, not for one minute. Go and play golf, go fishing, go and get a hobby. But I didn’t want to. I was happy watching TV and having a breather from my nine-to-five. Not to say I wouldn’t have got myself a hobby after a while, I probably would have, but she just made me stubborn about it. I think I sat around longer than I needed to so I could prove that she couldn’t tell me what to do. I might be getting on a bit and be no good for the economy anymore, but I was still a man with my own mind.

Anyway, she took to going to various clubs and meetings. Said if I was in then she’d go out. Suited me fine. Meant I could watch the football, the cricket and the golf. I’ve always loved sport, as a spectator, that is, but never got the time or the peace to watch it. So it was good, you know, to have a rest. The last few years at work were exhausting, always something new to get to grips with and it got harder to get up in the mornings, especially in the winter, what with the arthritis I’ve got in my hips. Then one day, about two years ago, I was alone and the doorbell went. It was one of those Express Delivery vans. The guy handed me the box, I signed his little screen thing, and he went away. I wasn’t expecting anything, so I was intrigued.

It was a prize, some competition I didn’t even know I’d entered. Maybe I hadn’t and it was just some random thing. Whatever it was it was free and it changed my life.’

Do I sound crazy yet? I’m sure I don’t, I’m just an old retired fart, but this is where it all changes and crazy becomes my middle name. You see the delivery was a box of sex toys. Good stuff, great quality and all nicely packaged. There were blindfolds, handcuffs, pink feathery ticklers and a spanking paddle. Vibrators too, with lube that promised to heighten pleasure and taste of strawberry. I just shoved it in the garden shed to start with. But then after a few days I went back to it. Had a fiddle, you know, with the vibrator and the butt plugs. There were two and a string of bead things—I didn’t know what they were, had to read the leaflets that came with them. Well, eventually curiosity got the better of me. It wasn’t like I was having sex. Her indoors had had a hysterectomy ten years ago and has kept her legs firmly shut ever since. But I needed some kind of release, or stimulation at least. Most of the stuff there was for couples to play with but the plugs… Well, I could do that on my own. So the next time she went to her crochet group, a Monday morning I think it was, I got the lube and the butt plug and carefully eased it in.

The thing was big and that was the smallest of the two. It hurt but not in a bad way, in a good way. Kind of stretched and burned and then when it eventually popped in it felt amazing. A fullness and a prod of pleasure that went with me wherever I moved. I loved it instantly, that feeling, and my penis got hard, like really hard for the first time in months.

It escalated quickly. I was like a guy on Viagra when I had a plug in; it really hit the spot and I could come like I was fifteen again. Not that I got to share any of that newfound youth with anyone. This was all done on my own. I felt for a while that I’d swapped working for wanking, and actually it seemed quite a good deal. I couldn’t wait for her indoors to go to her next coffee morning or gardening day trip so I could grab that plug and play.

Then one day, I discovered something. Her indoors was supposed to be going to see our mutual friends—I won’t tell you their names just in case they read this. I pleaded a headache, knowing that if I didn’t go I would get a full day with my toys, undisturbed. She’d got just far enough away for me to get a plug in. I was on the second one now, quite a bit bigger than the first, and then she came home.

I was upstairs when I heard the door. I felt sick. Quickly, I pulled up my trousers, shoved the lube in my sock drawer and then walked down the stairs. The plug shifted inside me with each step—it felt amazing, hard and solid on whatever it is up there that’s so sensitive. But more than how it felt inside me, was “knowing” that it was there. My secret. That was thrilling.

I made us both a cup of tea while she explained the car had a new rattle and she didn’t trust it to make the journey to Ryslip. I reached for the milk, the sugar, nodded and said I would take it to the garage, and all the time I was hard as concrete. The plug was doing its job regardless of the routineness of my life and her constant disappointment in me. I felt hot, feverish with excitement. It was such a big secret; if only she knew that her skinny, good-for-nothing husband had a big old butt plug up his arse and a raging hard-on that would rival any porn star’s—yeah, they were the days.

Within a few months I was wearing a plug nearly all the time, not just at home but to nip to the library or go to Asda. That constant state of arousal became the norm. I liked it—it made me feel alive, no, more than that, it made me “feel” when I hadn’t felt anything for years.

I liked the beads too, and played with them whenever she went to her baking class on a Wednesday, but they weren’t my favourite. Eventually though I decided I wanted some more, bigger, better plugs. I’d heard you could get vibrating ones. I fancied that, could just imagine how great they would feel. I wondered if they were silent and I’d be able to sit watching Corrie with Beryl in the evening, buzzing away and her know nothing about it.

So I dug out the details of the place that sent me the original toys and went on-line at one of these Internet places. We haven’t got a PC so I drove all the way to Gillingham to find a café. You know, just to be sure no one I knew was looking over my shoulder when I put the order in.

I went mad. Spent nearly two hundred pounds. I bought whatever I fancied. The bigger the better, ridged were great and so was anything that had a battery. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not gay. I didn’t buy anything that vaguely resembled a penis, that isn’t what this is about. If another bloke tried to shove his cock up my arse I’d deck him. I think of women when I’m aroused. Hot, naked women, not young Playgirl women, women my age, you know, like Helen Mirran, Judy Dench, that newsreader with the red lips and the brunette bob.

The new box of plugs only took two days to arrive, but then I was left frustrated for the whole weekend. Her indoors wanted me to paint the spare room and I knew I wouldn’t get a moment’s peace until it was done. Not that she’d help me. She just hovered all the time, telling me I’d missed a bit, or not stirred the paint properly.

Then finally, one Monday morning she went out to some jam-making event at the town hall. I couldn’t get upstairs quick enough. I had a wonderful time with all my new toys. I liked one called the Bionic Bullet the best. It was a good size but when it started vibrating it was awesome. Had me stiffer than a corpse on Silent Witness I can tell you. I didn’t regret spending so much money on the plugs, they were great. Each one had its own merits, its own advantages. My favourite, though, was a thick squat one, it was made of glass and seemed to stay cool, even when it had been inside for a while. It was perfect for wearing for a long period of time, through dinner with the family, or watching one of her soppy movies in the evening. It kept me hovering in a nice state of arousal for hours until I could go and relieve myself in the bathroom before bed.

Then it all went tits up. Nosy cow found my stash. Said she was rooting around in my shed for a hammer to hang up a picture. She stumbled across my box of toys and all the lube and batteries that went with them. I got back from the library, expecting ham and eggs; it was Wednesday, and instead my plugs were all set out on the table and the windowsill. Except for the one I had in, which was pretty small and not that good to be honest.

Readers, I’m sure you can imagine my shock, it was like some kind of sex shop display in the window. She’d even put them in size order and left a bunch of dried flowers in the middle. I walked in and she hit the roof, said she’d leave me if I didn’t get rid of them. So I said that was fine by me, they gave me considerably more pleasure than she did and she should go. At that point she went into the fridge, grabbed the ham I was supposed to have for my tea and threw it over the fence for the neighbour’s dog. She then stormed off and I didn’t see her for several hours.

I put the plugs away, back in the shed and hoped that was the end of it. She would either come back for her knitting or not. Not suited me as well as anything. But she did come back, her face sourer than month-old milk, her chin tilted high and her voice uncharacteristically absent. The peace was nice, and she was still cooking dinners, going to all her usual coffee mornings and clubs, so I thought we were going to get back to normal, only I’d have less of a nag-induced headache.

It all went wrong exactly one week later, when she’d gone to a flower arranging evening and I discovered that she’d got rid of all my back-entry treasures. Every last one. Turns out she’d dumped them in the wheelie bin the evening before and let them all get carted away with the rubbish truck that morning. Hundreds of pounds worth of perfectly good pleasure-giving plugs, all mushed up with the crap.

I was really upset. But what could I do? If I bought more I knew she’d find them, dispose of them again, or put them in the window, maybe worse, serve them up in a casserole pot for Sunday dinner when we had the family round. She’s like that. Vindictive but imaginative and certainly not afraid of shaming me and shocking others.

So that’s when I began to experiment. That full feeling, the arousal, the secret in my arse had become a habit—no, more than a habit. A need. When my bum was empty, I was empty. Sounds strange to say it but I kind of felt bereft. Like a constant companion had gone away, or a good friend had died.

Then, not long after, I was in the bath and my attention fell on a bar of Imperial Leather. It was the smoothness of it more than anything—well, I guess the size a bit, it was a newish bar, the corners had been worn down a little. Next thing I knew I was easing it in. Felt bloody amazing after a few weeks of being empty. Hard and solid and a perfectly good thickness. I got out of the bath feeling like myself again, or at least that my companion was back.

The best thing was she had no idea and I didn’t need to worry about hiding anything. I replaced the soap with a fresh bar on the side of the bath and that was it, I was ready to go downstairs to watch Strictly.

Except what I thought was good really wasn’t. My guts began to growl and spasm. Then it was all I could do to get up to the bathroom in time to expel the soap. Didn’t feel nice, I can tell you. For a couple of days after I kept leaking this icky white stuff; I suppose it was the soap plus a reaction to the chemicals in it.

But despite my discomfort I knew I was on to something. I just needed to find homemade objects to slip up there. Nothing chemical, that just hurt, and nothing that wouldn’t be able to find it’s way out if I couldn’t grab it.

I fashioned a couple of plugs out of candles, they were pretty good. Vegetables were fine too, but didn’t last that long, and let me tell you, gingerroot burns to high heaven. If anyone ever offers you a gingerroot butt plug, think twice. How hot do you really want to be?

The thing about me, though, is I’m a bit of an obsessive type of person. Always have been, but when I was working I threw that energy into the perfect running of the machines, now I was just bored. So thinking up new ways to plug myself became my every waking thought. Her indoors knew none of it, or if she did she turned a blind eye. Until, that was, I made the mistake of using one of her Impulse perfume bottles. I think it was Hint of Musk, quite a nice one. It went in fine and had a good length, felt pretty substantial as I moved around, sorting out the shed and mowing the lawn. But then later on, I realised it was stuck. But not only was it stuck, the damn thing was leaking. I was farting perfume, smelt like a bloody pansy. This all happened right as she came out of the bedroom hunting for her Impulse. She was going to a poetry evening in the next town. I couldn’t hide my distress, I was farting, yes, but the damn sprayer must have been going off all the time. My guts were filling up with gas of an unnatural kind.

She took one look at me, put two and two together, guessed my secret and called the ambulance. I felt that was a bit extreme, after all, I only had a perfume bottle stuck up my arse, it wasn’t like I was in a car crash or anything. But I wasn’t really in any fit state to argue. I didn’t know whether to hop about, lie down, or try and poop it out.

Luckily the hospital did get it out and I was very self-controlled for ages after the Impulse affair. Didn’t make any plugs, didn’t shove anything up there. But then at Christmas, my daughter bought me a wooden-handled toolset. I’d been doing some woodwork in the shed, you know, to get out of the wife’s way. It was a sweet thought and I was grateful. Trouble was, as soon as I was in the shed, my little gas fire on and Radio Five Live playing, I got to looking at the handles. They were the same shape as the plugs. Long and tapered with fat bases. It didn’t take long to get the metal bit off, and before I knew it, I’d lubed up and was sitting on the damn thing. I spent the whole of New Year out there, despite the minus three temperature and all the leftovers in the fridge. It felt bloody marvellous.

But I went and got I got a damn splinter, didn’t I. Up there. Turns out the tool set had come from some bargain shop and they really weren’t the best quality. I started bleeding, lots of pain; sharp, nasty pain. My temperature went up; thought I had the flu at first, but then I connected the two. I had no choice but to get myself to the doctor, confessed what I’d done for New Year and that I was bleeding rectally. He took one look and said he could see the abscess. It took a week of antibiotics and him poking my arse on two occasions to get the splinter out. I decided to give wooden plugs a miss after that, though I’d been fortunate enough to keep her indoors in the dark about the whole thing. She did genuinely think I had the flu, and she gave no mind to me sitting gingerly, I suppose she was used to that.

And again I was good for ages after than. But then over the summer it started up again. Just a shampoo bottle when I was in the bath at first and then a carrot when Corrie was on. Nothing seemed to quite hit the spot, though.

My wife and daughter had a row about the kids eating sweets. Personally I can’t see the harm in it. But her indoors said they shouldn’t be eating any, ever. My daughter felt that was a bit harsh. So they rowed, the kids cried, my wife said no one listened to her when she was just trying to care for everyone. My daughter stormed off home, kids in tow.

I went into the shed, sat down and my attention fell on the box of spare light bulbs I keep under the potting table. The top one looked just like one of my poor departed plugs. Smooth, a good size, beautiful tapering shape, and the next thing I was aware of I was circling the pointy end around my bum hole. I knew I shouldn’t, told myself out loud how stupid it was, but then, because of the lube I suppose, it was in. Damn thing felt good, a solid wedge of pressure right where I needed it. I got hard instantly, breathed through the lovely sensation and stared out of the shed window at the darkness. I could just make out a garden gnome grinning at me and holding a fishing rod by the pond.

It wasn’t until I stood that a wave of panic washed over me. Damn thing felt so delicate inside me and it was sliding higher. The other glass bulbs were sitting in their box taunting me with their thin, transparentness while that one seemed to be tunnelling in.

I’d been a stupid old fool yet again. And this time I knew it could be the end of my arsehole forever if I didn’t get some serious help.

Her indoors guessed what I’d done as soon as I very carefully walked into the kitchen. She didn’t say a word, just got her coat and her knitting bag and ordered me to lay down in the backseat of the car, on my stomach. She drove straight to the hospital.

That was three weeks ago and I’m home now, thank goodness. But really and truly, cross my heart I’m never shoving stuff up my bum again. I had to go to theatre to remove the bulb, my ticker didn’t like the anesthetic much and they kept me in for a week, watching my blood pressure and such. Told me another anesthetic wouldn’t be advised so to make sure I never needed one again!

But…there’s always a but, had I been a younger man when I discovered the loveliness of bum play and I’d had a wife willing to play along I think my story would be different. Maybe she’d have got a strap-on and done me from behind (top fantasy). Or perhaps if I’d been a good boy she’d have plugged me in the morning before sending me off to work with my lunchbox packed full and a smile on my face. It could have been that she’d enjoy it too and we could have experimented together.

But none of that was in my destiny.

So if any of you young ‘uns are reading this, take heed from my story. Don’t play with plugs that are not made for the job, and don’t settle for someone who won’t even tolerate your kinks.

We all have our perversions, we all have a fetish, so lets just exist in harmony and live and let live, whatever age we are, whatever it is that makes us happy.

Yours truly,

Mr Retired From Everything!

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2 thoughts on “Reader Confession – Mr Retired From Everything

  1. Pingback: Lily Harlem Talks Butt Plugs! (@lily_harlem @totally_bound) - Erotica For All

  2. Thanks for sharing! Really interesting story with some…logical advice! Shame about the lack of sharing, maybe in your younger days, if you were closer then, you might have opened up a little more but I guess you never realised yourself what wonders were available to you!

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