| Subject: Re: My Story retold part 18 The intimate moment |
Author:
AV
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Date Posted: Sunday, July 27, 2025, 11:34: pm
In reply to:
AV
's message, "My Story retold once more" on Thursday, June 05, 2025, 04:09: am
I was twelve when it all began—when Mom decided she would no longer hand me the bulbs. Week after week, the urges came anyway. My heart would race, my hands would shake, and yet I kept going—bulb after bulb, thrill after thrill.
For a year, it became my cycle, my secret. But by thirteen, it changed. I stepped into something new, something deeper, something that carried its own rush. The bulb wasn’t just an object anymore—it became an experience. A relationship. A way of life that stretched out for years, taking me places I never expected, holding me tighter than I ever imagined.
It started like any other bulb bath night. The bulb sat on the sink, waiting. I smiled, feeling that familiar rush as the tip pierced and the warm soapy water filled me. I imagined myself crying out, like all the other evenings before.
But this night was different. I was leaning over the toilet, slowly squeezing the second bulb into me, when something unexpected happened. My little thirteen-year-old soldier guy touched the side of the toilet—and suddenly came to attention, saluting like never before.
As I pressed and released, my body shifted against the toilet, and the soldier guy… activated. I was immature, isolated, and had no idea what was happening. Then—out of nowhere—he started shooting, hitting the bathroom floor next to the toilet.
Panic hit me instantly. I jumped up, lifted the lid, and released the rest of the bulb into the toilet, but I couldn’t stop it. My soldier guy kept firing while my heart raced out of control. I was scared—terrified, really.
I had no idea what was happening or what was coming out of me. My first thoughts? Something’s wrong. Something’s broken. I might be sick. Maybe I even have cancer.
In my mind, it spiraled fast: I’m going to have to tell Mom and Dad. I’m going to have to go to the hospital. They’ll all find out about the bulbs. I’m in trouble. So much trouble.
When it was finally over, I sat down, finished releasing the bulb, and checked myself. Everything looked normal, but I was exhausted—worn out, yet somehow feeling good. My soldier guy had his “workout” and was done for the night. I cleaned everything up, heart still pounding, and decided to wait and see what would happen to me.
Back then, the war on drugs was everywhere, and parents were being pushed to have “the talk” with their kids—not just about drugs, but about life and growing up.
I loved this one hospital drama on TV. In one episode, a boy was in the hospital with cancer. He had this beautiful female nurse who cared for him, and he kept slipping into a closet. I didn’t know why.
One day, his nurse wasn’t there, and a male nurse walked in and caught him in the closet. The boy was angry and embarrassed, denying everything, shutting down. But through the episode, the male nurse earned his trust and got him to open up. Finally, the boy admitted he had been “releasing his cancer.”
That stuck with me. It was his way of saying what he didn’t have words for. The male nurse gently explained that what he was doing wasn’t about cancer—it was something natural, something okay. The episode itself was basically a tool for parents, a doorway to have that conversation with their kids.
And in my isolated little world, it gave me a new piece of information:
This wasn’t cancer. This was natural. This was okay.
So now I wanted to experience it again—only this time, I wanted to be in control. I wanted to decide when it happened.
I started planning ahead—placing toilet paper on the floor for easier cleanup, setting the “environment” like I had done countless times before. But this night was different. This night was a test: could I actually make it happen again? Could I get my little soldier guy to stand at attention and salute on command?
As I went through my usual bulb routine, it worked. Halfway through the second bulb, my soldier guy activated again. I pressed slightly against the toilet, intensifying everything. The bulb was still inside me when my bottom squeezed it tight. Suddenly, the bulb and my bottom seemed to connect like never before. In my 13-year-old imagination, it was like my bottom was kissing the bulb, holding it close.
And then it happened—again. My soldier guy saluted and fired. My whole body gave in to the emotions and sensations flooding through me. I didn’t want to let go of the bulb. I didn’t want to release anything yet. I wanted this moment to last—my eyes rolling back, my toes curling, every nerve alive. I lifted myself on my arms, feeling every sensation as the bulb wiggled, as my soldier guy continued to fire, as my body experienced something completely new.
In that moment, I thought I was high. In health class, they talked about drugs and the feeling people chase—and now I understood. This was my drug. I was hooked.
After it was over, I collapsed onto the cold bathroom floor, breathing hard, heart racing out of control. Finally, I reached back, gripped the bulb, and pulled it free. My body still pulsed as I sat on the toilet, trying to calm down.
That night, I made a decision: next time, I would release the bulb first, then go back over the toilet so I could give in completely to those feelings. And that’s exactly what I did the next night.
And the next.
And the next.
Each night became another bath, another bulb, another high. The urges became nightly events, my soldier guy standing at attention and saluting every time. My heart raced every time. My mind kept telling me this was my secret drug, my private escape, something I could control. But deep down, even then, something about it scared me—how much I wanted it, how fast it was taking over. Yes, little solider guy, every night you standing to attention and saluting.
Reaching back, I touched the bulb. It was held tight, my bottom gripping it like it never wanted to let go. I paused, rubbing it gently with my fingers, almost like I was telling it, “It’s okay. You’re safe.”
In my imagination, the bulb understood—it was waiting for me to fully approve this bond, to accept that this wasn’t just an object, but something my body craved. It was no longer a bulb-and-bottom relationship; it was a bottom-and-bulb connection. My body wanted it. My mind wanted my body to want it.
As I traced the bulb with my fingers, a thought struck me: What if I tried a fourth? Could my bottom handle it? Could I empty the entire cup of warm soapy water inside me?
The desire was overwhelming. My heart pounded as I thought about how that tight squeeze would feel, how it would change everything—my bulb life would never be the same.
And in that moment, I gave in—not just to the bulb, but to the bond, to the high, to the part of me that wanted to keep chasing that feeling again and again.
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