BigFloppyDonkeyDildo

Victoria had always believed in the undeniable virtues of Good Taste. Spotless white marble. Artisanal espresso beans. Leisure-wear that cost more than a seasoned destrier. She liked her life pristine, orderly, and, above all, aggressively vanilla. You have to be realistic about these things, after all. Why complicate the plumbing with perversion when perfectly good missionary exists?

But then came The Package.

And now, there it sat.

Right in the exact center of her magazine-spread kitchen, stripped of its Amazon-branded armor by an innocent, gold-plated letter opener. A matte-black, obscenely veined, hopelessly terrifying monument to absolute filth.

Victoria's perfectly glossed lips were trembling. Her manicured worldview was currently in catastrophic free-fall, plunging straight into the abyss of mind-melting panic. Who the hell ordered this monstrosity? Was her partner cheating on her with someone possessing the anatomy of a draft horse?

The front door clicked open. Familiar footsteps echoed down the hall.

Victoria is a woman of strict routine, of militant Pilates and polite society. But staring at the imposing shadow of that monstrous chunk of silicone... well, a girl might suddenly find herself forced to rapidly expand her horizons.