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  100 WOMEN

  VOLUME ONE

  (Annie, Belinda)

  Slipping My Fingers Between 100 Women's Folds

  One Man's Odyssey of Masturbating One Hundred Women

  An Erotic Short Story

  by

  Lexington Manheim

  Copyright © 2013 Lexington Manheim

  Published by New Dawning Bookfair at Smashwords

  FOREPLAY

  It was a gorgeous early spring day when I walked into the lackluster offices of what's often referred to as an "alternative newspaper" and presented my classified ad to the middle-aged woman sitting behind the cheap, simulated wood desk. With the disinterest of one who's seen it all, she perused my offering, which read as follows:

  LADIES...

  Do You Like to Masturbate?

  It's even better when it's a man's educated touch you're feeling down there. Women 18-50, participate in a research study on improving techniques of female masturbation. Your anonymity and satisfaction guaranteed. Call to hear audio recording with more info.

  The telephone number was affixed to the bottom of the ad.

  The woman behind the cheap desk raised not an eyebrow as she finished reading the page in her hand. Considering the type of publication she worked for, that probably shouldn't have come as any surprise. Within the context of the tabloid's usual advertisements from those looking to spank and be spanked, my little classified was hardly out of place.

  The woman counted the words ran a quick calculation on a tiny calculator, quoted a price to which I nodded, and handed me a one-page sheet to fill out.

  I completed the sheet and paid the fee for publication of the ad to occur over a specified period of time.

  The woman deposited my ad copy on a stack of similar documents resting in tray on her desk. The project was underway.

  Actually, for me, the project began on a much earlier day. The roots can probably be traced back to my first encounters with lesbian philosophy. You know the philosophy I mean.

  It goes something like this:

  No one knows better how to please a woman than another woman.

  As a man, I find that kind of thinking frustrating. It suggests that, no matter how considerate or determined a lover I am, I can never hope to be the equivalent of even the most uninspired lesbian when it comes to getting a woman off.

  Be that as it may, the premise of the philosophy isn't difficult to understand. It's all about knowledge. A woman knows things about her vagina that no man can ever truly hope to know. Even Casanova would have to fall a distant second to any woman on the subject of what feels good between her legs.

  Knowing how to properly masturbate your lover, I believe, is an important part of the human sexual experience, and, frankly, I think masturbation doesn't fully get the attention it deserves in most discussions of non-solo sex. It's typically considered just a part of foreplay—a set up for the main event. While I can't and won't dispute that masturbation is no substitute for intercourse in the typical heterosexual relationship, it's no slouch, either. There's still something delightfully thrilling about playing with another person's genitals. To bounce them in your hand. To have them slip between your fingers. To tap and prod and pull and stroke and manipulate them like some cuddly, stuffed animal. It's the ultimate toy—the most personal plaything another can give you.

  Navigating a woman's genitalia, with its various nooks, crannies and elusive G-spot, is a complex matter. There's such an abundance of ways to touch and stimulate the vagina, not all of which are experienced with equal pleasure by every woman. For all I know, perhaps homosexual and bi-sexual women are really just as unsure as straight guys when it comes to masturbating another female. I suppose it's also possible that, because of the almost infinite number of playtime possibilities available in her crotch, even a woman, herself, doesn't know all the different ways she might be pleasured. If that's the case, then we're all in need of a good lesson on how to beat a girl off.

  The idea fermented for years, never going past the planning process, until I reached a stage of my life where I had sufficient time for the masturbation study. I thought it through quite seriously, pondering various challenges and pitfalls involved in convincing several women to allow a strange man to masturbate them in the name of science.

  For example, a big issue was where to do it. Would a sane woman enter a stranger's home for such a purpose?

  After considering various options—including an office (too clinical) and a hotel room (too slutty)—I decided a furnished apartment in a large apartment building would be the best setting. It's a private residence with homey touches already included. There's no through traffic inside the living space of an apartment, so there's virtually no chance of being interrupted by an unexpected intruder. Still, there are always plenty people inside a big apartment building—people who are probably within earshot of a scream for help. Privacy and safety. What's more, even if a woman accidently bumped into someone she knew, it would be easy for her to make an excuse, such as saying she was checking out an apartment for a friend. No one's going to guess she's there to be masturbated by a guy doing a research project, right?

  After arranging for a small apartment in a relatively upscale neighborhood, I added a few tasteful, nonsexual works of art to make it look classy, stocked some beverages in the refrigerator and was ready to receive guests.

  Having selected the location, there was the challenge of knowing what to do or not do with the volunteers once they arrived. The answer was the creation of a short information/survey sheet for each volunteer to fill out at the beginning of the session. It listed various masturbation possibilities and requested the volunteer to check which ones she liked, disliked, or might like to try.

  I figured the "likes/dislikes" options covered the basics—enough to get the ball rolling—and perhaps suggested a few things that some women might not feel comfortable asking for if they, themselves, had to initiate asking for it. A couple of options also pushed the bounds a bit to give the women some things to say "no" to, should they feel the need not to come across as too slutty.

  The last step was to set up a phone line with a message machine for the calls of those who would respond to the ad. Coming up with just the right words to put on the answering machine took a bit of doing. Finally, this is what I recorded on the machine:

  Hi. If you're calling about the advertisement, here's what you need to know. This is a research project on female masturbation. First, you must be at least 18. An I.D. might be required if you look young for your age. There are three absolutes. The anonymity of those who participate is absolutely guaranteed. Absolutely nothing is being sold or purchased. And absolutely no money will change hands. Specifically, we're seeking female volunteers between the ages of 18 and 50, in good health, who enjoy masturbation and would like to help contribute to the knowledge that will be part of a future book on the topic. As a volunteer, you will experience a variety of masturbation techniques performed by a male researcher. That researcher will be clean, healthy, between the ages of 28 and 40, and considered not unattractive. The study is limited to female masturbation only. No other sexual practices will be performed, offered, or solicited. Only those techniques that you explicitly okay will happen, and you can stop the process at any time. You will always be in control of what's happening. This is, after all, a study about your sexual pleasure. And only those things that bring pleasure to you are of value to us in this study. If you believe you might be interested in participating or just want more information, the next step is to leave a message We'll need three things: a first name—you can use a pseudonym, if you like; a phone number—with any time limitations or other re
strictions for calling back; and a password—anything such as a color, a flower, a food or the like will do. I'll ask for the password when I call so that I'll know I'm actually speaking to you. I won't discuss this or even hint at it with anyone else who might answer the phone. Thank you for calling. I look forward to answering all your questions. Remember, when you hear the tone, leave me a name, a phone number, and a password. (beep)

  Admittedly, I puffed things up a bit by insinuating there were multiple researchers involved—which there weren't. But I thought that made it sound more prestigious than saying it was just a one-man operation.

  The password was my way of fending off the pranksters who'd think it funny to leave the name and phone number of some unsuspecting woman. The last thing I was looking for was a sexual harassment suit.

  With everything set, now all I had to do was wait for my first volunteer.

  1. Annie

  Annie wasn't the first girl to call. For the first few days, responses to the ad garnered mostly a recorded collection of telephone hang-ups, sophomoric jokes, and impolite chastisements—the last coming from aggressively antagonized women who seemed to be under the impression that the study was somehow some sort of anti-feminist plot. Also tossed into the mix were a few choice messages from guys who generously offered their services as masturbators of any female masturbatees. Additionally, there were two calls where women actually left a name, number, and password. However, when I returned the calls, one was an obvious prank and the other resulted in the woman telling me she had changed her mind.

  No, Annie certainly wasn't the first to respond to the ad. But she was the first to actually volunteer to participate.

  Her recorded message was as sparse as could be.

  "Annie. Red."

  Then she gave a phone number and hung up. That was it. The entirety of the message. Two words and a phone number. They were rattled off so quickly and with so little conviction behind them that it was almost as though they were being forcibly extracted from her mouth. I remembered thinking that a little reticence wasn't necessarily a bad thing. It suggested to me that the caller was genuine and made the call only after having undergone significant mental wrestling of the pros and cons of volunteering for this type of study. This was probably someone who really wanted to do this despite all the internal voices telling her not to. It might take a little convincing to push her over the line. However, since she'd already convinced herself to make the phone call, it seemed to me that she was really just looking for someone to give her one last shove.

  She had given no restrictions on when I could call back, so, as soon as I got her message, I wasted no time in dialing the number. As I did, my heart began to race. I had a good feeling about this one.

  There were two rings, and then I heard a voice.

  "Hello."

  "Hello," I echoed with a restrained amiability meant to sound pleasant but not eager. "I'm calling for Annie."

  There was a second's pause before the meek response.

  "Yes."

  "Am I speaking to her?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you have a password for me?"

  Her answer was spoken hesitatingly, but she managed to squeeze out the word, "Red."

  It was her. It was Annie. Confirmed by the password. (Curiously, "red" turned out to be by far the most common password chosen by those who responded to the ad. I had suggested in my recorded message that a color might be used as a password, and it seems many took that as a cue.)

  "I was very pleased to get your call," I continued. "Is now an okay time to talk?"

  "Yes." Annie was a woman of few words.

  I made a brief introduction and an abbreviated rendition of what she'd heard on my recorded message, then concluded with "You can call me Troy. Do you have any questions?"

  "Well," she began, with the halting start of one thinking it over even as she asks the question, "how is it anonymous if you put it in a book?"

  "No real names," I assured her. "I won't even use the name you give me…just in case. I'll just make them up in some random fashion. You might not even be able to recognize yourself in the book. And no personal information. I won't ever ask for any. The only thing I might need is, if there's any chance you could pass for someone under the age of 18, I'll need to see a picture I.D. with a birth date on it. But the photo and birth date are the only things I'd need to see. You can cover up everything else with tape or your fingers."

  There was silence on the other end of the line. I felt it best to plunge ahead before the pause turned awkward. "Keep in mind that absolutely everything about this project is voluntary. And absolutely nothing will take place that doesn't have your consent. You call all the shots. If you walk in and decide you'd just rather not, then nothing will happen."

  "There's not gonna be like cameras or anything, is there?" She had a healthy dose of suspicion.

  "No. No recording devices of any kind. It'll just be you and the researcher and nobody else. No one else will ever see or know of your participation in the study."

  "Do I get to meet the researcher first?"

  Ah!—a minefield, if ever I heard one. "Can I meet him first?" is the sort of query that smacks of the more blunt question, "Is he good looking enough for me to want him touching me?" A misstep here could blow up everything. Fortunately, I had practiced just what my response would be in such a situation.

  "Well, typically," I said, as though this had already been done dozens of times, "the researcher doesn't meet the volunteer subject until the time of the study session. After all, it's not a dating service but, rather, a research project. But," I added, as though it were a novel idea that had only just occurred to me, "seeing as you and I have already talked, would you be comfortable if I were your session's researcher?"

  "Uh...I dunno...maybe," she stammered. There was just enough indecision in that response to provide me the needed opportunity. It was time to close the deal.

  "Why don't we set up a session appointment for you," I chirped with the authority of one who knows what's best in these circumstances. "You can meet me at the study location. Check out the room. Check me out. If there's anything at all that makes you feel the slightest hesitation, then we'll cancel the whole thing. But, if it looks okay to you, then we'll have the session. And I can promise you it'll be the most physically rewarding project you've ever been a part of. How 'bout Thursday evening?"

  Thursday evening was no good for her. But her Saturday morning was free. Perhaps it wasn't about schedule conflicts at all but, rather, just a preference to do this in the light of day when the world seems a somewhat safer place. No matter. I scheduled Annie for Saturday and gave her the address of the apartment. It was done. A woman I'd never met had just agreed to allow me to masturbate her. A girl whose real name I didn't even know was about to hand me that most personal of toys and give me the green light to play with it. To say it was a rush doesn't begin to describe my feelings at that moment. I realized there was still the possibility that she might back out before it happened. But I was optimistic. I had talked her into coming to the apartment. And soon, I mused, she'd be coming in the apartment. I sat back in my chair and suddenly noticed I'd gotten hard.

  While waiting for Saturday to roll around, my mind often wandered to fantasies about Annie and the kind of woman she might be. What kind of girl responds to such an ad? What kind of woman reads the uncensored section of a tabloid's classifieds? Was she lonely and desperate or loony and depraved? Could she be so unattractive and repulsive to men that she's sunk to volunteering for sex studies just so a guy will touch her? Or could she have ulterior motives for wanting to get me alone in a room—diabolical schemes the likes of which I couldn't even imagine? Was I setting myself up to meet a bunch of whackos that might be bizarre at best and, at worst, dangerous? And what woman in her right mind wouldn't be having the exact same thoughts about me? How horny does a gal have to be to throw aside all caution and reason and let a stranger put his hand on her genitalia? We know that a
guy's dick can make him do crazy things. But does a girl's pussy have that kind of power over her?

  I was still vacillating on whether Annie was likely to be a lonely heart or a black widow, and on a few occasions almost talked myself completely out of the whole project, when Saturday morning finally dawned and it was time to—as they say in elite circles—shit or get off the pot. I fussed around the apartment, obsessing over every imperfection and adjusting every stick of furniture for what I hoped would be maximum positive effect. I repeatedly looked at the clock as the appointed hour drew nearer and found it impossible to decide on an appropriate piece of music to put on. Music is such a personal taste thing. What one person finds romantic another may find revolting. Eventually I gave up, figuring that, if she wants music, I'd let her pick something out from the eclectic selection I had available.

  The appointed hour came. No Annie. I adjusted the cushions on the couch and cleaned a tiny smudge off a window. Five after the hour. Then ten. Still no Annie. I stared out the window, scanning the street below, possibly expecting that at any moment I might spy a girl who'd be squinting at building addresses.

  A quarter after the hour, and there was no sign of her. She's not coming,The girl's pussy just hasn't been able to make the rest of her do it.

  I was slouched into a corner of the couch, mulling ways to improve on my recorded telephone pitch, when the buzzer from the lobby front door announced a visitor. I wasn't expecting anyone else. It had to be her. I rushed to answer the buzzer.

  "Hello."

  "I have an appointment," responded a familiar voice.

  "Annie?"