Too Much Information Read online

  Too Much Information

  By

  Missy Johnson

  Book THREE in Awkward Love, a series of short, sexy COMPLETE standalone novels

  #1: It’s Complicated: www.amazon.com/dp/B077BBLF3Y

  #2: I Can Explain: www.amazon.com/dp/B079KSSGBJ

  #4: Comfort Zone: Coming soon

  Copyright © 2018 Missy Johnson

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First Printing: April 2018

  www.facebook.com/MissycJohnson

  Email me at: [email protected]

  Mailing list: http://www.subscribepage.com/missyjohnson

  Chapter One

  Laura

  I take a deep breath and glance at the courier e-mail again. It’s well past their allotted “four hour” time frame, and I’ve got better things to do than stand around my apartment waiting all day. Okay, so maybe that’s not true. Maybe I’d be here regardless, but for the love of God, put me out of my misery and deliver my damn sex toy. My heart pounds as I repeat that sentence in my head, because I’m already wishing I’d never ordered the stupid thing.

  I blame Becca for this.

  When I complained to her that she never puts enough thought into my birthday gifts, she presented me with a gift card for Diddle Me Softly. It had been sitting in my drawer for nearly six months. It was only last week when I decided to do a spring clean that I found it. I was all alone in my apartment, so naturally, my mind began to tick over. I’m a twenty-six-year-old single woman with a healthy sexual appetite who was experiencing somewhat of a drought when it came to men. So why did looking at toys and vibrators make me feel so embarrassed? I mean, who was going to know what I got up to in the privacy of my own home? So long as I didn’t whip it out in the middle of the local coffee shop, I thought it was a pretty safe assumption that nobody would ever know.

  One glass of wine was all it took for me to load up that site and have a look.

  The first thing that surprised me was the sheer variety of toys available. Was there really that big a market for this kind of thing? Maybe I’d gone into the wrong profession with medicine because obviously sex toy development was the way to go.

  As I ran through page after page of toys, I became more overwhelmed and curious at the same time, until I stumbled across the Clitmaster7000. Despite its slightly terrifying name, it actually looked pretty tame compared to some of the other things on offer, so I thought it was a safe option for a beginner like me. I mean, forgive me for being a prude, but the idea of something bigger than my forearm going anywhere near my vagina was not getting me all hot and sweaty. So, I took the plunge and ordered it.

  I unlock the door and peek outside. A thought hits me as I glance down the hallway and my gaze falls on my neighbor’s door. My eighty-year-old widowed neighbor.

  God, please don’t let it have been delivered to Iris by mistake.

  The number of times she brings me my half-opened mail, because she didn’t think to check the name on the label before opening it… Well, I wouldn’t put it past her to have signed for my package, opened it up and assumed it was a toy for her cat, Milton. I cringe as I picture him swatting that bad boy from one end of her apartment to the other. I slam the door closed and lean against it.

  I cringe because how would I explain that?

  I feel like I need to put it all into perspective because I’m probably coming across as that annoying, whiny girl that nobody wants to be friends with. While there may be an element of that, panicky and jumpy isn’t who I am.

  I’m a doctor, for God’s sake. I deal with situations that push me to the edge on a daily basis. I can handle a medical emergency any day of the week, but a situation that I can’t control? Even something as simple as a potentially embarrassing package arriving, I struggle with. I’m the first to admit I have flaws and worrying about what other people think of me is probably my biggest.

  The knock on the door comes so suddenly that I jump about a meter in the air and nearly give myself a heart attack. This thing is already trying to kill me, and I haven’t even tried it yet. When the thudding of my heart has subsided, I brush myself off and stroll over to the door, casually opening it like I’m expecting a delivery of toilet paper.

  The delivery guy stands there, smiling at me as he cradles the brown wrapped box like it’s a new baby. I frown, my paranoia kicking into overdrive. Is he looking at me funny? He glances down at the box in his hands, and then back at me.

  “Package for a Lauran Black,” he says.

  “Laura,” I whisper.

  I go to snatch it out of his hands and fumble, then we both watch in horror as it falls to the floor—well, I’m horrified; he looks mildly amused.

  “Hope there’s nothing breakable in there,” he says leaning down to pick it up. “Underneath all that brown paper. I always try to guess what little treats people have bought themselves.” He winks at me and my heart stops beating. “And you know what they say about brown paper.”

  God, the delivery guy knows I bought myself a sex toy.

  He hands it to me again, along with a form that I quickly sign and thrust back to him. I send him on his way and slam the door closed, leaning up against the door. I slide down it until I’m sitting on the floor, where I carefully examine the box. All I want to do is throw it out, but it’s here now, so I might as well take a look.

  I carefully peel away the brown packaging and examine the box. With shaking hands, I open it and then reach inside. The size of the box is deceiving because the actual product is small enough to fit on the end of my finger. Which is the whole idea, I guess. I carefully pull it out. I’m both curious and suspicious that this is going to do anything for me. Even so, I am starting to wonder if I’m missing out on something—like Becca seems to think I am. Enough that I’m considering taking it for a test drive right now.

  I wander into my room and sit down on my bed, carefully inserting the battery. I press the button, giggling like a twelve-year-old when it comes to life in my hands. I shake my head, because Becca would die if she knew what I was about to do. I’m sure she got the gift card, fully expecting me to never use it, but what else am I going to do with my Sunday afternoon? I take a deep breath and turn it on, then I slide it onto my finger and dive under the covers.

  It’s not like I’m going to be broadcasting this on YouTube or anything.

  Here goes nothing… Oh my.

  I groan as it vibrates against me, surprised at how good it actually feels. I bring my knees up and spread my legs a little farther apart, massaging my clit with my new buzzy friend. I clamp down on my lip, stifling a moan as I tease my entrance, pushing my finger just a little farther inside. I gasp, clutching onto the sheet with my other hand as my body begins to react. This is happening faster than I thought it would. I’m ten seconds in and already close to coming. Maybe I have been missing out.

  “Oh, holy fuck…”

  I groan, my head snapping back as I thrust it back and forth inside me. I gasp as my hips buck forward and push my finger deeper inside me until I…

  My eyes fly open in shock.

  Oh no, no, no. Please not this.

  I frantically shove my hands out in front of me, like I need confirmation that this is really happening. Because
the hands-free buzzing in my vagina isn’t a dead giveaway.

  Frantically, I try and dig it out, but it’s no use. If anything, I think I’ve made it worse. I groan and grab a handful of sheet as the toy rubs against my clit, driving me crazy.

  “Oh lord, fuck, fuck fuck,” I hiss.

  I bite down on my arm to muffle my cries as my heart pounds out of control in my chest. The last thing I need is for Iris to hobble in here to check that I’m okay. Damn me for giving her that key to water my plants while I was away last weekend for my cousin’s wedding.

  “Oh God, make it stop.”

  Struggling to catch my breath, I clench my thighs together, and groan, squeezing my eyes closed. I climax again, number five in as little as ten minutes. The worst thing is, they don’t seem to be letting up. If anything, they’re becoming more intense. Oh, my fucking lord.

  I lower myself onto the floor and reach for the box, which has half rolled itself under the bed. My body aches, begging for relief, or at the very least, five minutes where I’m not climaxing. I fumble for the box, dropping it twice, before I get a firm enough grip on it to hold it up to my face. My hands shake as I struggle to read. Then I see those four little words that make me feel like I’m going to pass out.

  For external use only.

  Who the hell designs a vibrator for external use only? Doesn’t that defeat the whole purpose? Am I the only one who thought letting my finger do a little traveling wasn’t going to do any harm? Or am I just the only one unlucky enough to have their vagina decide to inhale it? Maybe I should’ve gone with the forearm sized one, because this tiny little thing is well and truly stuck inside me.

  I should call an ambulance.

  I laugh, dismissing that as an option. And say what? That’s out of the question anyway because of which hospital they would take me to. I’d rather die a slow and painful orgasmic death than be wheeled into the ER of the hospital I’m supposed to be starting work at next week.

  Groaning, I fall forward against the bed, fumbling for my phone as another orgasm rips through my body. Sweat covers my forehead as I close my eyes and clench my thighs, my vagina throbbing as I struggle to breathe. Panting, I resume my search for my phone, finally finding it hiding between the pillows. I somehow manage to get Becca’s name up on the screen. I sigh, relieved, because this is not the time to be calling the wrong number.

  “Hello?”

  “Get over here,” I sputter. “Now.”

  “What? Where are you? What’s going on?” she asks.

  “Becca,” I cry, barely able to focus on what I need to say to her. “Get. Over. Here. Now.”

  “Okay, I’m coming.”

  Apparently, so am I.

  I wheeze and drop the phone, crying out as the toy plays me like a violin.

  I crawl across the floor in the direction of the living room. She’s got to be at least ten minutes away, but that’s probably how long it’ll take me to get over there. I can barely manage a few slithers at a time because it’s at the point where it just hurts. The orgasms themselves feel incredible, but those few minutes in between are just pure torture. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take. On top of everything else, I’m completely exhausted. This has to be the most intense workout I’ve ever had.

  #

  Becca pounds on the door just as orgasm number six tapers off. I can barely move by this point, but I made it to the door to unlock it before number six and that’s the main thing. Now all I need is for her to get this thing out of me.

  “It’s me,” she calls out. “Are you going to let me in?”

  “It’s open,” I manage to get out.

  She walks in, her eyes widening at the sight of me hunched over the couch, thighs clenched, rocking back and forth on the floor. At least I’m not naked. I managed to half squirm my way into a dress that I found lying on the floor in my room—though I must look a mess—with only one arm through the hole and the skirt bunched up around my waist. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure why I even bothered. She sprints over to me, crouching down beside me.

  “Jesus, are you okay?” She glares at me as I let out a strangled sob. “Tell me what’s wrong?” she says. She looks me over, her eyes wide with concern. “Were you attacked? Did someone break in and rape you? Talk to me, Laura. Should I be calling an ambulance? The police?” Her dark eyes study mine as I struggle to form words to answer any of her questions. “For God’s sake, Laura. Say something.”

  “No ambulance,” I mutter.

  I groan and clamp my legs together, gasping as my body begs for relief. This is a nightmare. I point to the bedroom, where the box is still lying on the bed. Becca stalks through to my room, returning a few seconds later with the box in her hands. Her eyes widen, to the point where they’re nearly ready to fall out of her head.

  “No fucking way,” she hisses.

  I nod, sweat pouring out of places I didn’t know sweat could form. She clasps her hands over her mouth and stifles her laughter, before quickly kneeling down next to me.

  “What do you want me to do? Dig it out? I’ll do that for you,” she says as I glare at her. “Wait… I should’ve asked before offering. Front or back?”

  “Becca,” I growl, my voice high noting at the end.

  “What? I’m sorry, it was a legitimate question,” she cries, holding her hands up in defense. “You know I don’t handle poop. How on earth did you manage to get it stuck in there in the first place?” she asks, shaking her head.

  “Can we discuss this later, after it’s been removed from my vagina?” I beg her.

  “Yes, yes, I’m sorry. Okay, let’s get you down to my car.”

  “Car?” I say, alarmed. “What happened to you offering to help me—”

  “You seriously want me digging around in there like I’m looking for loose change down the back of the couch?” she asks seriously. Then she giggles, but she stops when she sees my expression. “Sorry. Disturbing mental image. You understand this is pushing the friendship boundaries, right?”

  I nod weakly. Oh, I understand it, all right.

  She sighs and helps me climb up properly onto the couch while I try to steady myself as my body begins to convulse. God, not again. I wipe a layer of sweat off my forehead and rock back and forth, riding out the orgasm as I whimper into the cushion. Then I gasp, clenching my thighs again, until it passes.

  “You’re coming already? But I haven’t even worked my magic hands on you yet,” she jokes, flexing her fingers. “Hey, do you have any kitchen gloves, or—”

  “Just get it out,” I beg her.

  “Fine,” she grumbles as she gets down onto her knees. She lifts up the skirt of my dress and peers between my legs. “Hey, you smell really good. What kind of body wash do you use?”

  “Becs.”

  “Right, sorry,” she mutters. “Focus.”

  I close my eyes, my toes curling as she slides a finger inside me. I groan, thrusting my knees together, because just the feel of her fingers inside me is driving me insane.

  “This kind of feels like that game we used to play at Halloween, where we had to find the balls in the slime, while blindfolded,” she muses.

  “Except with less balls,” I mutter.

  She spends the next half a minute feeling around inside me, then she jumps to her feet and backs up so far, she’s standing against the wall on the other side of the room. She shakes her head, a mortified look on her face.

  “I’m sorry, I love you, but I can’t do this. I can’t feel it anyway and what if I damage something or pull the wrong bit out?” she demands.

  I laugh, even though I want to cry, because the situation is so helpless. My hands shake as I lift them to my head and cover my face. I’m so tired, and I can already feel another orgasm beginning to develop.

  “Do you want me to call an ambulance?”

  “No!”

  “Why not?” she asks, surprised by my sharp tone.

  “Because they’ll take me to Mercy,” I say, gr
itting my teeth.

  “Yeah, because it’s the closest… Oh.” She pauses and at least tries to fight the smile forming on her lips. “It’s also where you start your residency next week. I guess this isn’t the kind of first impression you want to make.”

  “You reckon?” I say, on the verge of tears. “Please, Becs, just help me.”

  She frowns at me. “Can you walk?”

  “No,” I whisper. “I crawled from the bed to here and it took twenty minutes.”

  “Then I’ll have to carry you.” She turns around, bending her knees as she taps her back. “Jump on,” she urges me.

  “What?” I protest. “I’m two inches taller than you,” I say, laughing in spite of how desperate I feel. “You can’t piggy back me all the way downstairs—”

  “Unless you have a better idea, shut your trap, and get on,” she demands. I climb on, wrapping my arms around her neck as I hold on for dear life. “You know, I always dreamed that one day, you’d be having repeated orgasms while riding on my back,” she jokes, leading me into the elevator, which, thank God, is empty.

  By some miracle, she manages to carry me all the way down to her car, while passing minimal people. I hurl myself across her back seat and whimper. She shuts the door and gets in, glancing back at me with a frown on her face.

  “You know, I’m totally regretting getting you that gift card right now,” she grumbles.

  “Really?” I mutter, grunting as a stab of pain slices through me. That can’t be good. “Well I think I’m regretting it more.”

  How did this go so wrong? I picked the least scary looking toy on that damn site. Who could mess that up?

  Me. Apparently, I can because here I am vibrating my way to the emergency room, instead of heaven, like I was promised on the box.

  #

  I insist we go far enough out of downtown LA that there’s no chance of running into anyone I know, and forty minutes later, we’re finally nearing the exit for the Orange County Hospital. As Becca takes the exit, the severity of the situation starts to sink in. I feel like passing out. What the hell am I going to say? How am I going to explain to a doctor that I, a medical professional, have managed to lodge the world’s smallest vibrator inside me?