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Posted by: Age: 19 Posted on: 3 comments
5 likes 794 views Category: Masturbation Female Solo Tags: masturbation, fantasy, imagination, reflections,

The most intimate thoughts and feelings I've ever shared. These are so intimate, I can't even write it in the first person. If you comment, please be gentle.


she sits alone in her room, cross-legged on her bed, her mind wandering between the here and now, and what was, and what might yet be. Now and then, she becomes conscious of her scent drifting up between her legs and fragrance get the air like incense in a church.

Her mind focuses on her sex, hidden, for now at least, beneath the pale green material of her panties. She looks down, noting the wetness on the material, and imagining that which she knows so well. The gentle swelling of her outer lips, the almost non-existent inner lips, her clitoris, her urethra, all sources of pleasure in themselves, and then, her vagina. She thinks about how the mere act of spreading her legs brought her such erotic pleasure when she was 13, an still does now. How exposed it makes her feel, how vulnerable. 

She remembers when, earlier,  she started to experience strange new feelings. Feelings that were emotional as well as physical. She noticed an increase in the discharge in her panties, and more than that, how, almost at will, she could cause it to flow. She knew nothing of sex, really. Just half whispered stories from friends, most of which, she believed, were made up, or recounted from magazines or the Internet. But she remembers feeling uncomfortable when sexual scenes came on the television. No. Wait. Uncomfortable? Is that the right word? It was uncomfortable, yes, but it was also an invitation for her to touch. Her clitoris would swell, and she would get wet. Oh, how she wanted to put a hand into her panties and touch herself. She could not possibly know that her parents would not have minded in the least. She didn't know, not then anyway, of their sexual proclivities. She didn't know they were swingers, and she didn't know that in a few years time, she herself would masturbate and then fuck her father while her mum watched. Back then, she would scurry off to her bedroom, take off her panties and note with some anxiety the white stains in the crotch. Sometimes, she would even try to wash them before her mum found them. When she washed herself, however, she would get strange feelings, like something was building, like if she continued, she might wet herself. So, for a while, she stopped before anything happened.


She remembered the dreams when they started to come. Dreams of boys and girls. Dreams not only of boys in their PE kit, but of girls in the changing rooms. The emerging pubic hair and budding breasts. She also remembered more. How she would look with interest at some of the other girls. How she would, sometimes, when they were swimming and she couldn't because of her period, stay unsupervised in the changing room. She remembered that very firsti time when she had taken another girls panties from her clothes pile. She had held them, looked for the gusset and finally, she had brought them to her face and smelled them. She remembered the almost electric-like,shock as the scent filled her head and permeated her body. She remembered how she had almost involuntarily shoved her hand between her legs and rubbed herself while licking the gusset of those panties. And she remembered that first shiver of an orgasm. 

She recalls that night, when even naked, her entrance was protected, covered by the feminine flower of her hymen. She remembers how she broke it herself with a candle, and how utterly right it felt that she should be the one to do it. She remembers how it felt, that first time her vagina was filled as the pushed the fat candle deep inside herself. Pain? Yes, at first, and a little blood too, but inside? No. More a stretching of that which had never been stretched before. 

The girl looks down again. Her panties are wetter now, but she doesn't take them off. Not yet. She remembers a summers afternoon, and a walk home from school across the fields. She recalls the wheat, not yet ripe but already waist height. She remembers how that afternoon, she had felt as the pressure of her bladder pressed intently on her senses. She remembered how she knew with absolute certainty how she knew she would not make it home, and in that instant, that she would not even have time to take her knickers down. Even as she fumbled with them, the flow started and she had hastily squatted down. She recalls the embarrassment changing in the blink of an eye to a wide-eyed surprise as she felt the warmth spread up her bum. She had looked down and seen herself pee her panties and it felt sexual to her. She remembers how she had remained squatting after she had stopped peeing and had masturbated in her wet panties to a pulsating orgasm. 

The girl squirms on her bed and smiles. Should she? Perhaps. Not yet.

She slips her t shirt off and looks at her small hard breasts. How young they look. They looked like this when she was 12, and they haven't grown since. Useful though. They are supremely sensitive, and sometimes, when the mood is on her, and she is with the right lover, she can role play underage to perfection. Again, she looks at her increasingly wet panties. She will shave tonight, but right now, the light growth of pubic hair she has allowed to comeback in totally completes the image she and her boyfriend played out earlier. Boyfriend? Well, no. Not exactly. Just a man she has been seeing. A married man. A man whose wife is away on a case at the moment. The first night was wild, and ranged from the eroticism of mastubating for him to role playing his wife while wearing her used panties, to a soft, romantic love making where he had said words she had never heard from a man before. Last night, they had gone further. She had asked him how he felt about role playing under age sex. He had really wanted to, but this was for her. She likes playing young sometimes. She had arrived at his house in her school uniform. It still fits. Why wouldn't it? Nothing underneath has changed much since she was 13. A blazer, tie, crisp white shirt, (a really difficult choice, this. She had to find a shirt that looked just like an ordinary school shirt, but she wanted one that was made of such thin cotton that her dark nipples would be clearly visible through it. No bra of course. Skirt? Naturally, and white panties.....white virgin socks completes the picture. Oh, how they had made love last night. So many scenarios. The first, one of gentle seduction of a young virgin unsure of her emerging sexual feelings. She had clamped her legs together, allowing him to gently part them, and at the moment of penetration, she had cried out as if it hurt her. Another scenario, the schoolgirl whore. She had seduced him, and pulled her own panties aside as he fucked her. Then, the one she had really insisted on. The one where they went outside into the extensive grounds of his home. The one where he had followed her, before cornering her and, (with her full willingness) he fucked her on the grass. She had put tights on for that one, and he and ripped them from her before tearing her panties and fucking her raw. Finally, he had made love to her gently, softly, sweetly. She was naked by now, and he had brought her to a succession of orgasms, each one more warm and loving than the last, until the final one has forced tears from her eyes. Tears of what? Tears. She suspects she is falling in love. 


She remembers sitting near a school fence, deliberately showing two boys her crotch. She remembers persuading one of them to masturbate for her, and she remembers the taste of his cum. The memory makes her wriggle. She loves the taste of sperm, and she's had enough of it now to know that each boy tastes different just like each girl. She remembers her friends talk about giving blow jobs. How some cannot bear to swallow, but she can, and does. She can't imagine doing anything else. No. She loves the taste of sperm. And more than that. She likes the sensation as it runs out of her quim. She even loves the smell of herself the next day. 

The cold night air stings her nipples and makes her shiver, but she doesn't cover herself or close the window. Her nipples harden into painful nubs that send shivers through to her clitoris.

Now? No....not yet.

The girl sighs, and gently pushes deep into her crotch. She knows it will make her even wetter, and the sharp stinging sensations in her bladder may even make her pee into her panties a little, but she doesn't care. Her wetness is her arousal. A man's penis thrusts forward as a symbol of his arousal. A woman fills the air with her scent.

She takes a breath and into the still night air whispers a single word.


She loves this word. She loves having one, she loves being called one, she loves calling others that most dirty of all Anglo-Saxon words.

She remembers when she first used it with her own sister. She remembers urging her brother with it. She remembers his orgasm inside her when she had whispered "oh....fuck me, you cunt." 


A word of power, then.

She looks ahead into the as yet unparted mists of time. A girlfriend for her? A boyfriend? Right now, neither seems right. She wants to be loved, this girl, oh yes, she wants that. But she thinks of Amy, and her wise words "the Mother makes us love who we need at the moment." Will she have a succession of lovers in her life? One after another, perhaps? Maybe some simultaneously. The future is uncertain, but here, this night, sitting on her bed, she feels that being loved by more than one person is what she wants. 

Attraction? What is it of itself? We are all conditioned to mate, to rut, to reproduce. It is the nature of things to find different people attractive at different times. It is only society that has forced upon us the idea of pair bonding for life. Are we truly hard wired that way? 

The girl takes another breath, and pushes deep into her crotch again. This time, a thin trickle of pee escapes her, and it makes her giggle. 

She gets up, and wearing just her soaking panties walks through the quiet house and out into the moonlight. She walks through the farm garden, into the fields beyond. The sounds of the night penetrate her senses. In the distance an owl hoots in frustration after missing its kill. A vixen screams in pain as the dog fox tears its penis from her forcing ovulation. Then in silence, the high, barely audible squeak of one of the many bats that inhabit the barns. 

She's some way from the house now, far enough not to be heard. She raises her arms to shoulder level and shouts into the night.

"Fuck me!"

"Shag me bloody!"

"Rape my cunt!"

"Fuck me up the arse"

She doesn't squat, she just spreads her legs and bends her knees a little and pees into her panties, pinching her left nipple hard enough to make her cry out in pain as she does so. 

She removes the panties, and squeezes them out. Then, in the silvery moonlight, she looks into the gusset and licks it. The taste of her cunt is powerful this evening. 

Still standing, she bends forward slightly and pushes two, then three fingers deep in herself. 

Her mind? Who can tell where that is? Who knows what fantasies she is enjoying? Perhaps she doesn't even know herself. A series of images, stills, flashes of memory and imagination merge. She's being made love to by her lover, forcefully, yet unutterably tenderly too.....she's being consensually raped....(strange how rape for real repulsed her, yet in her sex life, she enjoys being "forced". She supposes it takes away from her the responsibility for feeling pleasure). She imagines Amy's fingers in her, she imagines a group of men using her.

Then, when her mind can no longer control its own thoughts, an orgasm of truly immense proportions erupts from her, making her throw her head back and scream into the night. Primal, brutal sounds erupt from her. Filthy words, urging her lovers to do unspeakable things to her.

Then, the orgasm softens into one of such unutterable tenderness that the tears flow uninhibited and roll down her face. She sees his face, feels his hands cupping hers, sees his eyes. This time it is not her imagination. It is not coming from someone to her. It is from her....from deep within her very soul.

Her last words come as a whisper just as the orgasm leaves her in a soft afterglow of perfection.

"I Love You"



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