tagLesbian SexBecoming Obvious

Becoming Obvious

byknowsbetter©

I didn't have a strict religious upbringing or anything, but my folks definitely weren't the type to encourage me to "get in touch with my body" or anything like that. Not cruel or unloving, but reserved, and definitely wary of anything that sounded like hippies: no massages, no yoga, no tofu, no home remedies, no "Our Bodies, Ourselves." Mom set up a big floor-to-ceiling mirror in our playroom at one point, planning to teach herself aerobics or jazzercise or something, but she never did get around to working out there very much.

Point is, I don't think they'd have been horrified if they knew how much I masturbated when I was younger, but they would have been horribly embarrassed about it. And so, although for as long as I can remember I've known it felt good to rub my pussy, I've also felt like I was supposed to keep it secret. I'd do it as quietly as I could at night in bed, at first just squeezing up against a pillow, and later learning to reach my hand between my labia to gently rub my clit.

The best, though, were those days when everyone was out of the house, which didn't happen much when I was really little, but definitely more by the time I was a little older. It was something of a ritual, and something of a production, knowing that I'd have a half-hour or more just to fuck myself, but fearing that I'd have to stop and get dressed again in a hurry. Of course, it was a little exciting to think that I was doing something that I didn't want to be caught at. I wouldn't generally dream of disobeying my parents, but having a wank-fest felt... if not exactly bad, then definitely naughty.

I'd go into the old playroom, which by then was largely just storage for sports equipment and stuff that hadn't yet been given to Goodwill, and strip off entirely so I could see myself in the mirror as I did it. I'd start standing up and rub my breasts, pull gently at my nipples and watch them wrinkle and harden in response, and the pale skin under my neck start to flush. I'd put a pillow down for my head, and lie down and press my feet against the mirror so I could see everything I was about to do.

Then I'd stroke my newly-acquired pubic hair, tugging it gently, trying to tease myself. When I couldn't stand it, I'd touch the labia, which swelled and reddened strikingly. I didn't know then that mine swelled and reddened more than average, but I knew I loved to watch it happen, to touch the dry skin outside myself and then feel it slide apart and become wet, to see my labia become thicker and darker as I rubbed myself and came again and again.

We did have TV and news and the internet, so it wasn't like I didn't know I was sheltered. Still, I was sheltered and terribly naïve. I'd had a few boyfriends, none I deemed worthy of getting past second base, but that and my trusty hands were really about it for transgression.

So, after high school, I decided to take a year off and live in the "real world" before going on to college. My parents were dubious but we'd all heard enough tales of misguided and confused freshman that it actually seemed like a good idea to spend a year working so I had a good clear idea of why I wanted to be in school once I got there. I moved away from suburban Connecticut to Boston, and got myself a roommate and a job at a cafe.

I found a small apartment and a roommate named Susan. Although she didn't have dreadlocks or stretched earlobes, she wore yoga pants around the house and had a Buddha tattoo, so my parents pretty much looked at her like she was from another planet. It didn't help when she told them she was enrolled in a full-time program of study at a massage and acupuncture school. Nonetheless, they agreed with me that she sounded nice enough, and I was definitely excited to be out on my own.

We were both equally neat people, and we didn't have the conflicts I heard about from a lot of girls. She didn't wear much makeup and didn't keep a lot of clothes, so we didn't fight over time in front of the bathroom mirror or space in the closet. She was a year older than me and she really took me under her wing, helping me find my way around town and learn the subway and bus systems. She taught me about organic vegetables, took me to the farmer's market, and introduced me to her friends in massage school.

Of course, we also shared a room, which made it harder, not easier, to get off when I wanted to. I got a job with sort of irregular hours scooping ice cream and making coffee, and she was in class a lot, so I did have a fair amount of time to myself. But I was accustomed to getting off at least twice each night in bed after turning out the lights, and it was hard, especially at first, even to go to sleep: I was so used to it that I'd get wet with anticipation just brushing my teeth before bed. Plus, increasingly cute guys kept hitting on me at work, and I'd find myself fantasizing about them all day, and then coming home to Susan meditating or studying anatomy, when what I really wanted to do was fuck myself silly.

Sometimes she'd stay overnight with friends west of town, and I'd re-stage my old high school marathons of masturbation in the living room with a hand mirror. But that wasn't very often. Mostly I'd try to get off quickly while she was in the shower, or if I got home before she did, but it was never enough to truly satisfy me, and I just felt like I was horny all the time.

She also had books that I wouldn't have thought to read or look for in my home-town Barnes & Noble. Books on massage and left-wing politics and vegetarian cooking, and alternative references like "Our Bodies, Ourselves" and "The Good Vibrations Guide to Getting it On." The first was definitely informative, but the second was a revelation. I'd had no idea about the things I read in that book. That was where I began to realize that my vulva wasn't the same as others-- that it was more prominent than average. Not that it was bad, the book reassured me, although I still felt odd about it. I guess everyone does, though, about something.

I tried not to let Susan know I'd been reading it, but at some point I had it open when Susan came home and I didn't manage to put it away fast enough. She laughed when she saw me blushing and just asked if I'd been over to their store.

"What store?" "Good Vibrations. It's not far from here-- they've got one here and two out in San Francisco." "A book store?" More laughter. "Well, there are books. But mostly toys." More blushing. "Oh." "Oh man, you gotta check it out. A single woman of the world should never be without an electronic helper." "I don't... uh..." "Oh come on. Everybody masturbates."

Much, much more blushing. How did she know? Even if she (and her book) were right about everyone doing it, why did she think I'd been doing it enough that she thought I should get some kind of labor-saving device?

"Well, sure, but a sex shop?" "It's clean, friendly, well-lit, and run by and for women... Come on, I'll go with you." "That sounds even worse!"

The next Sunday, after the farmer's market, we unloaded our week's worth of produce and she said "You wanna go over to Coolidge Corner?" "What's there?" Silence. "Oh. Um..." "It's cute when you blush like that, but seriously, you should go. I'm going anyway. I have a gift certificate I have to use up." "A gift? From... no, wait, don't tell me. I don't want to know."

Twenty minutes later, we were there. It was, as she said, clean, well-lit, and friendly. All the other customers looked less embarrassed than I felt, but there were more than a few people sort of staring at the floor or giggling quietly. As my initial shyness started to subside, and I looked at the displays, I felt myself flush differently. Just being here, in a store that celebrated and assisted with everything I'd had to hide from my parents. Everything I'd been trying to hide from Susan, and which she somehow knew anyway, was right out in the open.

Lubricants. Video guides to oral sex. Anal toys. I'd never even thought of enjoying anything there before I found the Guide to Getting it On, and it still didn't appeal to me, but they had a whole section, and instruction books that had arty black and white pictures of people's butts. There were tiny little vibrators like lipsticks just to rub on your clit, enormous fake penises that seemed tacky and useless, and several things that looked like sculptures and not like sex toys at all.

One was out on the table and I couldn't resist touching it. It felt slightly soft, sort of rubbery, but firm at the same time. It had a series of buttons on it, and I pressed one, and then jumped back as it began to buzz, and wiggle, and nearly danced off the table until I grabbed it. I hit the button again but it only changed the way it moved, from a steady thrum to a series of different wiggles and buzzes, starting with a low growl that penetrated into my wrists, and rising to a higher-pitched whirr that tickled my fingers but didn't travel as far. I felt like everyone was staring at me. And I also felt like I wanted to have that buzzing up against me immediately and at all costs. My cheeks were burning, my nipples were straining against my shirt, and I felt like I was so wet I would squish when I walked.

Susan was right behind me. She giggled. "I think it likes you!" "How do I turn it off!?" A saleswoman interrupted: "Hold any button down for three seconds." She took the toy from me and shut it off expertly. "This series of toys can be a bit confusing at first, but they've definitely got the best variety of patterns and features. Plus, they're just beautiful as objects themselves." "Series?"

I was in awe. She seemed so confident in herself. Not embarrassed about where she worked, or what while I was embarrassed just to be there or talk to anyone. She didn't seem like she was trying to be sexy, either, but she definitely was. Not provocative, or breathy, or anything like that. Just very comfortable in her own skin, and confident, despite the fact that she was holding a vibrator in her hands, a vibrator I'd been unable to understand or turn off but now desperately wanted to own.

"Yes, depending on how you prefer to use them, different shapes will be more effective."

She paused. I was speechless. She couldn't be asking me. There was no way I could say. Until this week I'd never admitted to anyone that I masturbated at all, and I'd definitely never told anyone how. I'd never even said it out loud to myself, or thought out the words I was now thinking: I start by rubbing my labia until I'm totally wet, then putting the middle two fingers of my right hand inside me and rubbing my clit with the flat of my palm, so I can rub my breasts with my left hand, and then when I want to come I use my left hand to penetrate me and rub my clit with the fingers of my right hand to get the exact right touch.

If it hadn't been obvious before, it was obvious now that I was both aroused and humiliated. My face and chest were both bright red, and I could only look at the woman's hands as she rolled the toy back and forth between them. I couldn't tell if she was politely ignoring it, or was pleased by it, but I was sure there was no way it wasn't obvious. I felt frozen.

The saleswoman continued as Susan wandered off to finish her own shopping. This here one would be great for a focus on the clit. A rounder one would be for a more diffuse feeling all over. This would be great for penetration. This one, U-shaped, like some kind of sea creature, would work for someone who wanted stimulation both inside and out. She picked up each model and rubbed it across her hands as she talked. When she described the dual-stimulation one, I managed to come up with was a nod and the word "that." The woman seemed to understand, got a new toy in its box from the display, and took me over to the register. She explained that I'd need to wash it and charge it before use, and $100 later I was out the door with Susan. I hadn't even seen what she got. I wasn't even sure what I'd just done.

I think Susan talked to me on the ride home, about how nice the store staff were, and how the business was co-operatively run by the employees, and maybe even what we were going to make for dinner that week. I'm not really sure. All I could think about was the feeling of being in that store talking to a woman I'd never met about different ways to masturbate. About being flushed, dripping, and totally lost to the aching need between my legs, and how amazed I was that someone else could be there talking to me and not overcome the way I was. I was jealous of that, and ashamed to have been overcome that way, and more than anything else still totally aching with need.

When we got home, I wasn't sure whether I should rush into the bedroom to masturbate, or just put the toy in my closet and hide it and never look at it again. I almost hoped Susan would tell me what I should do, since she had guided me through everything else. But she said nothing at all, and just sat at our dinner table to study.

I left the box alone and tried to busy myself with household chores, cleaning and picking up the house, but all I managed to do was tidy a few things off the living room floor, and pick up the bedroom a little, until it was obvious, again, that I was avoiding looking at the discreet little bag I'd brought home.

So, I went into our room, leaving the door open so it wouldn't seem so obvious what I was up to, and opened the box. I plugged my new toy in and read the instruction manual, which was intimidatingly long, although I suppose I should have been reassured since I'd definitely been in need of instruction in the store.

Different modes. Different patterns. Fast. Slow. Hard. Light. Oh god. I needed to get off, right now. Even if Susan was in the next room. I couldn't shut the door, because then she'd definitely know what I was doing, and so I just slipped my hand into my pants, keeping an eye on the door. My underwear was soaked, and it took me only a few seconds to reach a furtive orgasm. Not a satisfying one. I would need several. Lots.

But I had a cafe shift and Susan would be studying all night, so I went to work and Susan studied, and it wasn't until the next day I had any time to myself at all.

In the morning, Susan seemed to smile slyly as she left. "Have fun on your day off!" seemed a little ... dirty.

But everything seemed dirty. I felt like a whore, turned into a molten pool of need. I couldn't just start wanking right on the bedroom floor as soon as she walked out the door, could I?

Well, yeah, I could.

When Susan walked back in fifteen minutes later, I was on my knees with my ass in the air in the middle of the bedroom floor, coming for the fourth time. I couldn't stop, even if I'd wanted to. I had no idea how long she'd been there. She seemed surprised, and she'd always seemed unflappable to me. I think she might have been staring. She must have been. My swollen labia spasming around the vibe, my moans and grunting, my asshole pointing directly at her. How could she not?

"Woah," she said. I froze, panicking, and tried to get up, wound up just rolling over onto my ass and holding my hands and legs in front of me. I tried to pull the vibe out but I had clamped down in my surprise it seemed stuck.

"Sorry." Then, "I gotta get one of those for myself."

Susan always knew how to defuse the tension in a room.

We both started laughing, me naked on the floor, her leaning in the doorway. The vibrator was still inside me. Still on, and of course I still wasn't very good at turning it off, and rapidly my laughter turned to alarm as the machine continued to pulse. I moaned again.

"Oh my god. It's stuck!"

Another person probably would have run away, but Susan came closer, somewhere between fascinated and concerned. I tried to pull it out but my pussy was clamped down hard around it, and it kept throbbing and buzzing.

Susan was solicitous. "I'll help, don't worry, I've actually just been studying these muscles in anatomy."

She reached for the vibrator, and I wanted to roll away, or shut my legs, or something to keep her from seeing how wet and swollen I was, but I could barely move. She took the end of it and pulled, slowly and gently.

It was humiliating, but it also felt incredibly good. She pushed it back in a little, then tugged back out more. Was she deliberately rubbing it against my clit? I moaned. "Stop, please." I didn't seem to mean it.

"Don't worry. Just relax and it'll come right out." She didn't stop.

"At least turn it off!"

As Susan pushed and pulled, the leverage of the end inside me pushed against my g-spot, I shuddered and bucked my hips. It felt overwhelming, like I was falling off a cliff. Like I had to pee but I was going to come instead. And then, it felt like I did both. The vibrator came free of my pussy and liquid sprayed everywhere, including onto Susan.

I'd read about ejaculation but I didn't think I ever would, much less do it for the first time with my roommate watching. Or on her.

I was disgusted, but she seemed intrigued.

More to come...

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