Now, on the phone, I ask him to talk dirty to me, but I hesitantly say that I want something a little different. Usually, we fantasize together, speaking of what we’d be doing to each other, but today I want him to tell me what I should do to myself. I’m glad he’s so incredibly patient; I’ve already bitten his head off for speaking too softly. It’s just that I’m so irritated and frustrated I want to yell at somebody! I’ve been watching porn on my computer, so I’m already wet, which adds to my emotional turmoil. I’m embarrassed for asking, but he likes the idea, so I tell him that I’m lying naked in my bed, only a sheet covering my body. There’s KY jelly, my fingers, and my vibrator, so he can choose whichever he prefers. He has me begin by stroking my breasts on the outside, never touching the nipple. It doesn’t feel like much, so I begin to panic. It won’t work, it never works.
I’ve actually been masturbating in some form or another since I was four years old. I began with my security blanket or the bedcovers, straddling a lump and wriggling till it went flat. By elementary school, I was doing it on the floor also, pulling my pants tight between my legs and going like that. I read constantly, and I found that my stories were often enhanced by this squirming exercise I did every day. I didn’t know what I was doing, however, and I thought it was a bad thing. I knew it was important that no one catch me at it. I even tried to quit, like a bad habit, but I always found myself breathless and writhing, terrified of the creaking bed.
After the initial fear, I have an idea. I pump some lavender lilac lotion onto my hands and begin again with my breasts. Feeling my palms slide silkily around the soft skin, it almost starts to feel good. I’m impatient and worried, not sure why I feel the urgency to do this. He finally tells me to play with the nipples, so I grab some more lotion and have at it. At first it’s too cold and they wrinkle up, but after more massaging they begin to soften and harden simultaneously, the nipples perking up to play. For several minutes I stroke, pinch, rub, and grab, until both breasts are swelling and my nipples are pointed skyward. It still doesn’t feel as good as when he touches me, but it doesn’t feel as boring as when I touch myself while bathing or dressing. Now, he says, take your left hand and slowly, slowly move it down to your leg, but keep your right hand on the breast. I obey, using only my fingertips to trace the contours of my stomach, belly button, and then soft thigh. It feels very mundane, not at all electric like it should. I’m resigned now to my fate—I’ll never come like this! But I keep trying, keep listening to the long-distance instructions, afraid to disappoint him or myself.
When I was 13, I figured out that what I did had a name. Great, now I masturbated, like the nasty guys who talked about whacking off all day. Then, I found out I was doing it all wrong. I heard wild tales of tampons, broom handles, even fingers, until I was more confused than ever.
At 14, I started ‘dating’. My first boyfriend and I would make out for hours, each kiss, lick, and nibble sending chills down our backs and fire through other places. I would get furiously turned on in these car kissing sessions—and my blanket game was my only release. It wasn’t much of one, either. I could spend hours in cycles of 30-second wriggles, breath-catching, and realignment. At the end, I’d be exhausted and frustrated, usually falling asleep to dream of being touched in that burning place between my legs.
Hand on thigh, fingers splayed and pressing; now he says to move them just up to the outer labia, circling but not touching them. I pump a little more lotion on my fingers and begin tracing the outside edges. I’m still afraid of defeat here. Every time I’ve tried this in the past, I started out so wet, but then dried up quickly. Now, however, I’m still wet, maybe leftover from the porn? I love the scent of my arousal, so spicy and pungent, and I’m enjoying the cool sheets against my soft, naked skin. ‘Now take that same left hand and touch the inside labia, baby; circle till you find where it feels best.’ Okay, so I stroke my amazingly wet, hot pussy, then up to… ohhhh, what is this? Covered in juices, my clit sends sparks through my groin when I touch it. It’s usually too sensitive to play with, but even though it’s still pretty ticklish, it actually feels good. I am amazed and still afraid; afraid to touch it too fast, afraid this feeling will disappear again. His directions have been good so far, though, and I’m getting a kick out of submitting to his orders, so I’m careful to do only what he lets me.
Let’s fast forward to sophomore year of college. I was single and feeling desperate when a friend suggested that we make a road trip to buy a vibrator. Our town being small and strict, we would have to find a metropolis with a good adult store to make the purchase. The idea was appealing, since I had no lover to satisfy my needs; I missed having sex every day, so I agreed. I went with “My First Vibe”, pearly white and innocent like its Barbie doll namesake. It was a very basic vibrator: about six inches long, multi-speed, took two AA batteries. I named it Bob. Oh god, that first night I got it home, I was wet all down my legs with anticipation. I turned it on and slid it in, my dress hiked up around my waist, legs spread on my dorm bed. It was good, yes, in and out, bzzzzzzzzzzzzz… but no orgasm. I mostly stuck to the sheets after that, bringing Bob out only in times of great need, but with no more success than before.
‘Are your fingers wet?’ he asks. ‘Bring them up to your mouth and lick them off.’ He knows I’ve always been turned on by my taste, I think as I lick my fingers; they’re so slick and salty that I’m loving this, sucking them both all the way in like he says. ‘Now, baby, take those two fingers and go back to that same spot. Really play with it.’ I find the hooded clitoris again, stroking left to right, up and down, and I whisper into the phone that my hips move when I touch it. I’m truly in awe—this already feels better than anything I’ve ever done to myself before.
When I met my current boyfriend later that year, I thought I’d never have to worry about it again. I could work myself up somewhat, but then he would fill me with fingers, tongue, and cock, quenching that wet thirst. He could make me come with so little effort, one finger inside and sharp teeth on my neck. We had sex every day when possible—we were unstoppable, incorrigible, and madly in love.
Almost inevitably, the job came. Suddenly, he was on the East Coast, and I wasn’t. This was worse than being single, because my heart and body ached for this one person. My mind began to play tricks on me, inventing crushes on this person and that, desperately seeking the attention, love, and sex I was being denied. I brought out the vibrator, to no avail. I tried my fingers, but no matter how wet I was, my pussy would dry up when I stuck them in. I humped the floor so much I bruised myself—all in vain. I honestly thought I would go crazy from loneliness and horniness.
My clit is slippery and soft, and my hips are starting to pump in an ancient rhythm—but where is my right hand? Forgotten and neglected, my right hand is still up on my breast, staring down at the action from afar. He softly orders me to lick a finger and slide it into myself. I wonder vaguely if he’s enjoying this, too. I’m still busily rubbing my clit with my left hand, but I follow commands, slipping the finger in and gasping. I’m so wet and soft, I’m made of satin, I’m the softest creature at the bottom of the ocean, and I can almost feel the flash flood warning signs come up at the first sprinkles of rainfall. My mind is wholly concentrated on the activity between my legs; I can barely even hear his voice, yet I’m tied to those words, afraid to make any move without his say-so.
Talking to a girl online, I confessed my inability to orgasm to her. She was shocked. ‘Has no one ever showed you? My ex took my hand and showed me exactly what to do.’ The idea had never occurred to me before, but as I thought about it, it made complete sense. After all, if my boyfriend can get me off with his fingers, he ought to be able to help me do the same. It also gave me something to do on a boring summer day—so I told him to call me.
I moan and whisper into the cordless phone, begging to be allowed to put in another finger. He lets me, so now two are in and two are out, and I keep the fingers still while my hips thrust every second. With each pump, I rub my clit up and down and fuck my fingers, barely having to move my hands because my hips are doing all the work. I notice the feel of my breasts on my arms in between the V they’re making. I curl the fingers of the right hand inside me, trying to point up toward my navel, but my cunt is swallowing my fingers so greedily I can’t move them much, just barely hanging on. My clit is still throbbing and pulsing, and I begin to moan—and drop the phone. It’s so right, so perfect, I’m diving for treasure, but I am the treasure; I’m making love to myself, my hips still pounding a medium tempo, but thrusting harder, and my ass clenches and my belly tightens. My head lifts off the pillow but I don’t see anything, I’m fucking myself. Oh, my pussy, my cunt, me, oh, I’m going to come… I’m bucking furiously now, moaning and gasping, bed springs screeching but I don’t care, can’t care, and then I feel my vagina clamp down on my fingers and I breathlessly yell out with my climax, and then gasp as my fingers shoot out of my pussy with the sharp muscle contraction, and my hand leaves my super-sensitive clit, and my moans turn to sobs as I fight for air and composure.
I’m weeping, I’m staring at my sopping fingers, thinking (and saying) ‘I did it’ over and over. Eventually I realize through my tears that my legs are up in the air, and all my muscles are tense, but I can’t make them move yet. I’m still crying, and I can hear the phone again, and he’s worried, but I can’t speak yet. When I do, all I can whisper is ‘I did it!’ repeatedly. I try to concentrate on laying my legs back down. My panting slows, and I find my voice again, and begin to describe the orgasm to him. He has been touching himself for quite a while during this little session, and I didn’t even know it. I use the best words I can to tell him what I felt like, what it was like to climax by myself, and I’m so into the description I don’t even hear him come. This was so special, so important to me, that even though I’m happy that we both got off, my mind is too full of my rapture to think about his pleasure.
He’s so excited for me, both because I wanted this so much and because I’m not so irritable anymore. I tell him I think I need a cake and champagne to celebrate the occasion. Twenty-one years old and finally got herself off! I think the bakery ladies would love that one, in light pink frosting. I’m so proud of myself! My emotional tension is gone, and I can see clearly again (once I can see, that is). I feel so good that I lie there naked for an hour, my body too special for clothes. Laying a hand over my pussy again, I can feel the heat, can feel the muscles still contracting like a heartbeat between my legs. I can’t wait to do it again later.