A Pleasing Memory

Most of us remember the first time we surrendered to that sly little inner voice. The one that suggested something daring, something nasty. The one that suggested, "Why not finger her right here at dinner?" or the one that suggested, "Why not beg him to teach you how to take his cock in your ass?" Of course, one you listen to that voice, it is hard to stop listening. One's lustful imagination can be endlessly inventive.

I remember one of the first times I heeded that voice. I was nineteen. I didn't know my own power, then. I didn't realize that my young breasts curved as sweetly as they did under my t-shirts, that men looked at them and swallowed hard and tried to ignore the ache in their groin. I'd wear little skirts and bend over to pet a friendly puppy or pick up a dropped pen, and I didn't even know that people could see my plump young cunt lips through my white panties. I was a little cocktease, and the funny thing is, I didn't even know it.

Not that I was ignorant about sex. I loved it. My boyfriend and I fucked all the time. In his dorm room, in my dorm room, in his car, on a blanket on the beach. We'd been each other's first. We loved each other ardently. But we were, as yet, innocent of the more...shall we say...refined....aspects of sex. Sometimes I would inexpertly suck his cock. Sometimes he'd lap at my pussy. Mostly, I craved having him inside me, and that's what he wanted too. And that is what we had.

Despite the fact that we fucked nearly every day, I still couldn't help touching myself. Often, I did it in the library. There was a book of Victorian erotica that I'd found, deep in the stacks. I'd page through it, skimming the stories of naughty maidservants and lusty gentlemen until I felt that tingling in my cunt. I'd go to my study carrel and furtively slip a hand up my skirt or down my shorts. My fingertips seeking my clit, my nipples hard inside my white cotton bra, my breath shallow. I'd cluster my fingertips together and surround my clit with them, tease and pull and rub and torment myself until I felt myself shuddering with a quick quiet orgasm. To this day I wonder if I was as alone as I thought I was. I wonder if others saw me, and fondled themselves as they watched me find and take my pleasure. But I digress....

Occasionally, when I did this, I would get an image in my mind, of my boyfriend watching me. Whenever I did, I found that I couldn't hold myself away from my most intense orgasms. Once I understood this, I resolved that I would show him how I pleased myself. The voice had whispered its first seductive suggestion. My boyfriend's birthday was coming up, and I knew what I was going to give him as a present.

Happily, I laid my plans. First, the right clothing. I didn't know where I could buy really trashy lingerie, but I went to the expensive department store where my mother had bought me a graduation dress, and I purchased some pretty, dainty things. I considered black, but couldn't resist pale pink. Pink like cotton candy, like bubblegum, like a newly blossomed rose, like my sweet young cunt.

Then, the setting. I didn't want to do this in any of the places we usually fucked. So I reserved a room at a local hotel. I felt a little shy, as if it was obvious that we were taking this room in order to fuck in it. I felt a little guilty at using some of the money my father had given me for books and tuition on the room. But then I thought about what it would be like when I looked into my boyfriend's eyes as I fingered my pussy, and I forgot all my hesitancy.

On my boyfriend's birthday, I met him outside the classroom where his last class of the day was held. "Happy birthday!" I said, kissing him on the cheek. "I've got a surprise for you!" I drove him to the hotel, only laughing in response to his questions. Once we were in the room, I told him to sit down, and to watch me, but I warned him: "If you touch me, I'll stop what I'm doing." Of course, knowing what I know now, I would take the opportunity to tie him to his seat, to make him know his helplessness. But I was innocent of such things then, and I am telling you a true story.

And now, dear reader, the part you have probably been waiting for. I switched on the radio to some soft jazz music, and I stood in front of my birthday boy. I began by sliding my hands up and down my sides, over my tits, over my thighs. I shyly looked into his eyes. He seemed dumbfounded; what twenty-one-year-old boy would not be? Mixed with the shock, though, I saw lust, and I could not help smiling, giving him a real smile, not a coy little smirk. He laughed then, and I began to unbutton my blouse.

Slowly, slowly, like the the first time. That moment a few months ago when I'd shyly knelt on his narrow bed and revealed my breasts to him. Only now, as I slipped off my blouse, I whispered boldly, "Would you like to see my tits, baby? Yes, I think you would. My nipples are hardening because I am getting very horny for you. Want to see? Mmm, yes...." And I slipped first one strap off, and then the other, and then I reached around to my back and unclasped my bra and let it fall.

Firm, rounded, high...my young breasts, so sensitive, the nipples aching to be touched. I licked my fingertips and caressed them with leisurely, feathery strokes. "This feel so good, baby," I whispered. "Look at how hard my nipples are getting. And I'm getting wet, too...would you like to see?"

I reached down to the hem of my short skirt and slowly, slowly lifted it to reveal my pussy, framed in my new garter belt and stockings, but bare of any other covering. My boyfriend swallowed hard. "That's right, I wasn't wearing any panties. All day I have been getting wet under this skirt waiting for this moment." Then, with a teasing smile, I let my skirt drop again. I turned around and bent over the bed, my palms flat against the coverlet. I knew that he could just barely see my ass and pussy, and I swayed my hips back and forth. I reached between my legs and lightly stroked my pussy lips. I couldn't help moaning. Then I turned around and again, facing him, and stroked my thighs. "I'm putting my hands under my skirt, to touch my cunt. Wouldn't you like to see? Wouldn't you like to watch?"

A long silence, and then he croaked, "Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I want to see you touch your cunt."

"Good," I murmured, and unzipped my skirt and let it fall. Deliberately, I sat on the edge of the bed facing him, and opened my legs wantonly. I had thought I would draw out this pleasure, but I knew, looking at the swelling in his pants, feeling the need in my pussy, that I could not wait much longer to cum. I put my hands between my legs. "Watch me, watch me play with my cunt and cum for you," I said softly.

I slipped two fingers into my pussy and began to fuck myself slowly but firmly. With my other hand, I began to massage my clit. I quickly found the rhythm I knew so well. Up, down, around, up, down, around, and oh, the teasing fullness of my fingers inside me, so wet and hot, my pussy sucking at my fingers. Learning what my body was made for. The scent of my cunt ripe and delicious in the air around us, my legs open to show my lover everything. God, now a spasm at the base of my spine, so close, and a tremor deep in my belly, and my clit wants more, more, more, oh so much more and now I must be fucked, please, I need to cum! I looked into his eyes desperately as the first wave of orgasm took me and then I cried out, almost in pain, "Oh! Oh, I'm cumming!" A sob swept me as the most intense orgasm of my life racked me from head to toe.

I fell back onto the bed, lightheaded and exhausted. I lay there a moment, gasping for breath, with my hands still between my legs. Then I felt someone gently move my hands away, felt a gentle warm licking at my swollen tender pussy. My boyfriend kissed my clit softly and said, "Thank you for your wonderful gift. I have an idea or two about what you could do next...."

As it turned out, he had been listening to his own little naughty voice. But that is another story, for another time. Today he is happily married, to another, and they have two beautiful children. He sends me their picture with a Christmas card, once a year. I do not know if he remembers that day. Perhaps he will read this, and find himself hard. He will have to release his stiff cock, stroke it hard, furtively, fast, before anyone sees. I would like that. But even if he does not read, does not even remember, I remember. And even today, sometimes, I pleasure myself, remembering.