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.
