Charlotte Shows Herself

This story continues the tale of how Charlotte in Cambodia on a college alumni tour purchased an ivory dildo about which she has become very enthusiastic. See "Charlotte's Ivory Pleasure."

After a long airplane flight, Charlotte was soon at home with her new find of the Cambodian ivory dildo. She used it several times with similar, if less dramatic, success than she had had in her hotel room at the end of her trip with the image of the Cambodian tour guide and the Field of 1000 Lingas in her mind. She even wished she could show it to her friends as a tourist object, but did not. Once settled into her routine, Charlotte arranged to a pay a visit to a nearby nursing home where Jean- Chrétien, a French colleague from her job in the State Anthropological Field Office lay with a chipped hip after falling from a bicycle.

He was quite good looking, financially comfortable, for he was very senior to her in the office, and well preserved for someone his age (he was seventeen years older than Charlotte). She had spent much time with Jean, but they had not yet been lovers, preferring to exchange stories of their lives and waiting for the gradual build up of emotion that would heighten their pleasure. They knew all about sex, they said, but they did not know about each other. But Charlotte had a secret test for Jean to pass, you might say, a task to perform, which is that he must not react to her oddities conventionally, and if he did he would be conveniently whisked away in a small whirlwind like a sort of male Melusine. Charlotte went to the nursing facility to find that Jean lay propped on a low bed; a novel by Marguerite Duras called L'Amant resting on his chest and he was deeply asleep.

As she sat in a blue fabric chair to the side of his bed, waiting for him to awaken, her hand found a cord and button in a side pocket that proved to actuate this electrified Lazy Boy Recliner chair. She angled the chair facing him so that he could regard her when he awoke and pushed the button to let the seat angle downward and the footboard come out from the frame, which more or less placed her knees in his sight line.

It was late, the hall had a slight rustle of evening shift aides speaking many African languages in a sort of Ladysmith Black Mombasa comforting harmony of sounds. She closed the door and pulled Jean's wheel chair up against it. She felt pretty, her hair no longer so dark but attractively colored and just trimmed; she was ready for any fairy tale test moment, wearing the blue Indian print cotton from her college days she had found in a box in the garage, and that after so many years still fit her as well as it did then, for her weight had remained within a pound or two the same. As she looked around the rather sterile room she saw there was fortuitously a mirror behind Jean's bed in which she could see herself.

Her body relaxed in the chair, overcome with jet lag and she day- dreamed idly while waiting for Jean to awaken. Even watching his sleeping face she could feel her swelling lips and recognize her arousal and desire to move on to her idea of testing him. At these moments in fairy tales the princess always announces the task, such as to tell what women want, or to fetch a magic gold ring, but Charlotte wanted not an act but some emotional or psychological response—not even very clearly envisaged by her-- to show he was her Prince and not her frog.

She thought about her recent trip to Asia and in its cultural freedom, some of the sexual experimentation she had done there, nearly, for example, offering money to the Cambodian tour guide—whom she found sexually very attractive-- as a sort of Rent-Very Bad Boy to come back to her hotel with her and instruct her in the use of her newly purchased dildo. And there were a few moments she felt a bit of shame in recalling where she actually exposed her thighs and beyond in public places while sitting on benches in parks, and once in a restaurant, actually spread her legs while wearing a hiked-up dress and flashed an older male diner, who winked at her and smiled with pleasure.

As she recalled these and other exhibitionistic moments of her earlier years, she daydreamed about her fascination with showing herself. It started in college, when she found that sitting in the Library and squeezing her legs together could be extremely pleasurable. She could produce a result in which waves of pleasure would wash over her lower belly, and between her legs as far back as her bottom. But she did find that what she really wanted to do most of all was to show herself while doing this, to sit in such a way as to violate all those Long Ago rules about Mary Janes side by side, no lolling, no skirt hiking up above the knee. Sometimes in the privacy of her dorm room she would dance rebelliously and her skirts would fly up, twirling about her legs, rubbing the tender skin behind the knees as she danced, and finally as she imagined herself as a Spanish Dancer, the skirt fabric could circle and twist just at the base of her underpants, playing softly over the folds of her bottom and backs of her thighs, brushing her with fingers, as the cool air struck her skin.

When Charlotte was a freshman, she began to notice more and more that these dance "sessions" before the mirror, as she called them, produced what she first took to be sweat from the exertion, or maybe a bit of leaked pee in the way that sometimes happened when she coughed or sneezed. Taken out of High School in her Junior Year for illness, Charlotte had been home- schooled before college and she had a very limited understanding of dating and contemporary sexual mores; she merely knew that her lengthy fantasies gave her great pleasure.

Squeezing was embarrassing, but felt very good, and once or twice she put the tip of her finger to the fabric of her underpants in front on Library days when she squeezed while wearing a skirt and then tasted and smelled her finger as she squeezed herself. And it was not pee. This heightened the pleasure greatly. She was now beginning to discover she could press her finger tip gently at the spot where the moisture seemed to come from, forcing the nylon to push in between the folds there and make it flow more richly, even to the point of wetting the fabric all around, so that some came out from under the elastic in front and actually coated her inner thighs under the oaken desk.

Charlotte began to think there was something magical and secretive about touching herself inside her underwear, watching her hand move under the fabric like a scurrying little animal as her fingers stroked and then slowly separated her lips to trail up and down inside in a kind of sexual Braille. So that now as she lay on her side in her dorm bed-- her roommate had a townie boyfriend and was often away--squeezing the upper thigh tightly against the lower in rhythmic motions, the flesh of her thighs slid easily and pleasantly, one surface against the other, locking between them the mound of fabric covered flesh underneath and forcing it to swell and bulge up into the space at the top of her thighs. And while this was going on, pictures of the face of a Very Bad Boy in her Anthropology class began to flash into her mind coupled with the sensations that were happening, and the pictures made these stronger. This was new and Charlotte began for the first time to think about an audience, as if she and the Bad Boy were in a play together, The play, of course, did not last long and it had only a single act.

Once, when she was especially wet with "sweat," thinking about the Very Bad Boy, whom she had actually brushed by on taking her seat that morning in class, she found that the tip of her hairbrush handle felt especially good against a part of her she could feel intensely but not see and that the sensations which almost always finished her "dance" sessions could now be more quickly brought about outside her panties too, by pressing the hairbrush handle right into this unseen but exquisitely felt spot, hard and twisting it this way and that, actually pushing and stretching the fabric of her panties, like a little nylon hood to the hair brush tip, in between the folds so that she could feel the nylon pressing into this delicate place as if it were seeking her out.

On other occasions, thinking about this Very Bad Boy who often smiled at her but whom she felt looking at her in an appraising way, not meanly or unkindly, but just as if he knew things about her without having talked with her at all, she often went back to her room in the afternoon and she knew her roommate to be out, and there without even the pretext of dancing, lay on her bed and imagined this Very Bad Boy—who had in 70s fashion a lot of shaggy dark curls in a Bob Dylan style-- slowly raising her skirt and slip up to her knees and simply looking at her legs and her nylon panties, often lacy or frilly, glowing in the dim light of her room.

It was at this period that she began to become aware of bottoms, both of boys and girls, and to wonder how her own looked to the Very Bad Boy (who had a Student Job) in the Stacks as she walked by. She practiced swaying as she walked slightly and as she was growing a little wider and heavier there, this sway once induced, was easy to keep going. She found herself too, in gym class and in the showers after, looking at the jockish girls as they unselfconsciously bent over, so that she could see what they looked like inside and imagine how she looked to others. She thought on the whole, that the bottom, because of its complex curves and its dark and shadowed character, had more attraction than her front, which was hard to tell much about through the hair, though she knew, practically speaking, there was more sensation in the top of the little fold up front than anywhere else on her body. She worried, however, that she seemed to have a lot of dark hair inside her bottom and cheeks and fine down on her upper thighs, which was hard to keep clean during her periods and at other times too, and she was ashamed of putting her own foot up on the bench casually and bending forward in the locker room so that this hair might show beyond the under curve of her buttocks, yet she was equally excited at the prospect that it might show.

Once, but only once, when this same Very Bad Boy had said hello to her in the Library Stacks, amazingly saying her name and actually smiling at her as he passed her carrel, she did something that afternoon which she knew to be the oddest thing she had ever done with her body and its pleasures, but which she was determined to try, because images of her backside as if it belonged to someone else and she was watching it from the wall had come into her mind several times as she did her usual with the hair brush in front. This would take some preparation and she wanted to go slowly, savor everything and be able to remember the feelings.

She went to her room mate's dresser and took a small jade green jar half -full of cool, white, sweet smelling cold cream, the hollow in the contents looking as if the head of the hair brush had already been pushed into the cream by someone and twirled to make the cold cream ooze up over the head. Then with her finger, she teased a bit of cold cream from the jar and rubbed it onto the plum of the hairbrush tip. She also put some cold cream on the finger tip of her other hand. Then, taking off her blouse and unfastening her brassiere, she lay on her left side and let the finger tip of her right hand drape over her bottom and with her panties pulled down in her favorite way and bunched just below her cheeks, she thought about wiping herself, letting her wiping finger dreamily rub back and forth between her cheeks, working the dollop of cold cream into the groove and backward to some of this dark hair until she could imagine the cold cream making her wet and glistening as it melted and ran in the heat of her fold.

She was "sweating" heavily in front by now and some of this moisture she also worked back so that with a tiny bit of force her finger tip was actually pushing there, and as she crooked the finger the tip seemed to know her and center on a spot she could not see but could easily locate. With her other somewhat cramped hand, she rubbed cold cream on the tip of her breast, circling the skin of her nipple and then going back to the jar by her face until both the nipple and her whole bottom were slippery. It felt different than her usual, but very good, and she found that by squeezing on this finger tip between her cheeks, as if she were finishing up a last strain on the toilet seat, squeezing and contracting, she could make her little finger actually go up to the first joint into her bottom. She lay there, feeling this strange even alien intrusion-- as if a separate and newly developed organ of her body were holding her fingertip. Where things had always gone out of her now something blunt and insistent was coming into her, and though she was so tight and the position so awkward she could hardly move the finger sideways or in and out, she felt the pulse of her whole body beating with excitement on the pad of her finger tip. She removed her finger now, wondering if it was dirty but it did not seem to be and she felt herself close up to normal with a tingle.

She now took the hair brush shaft and lying more on her stomach, worked the tip of the brush into the folds of her bottom trying to press the edge of the shaft where her finger tip had just been, feeling it hard up against her there with a different pressure than the finger tip had given. Then she directed the rounded end, shaped, it seemed, to open things gradually, into the fold of her front and with squeezing motions of her buttocks and some pressure on the working end of the hairbrush, she felt this object pressing her entire cleft with its major force on her mystery spot, and the shaft turning this way and that pushing the now matted hair up in the juncture of her thighs and buttocks in a series of tickling sensations.

She also found that in this position her nipple with its sheen of cold cream was rubbing pleasantly on her coverlet and she thought that in the future she would like to show her breasts to the Very Bad Boy and have him rub cold cream on their ends. As she imagined his fingers on her nipples, a sudden convulsive feeling almost like the cramps of her period took her, originating at the place her finger had just been in and extending all along the hair brush shaft to the tip up in the folds of her hair, and she saw little stars like the fall- out in the sky after Fourth of July fireworks, shuddering, her mouth dry and her inner thighs wet. The feeling of her bottom, the memory of her finger tip feeling her own pulse, the circular caressing motion of the fingers, hers, His? around and then into the opening was complex and frightening and very different from what she got pressing on her front alone. Not better, just different. She got up shakily and wiped all the cold cream off with tissue, enjoying the dry rustle of the Kleenex swishing between her thighs. Her triangle of dark hair was shiny from the cold cream and her "sweat" dewed it upward like a sort of Brilliantine so that it glistened in the light of the bathroom mirror in an unaccustomed way.

All of thee memories came back to Charlotte as she lay back in the visitor's chair, waiting for Jean to wake up and, she hoped, pass her test. To be ready for this she pushed her chair close enough to touch the edge of the bed and took from the bag of pictures and postcards of the magnificent temples of Angkor Wat she had brought him, the ivory dildo she had bought in the curiosity shop in Cambodia, raising her skirt to tent her knees.

Seeing him raise his head and open his eyes, as if in a dream in the quiet nursing home room, she showed the startled Jean her thighs while she inserted the tip under her panties and with a quick adjustment of her now swollen lips, felt the inlaid ebony eye align with the shaft of her clitoris. As if commanded, Jean in seconds was already bending forward over the edge of the bed towards her, his novel falling to the floor, as she watched herself in the mirror receive his dark Very Bad Boy head between her knees, his hand reaching up towards her bottom, pulling the fabric aside to find her, his finger tip knowing just how far in to press, as she moved the ivory head and shaft to bear against herself, twisting and turning it in hard stabbing motions to get first the pressure of the tip and then the length of the shaft, finally bringing the ivory up into herself in a gathering rhythm of short strokes, where what seemed to her a swelling of the head just at the place where the apricot like head escaped the carved skin slipped and caught, caught and then slipped as she felt the walls collapsing behind it and then opening to take the dildo's contours deeper and further to her core. She could feel Jean's finger curving and burrowing deep in her now, pulling her to himself and taking her pulse to blend it with his own. He had passed her test and knew by instinct, if not what all women want, at least what this one did. Though she would learn in time just how he came to know it, and to be her True Prince, here ends the story (the rest is very private) of Charlotte and Jean who lived happily ever after, the ivory dildo only brought out on ceremonial occasions such as on the many anniversaries of their love.