Now it's time for the girls to tell their sides of the story. All characters are 18 years or over.
NATALIE'S STORY
Well, I guess you've read my Dad's version of our story. So it's only fair that Allie and I have a chance to give our side of how we got into this situation.
It all started one day when Allie and I were sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor, talking about masturbation (as you do!) Actually it was almost the first time we'd talked about it, cos it was a bit, you know, embarrassing. But also a bit liberating to have someone to share this part of myself with and exchange techniques, although we didn't really know the right words for it yet.
"You think about any boys when you do it?" Allie had asked. I shook my head. "Girls?"
"I don't think about anything, I guess. I just...do...it."
"Hm. Sometimes it is like that, yeah. But sometimes I think about boys - or girls."
Allie then asked if I could maybe show her what I meant with the bent-fingers-thing, my own personal technique that I had mentioned to her, but I shook my head resolutely - we could talk about it - but not share it - that was something else entirely. Still, later that night, when I found myself with my hand down my pyjama pants, I imagined I could see Allie, sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching me quietly and seriously, and this made me speed up my motions and bite into my bedsheets to stifle my soft moans.
And the next afternoon as I stepped onto the school bus, I felt my cheeks burning, remembering the night before, and tried to make myself smaller, uncomfortably aware of the gathering wetness under my skirt. Quickly, I pulled out my phone and sat down in an empty seat by the window.
There was a message from my dad, informing me that food was in the fridge and that he would be home by six. And that he loved me. He always included that. Somehow, it made his messages seem both more formal and more personal. There were messages from Allie as well.
- wanna do the english homework together later?
- I can come over
- I'll bring chocolate cake
I quickly replied.
- sure
- 3?
I didn't have any other plans, and was happy to not have to do the essay on my own. When I looked up I saw one of the boys from my school staring at me, almost as if looking through me. I rolled my eyes at him but he didn't seem to notice, just kept looking at me. Boys did that a lot recently. Especially in class. They hardly ever seemed to notice when I noticed, only sometimes they quickly looked away. I did like part of it, the realisation mostly. It made me feel pretty and wanted, and I wasn't naive enough not to reflect on that. Then, it was embarrassing to want to be wanted. Plus - and more importantly - after having noticed it, it made me feel uncomfortable. There was a difference between being watched and being seen. I also didn't understand why they stared at my chest so much. I barely had any. A lot of the other girls in class had started to develop way earlier than me, and had much more to look at. But the boys stared at them, too, and even I found myself transfixed by some of my classmates' arching blouses from time to time.
As I opened the fridge to look for the food my father had left me, I realised that I wasn't really hungry yet. The wetness in my panties, that hadn't gone away for the whole bus ride, was a much more pressing matter. I closed the refrigerator door and sighed. What was happening to me? The feeling of estrangement crept up on me again, of being separated from my own body. I had already masturbated in the shower this morning, as well as in the girls' bathroom between classes - the first time I ever did that, but It was becoming unbearable and I hadn't been able to concentrate on class at all - and now, again, my whole existence seem to revolve around the space between my legs. Better get it over with then.
I leaned against the fridge door and pushed my skirt up, slid one hand down my panties, which I found soggy and crumpled, and slowly followed the outline of my vulva with my index- and ring fingers, pressing my middle finger softly in between, sliding in between my wet labia, pressing down more firmly and rocking my finger, reaching for my swollen button. I whimpered a moan as I touched it and my knees gave out for a moment, making me slide down the length of the fridge until I slumped down on the kitchen tiles, my slim legs spread wide apart, now both hands fumbling at my sex. I bit into my blouse's collar as I quickly pulled down my panties to give myself more room to work with. With one hand, I slid in and out of my vagina, bending it upwards whenever I was deepest, with the other hand I circled around my clitoris and along my folds. My juices were dripping on the kitchen tiles as I alternated between soft grunts and muffled moans.
I closed my eyes and saw the boy again, staring at me in the bus. It confused me and made me stop my motions for a moment. Allie had asked me if I ever thought about boys while doing it. But I didn't really think of him. The image was just sort of there. Him, staring. Me, noticing. Now, I was thinking of him. I imagined myself back in the bus, spreading my legs and hoisting my skirt for him, letting him see my plain white panties, while no one else on the bus looked. I almost screamed in pleasure as the orgasm pulled me in, my legs quivering uncontrollably as I imagined pulling my panties to the side and showing the boy a glimpse of my smooth mound. I squirted and collapsed to the side, my legs still shaking. I breathed heavily, staring at the white ceiling, trying to collect my thoughts. Seeing, not watching. I thought. But what I had thought about was clearly being watched. But not passively. In my fantasy, I had been in control, teasing the boy, making him watch. I smiled but felt revolted at myself at the same time. Clearly, this had been more than just pleasuring myself. I had fantasised. About something I wanted. But why this boy? I didn't even know his name, only that he was a year above me at school and took the same bus home. I heaved myself up, still confused, and collected my underwear from the wet floor.
In my room, I changed out of my uniform, into a simple blue dress and new panties. My stomach rumbled. I had been hungry after all, just too horny to notice. Back in the kitchen, I heated up the casserole and cleaned my cum off the floor while waiting. I guess it doesn't have to be this boy. I thought. The microwave beeped at the same time as the doorbell rang. I opened the front door and smiled back at my friend, who was holding a chocolate cake, wearing basketball shorts and a white t-shirt. Allie walked in and past me without waiting to be asked in.
"You cooking?", she asked as she put the cake on the bench.
"Just heating up something. My dad cooked some casserole."
"Your dad's so sweet." Allie smiled, jumping up on the kitchen counter, "cooking for you before he goes to work and stuff."
I blushed. "I guess. I can cook too, though"
"Maybe you should."
"What? Cook? But there's food here." I took it out of the microwave to prove it.
"Not now. For him, you know. On Sunday or something."
"Oh. Yeah. Maybe." I sat down at the table and started eating, looking at my friend. "Sorry, you want some?"
Allie jumped down from the counter and sat down with me.
"Nah, thanks. As much as I'd love to taste your dad's ... cooking, I just ate. At home."
"Fine by me."
"Wanna do the essay thing now? Get done with it, you know."
"Hm," I said between bites, "yeah let's. Any ideas?"
"What's something you'd like to do, but never did?" She recited the task, then gave a mischievous smile. "Maybe I'll write about fucking your dad."
I spat out my food, revolted. Allie watched my reaction.
"Eww, gross, Allie. No!" I burst out.
I hadn't really considered fucking, having sex, or any sort of sexual interaction, let alone with someone as old as my father. The closest I had come to connecting my increasingly frequent masturbation sessions with the desire to do something else - with someone else - was thinking about the boy on the bus, just a few minutes ago. The masturbation itself had been the be-all end-all to me, had been having the cake and eating it, too. Lately, it rather had become a recurring necessity, like having to pee or brushing your teeth. Of course, I knew what sex was. They had spoken about it in biology class and my father had had the talk with me as well. My aunt, too. Of course, I knew, somewhere, in the back of my mind, that my recent activity was somehow tied to this knowledge, but I had never thought about a boy's thing entering me when I slid in my finger or a boy's kiss when I caressed my folds. Until today.
The connection was made painfully obvious by my friend's usage of the vulgar term, suddenly and violently, and again, I was overcome by estrangement and confusion. My father!
It seemed Allie had thought about boys' things and boys' kisses, and girls' things, which she could imagine better, and girls' kisses as well. And she had thought about a man's thing, a very particular man's. She wasn't too descriptive in her thoughts yet, as she didn't have any experience or material to work with, that I knew of anyway, but she imagined the shapes of bodies moving, entangled. She knew the term fucking - which was very different from just saying fuck - from her older brother, and she knew that grown-ups used it when they meant sex. And since my Dad was a grown-up, it seemed appropriate, even though she knew she was saying something incredibly dirty. And further: even though she really didn't quite know what she was saying at all, watching me go through a heap of emotions all at once still amused her, and she chuckled.
"He's so-o-o old," I complained.
"Oh not that old. And he's really nice." Allie's cheeks reddened.
"You're only 18, though."
"So?"
"Do you even know -" I broke up.
"Not really. I bet your dad knows. He would be a good teacher" Allie giggled. "You still don't think about boys...when you do it?"
I shifted in my seat, taking my time chewing and swallowing.
"Maybe" I finally admitted, really not knowing if we were talking about the same thing. Not wanting my friend to ask any further probing questions, I quickly changed the subject.
"I'll write about football. I wanna play footy, maybe."
Allie was disappointed, but decided that she, too, would be better off contemplating her homework instead of my dad's penis, for now.
