First Confession 1

If this had happened in a dream then it's possible your narrator may never have woken up at all.

If she had awoken, it would likely have been with an almighty gasp, her thin lips parted in one single oval breath of ecstasy as for not the first time she felt the true power of the gentle touch of her fingers over her moist clitoris, the shower spraying over her tender nipples and running down off her slim body into where her hands gently massaged those erogenous zones the power of which she had only fairly recently begun to discover.

Her long black hair fell forward in several tangled knots and dripped over her shivering body amid her deep gasps - haaauuuammmhh-mmmummmnnnaahh - as she grabbed her left breast tight and moved her fingers delicately in synch with the building contractions of her vagina. Her thighs quivered; her back arched, her shivering body squirmed as she lightly rubbed the tip of her clitoris.

There was no escaping the reality of it this time - she was thinking as she had never dared allow herself to think before.

Usually this process was routine and took only several minutes. She had preventative measures in place within the various transportation faculties of her fantasies: guilt erected a certain high-rise mosaic - a skyscraper-screen of cognitive toll-roads and no-fly zones.

This made living with reality of her necessity less burdeonsome, even if her clitoris ached agonizingly for a more explorative imagination. Even if it was in church when she was most aroused, imagining tongue-fucking the innocent plain-faced girl next to her under her pleated Sunday skirt ... with the barriers, she could push these thoughts out from her mind and resist.

But it was her nineteenth birthday, and she figured: why the fuck not? For most girls, of course, this was supposed to be the sort of wild, crazy moment in their lives when they were losing their innocence and inexperience to a guy some place shady and strangely frightening but perverse.

Instead, Morgan had spent the whole day as she would spend it tomorrow - at work, to a party of guests, many of whom were various friends of the family around 20 years her senior. Now I will be as saline as the ocean, as the cum that I feel squishing around up there on my g-spot, she thought. Now I will let myself be defiled like an animal, even if it is just me here alone, I'll be fucking sordid for the first time in my life ...

Suddenly the usual voices of hesitation and fear and uncertainty were erased by a giant jumbo-jet, packed to the brim with fuel and passengers and cargo, thundering full-speed through the no-fly-zones of her right hemisphere and into one of the great skyscraper structures that guarded the left.

The collision was inevitable: most of the petrol was already quickly burning up the wing-tips in a midnight bonfire. Instead of the usual process of delivering herself a quick half-orgasm, her whole body and mind resisted and stalled up.

Instead of feeling vaguely relieving, her vaginal lips felt like an inferno into unchartered tropical territory, a deathly hot and tingling climate. It was as if there was something working within her and through her, she thought - an immaculate orgasm, if not so much conception.

There, alone in her vast marble en-suite bathroom with the open-plan shower pummeling her fragile body with almighty aqua-jets of warm water behind the locked door, all her fantasies lunged towards the front of her mind at once, a vulgar and yet intensely stimulating cavalcade of mini-hallucinations.

As she pushed her vagina back towards the water jet behind her in a firmer, grinding motion, she imagined him taking her and thrusting his fingers deep into her wetness.

He was tall, stronger than her, his muscles able to control her every movement. She didn't see his face, but she knew it was beautiful. And she could feel his breath gently on her neck, his mouth moving further down to her nipples, sucking them. The tugging on her nipples increased the tingling in her vagina, prolonging the venereal pain that surges up when you force the body towards orgasm before it's adequately prepared.

She grabbed her right breast tightly as she thought about the immenseness of his physical force, the image of his hands violating her every sexual organ, every soaking wet orifice of her body, as clear and lucid as if the 20 year-old boy was in fact raping her hard and fast and carelessly here in the privacy and security of the giant mansion she was guarded in night-after-night. Just a year older than her, but so, so much stronger ...

And now he was about to pump her in every tender, private part of her body she half-believed should be kept sacred for the sanctity of marriage. But there was nowhere to escape here. The door was locked; the windows opened out into the warm summer evening over a twenty-meter plunge onto the gravel driveway. Her parents would never hear her scream. It irked her considerably: was she screaming out of pleasure or fear? It felt like gluttony, but a good, God-fearing gluttony ... a metastasis of body and mind in the prism where the overcast mid-afternoon of perjury meets heaven's bright city lights.

Either way, she was trapped inside this high-class whorehouse (for this in her mind is what she was now, a trapped, desperate-to-God-for-sex whore in her smeared eyeliner and ripped panty-hose and with nowhere to turn and nothing else to do but to go broke now and give in to the intensity of pleasure). In truth, she was trapped inside the uber-security her privileged life had condemned her to. She was trapped like an animal, being finger-fucked hard in her tight, soft pussy against her will, and it had never felt better than this before.

Or was it entirely against her will? For as she desperately conjured the image of his hard cock pressed against her ass, and then against her vagina, and then deep inside her as his fingers slid easily out of her lips, lubricated as never before, she thought she could feel the tip of his cock thrust hard against the g-spot of her vulva.

As she moved her fingers deep into that same spot, that place at the top of the vagina that's soft and tender and erotic and itching to be rubbed, she moaned, softly, gently at first: "Fuck my pussy."

And then as she allowed the fantasy of being violated by this high-school jock, this well-hung teenager who masturbated hard against his sheets five times a night (she was sure of it), she began to form clear words through her gasping and breathing and moaning. "Fu-u-c-k me ... with your hard cock ..."

As if in a sudden, luminous apparition, her Church-going friend materialized before her eyes. But this innocent girl was no longer the studious and shy and demure little angel who sat with her hands on her lap throughout Sunday service: rather, her white and blue cotton panties were soaked through with her vaginal juices, her nipples erect.

This girl said nothing but instead put her fingers quickly down her panties as she knelt as if at the altar asking for salvation. Here, locked up with the boy who was pumping her with three fingers in her tight pussy however, the girl's salvation was in front of her.

She began to moan again, picking up volume slowly with confidence.

"...And rip my skirt off while you make me pee like a bitch all over my panties. Cum ... cum real fuckin' hard into my mouth and force me to swallow all your cum. I want your cum. I wanna taste it on your hot, itching aching pussy, I want her to taste it all over my ... cl-i-t now while I cum or I pee or ... wha-a-tever into her mouth."

She breathed deeply, the throbbing of her clit combined with the finger-fucking of her g-spot, where his cock was spraying his hot sperm all over the place, now so intense it felt as if her bladder would give out. Was she going to pee herself?

She was going to squirt something, surely. Was this what le petit mort of great eighteenth-century French fiction was? Was this the feeling of dying or the feeling of being reborn?

She couldn't tell ... but something thrilling as never before, something as fallacious as could ever be was going on down there. Pressing up against her little fingers, rubbing faster and faster now and soaked as if the boy's sticky cum had ejaculated in several splotches and ropes up her vagina and onto the tip of her clitoris which the other girl was ever too gently licking up.

To look at her from a distance she was almost collapsed against the shower now, such was the surge of physical and mental energy throughout her adolescent body and adolescent mind.

The aqua-jets pelted her naked body even harder as she turned up the pressure on the shower, and her tight pussy lips itched with a viciousness equal to the pulsating hard cock and the artful fingering of the boy of her dreams inside of her and all over her. She pushed her clitoris now against the water jets, barely able to breathe or speak. Hers was a psychological asphyxiation: a culmination of chemical events flying back and forth in an electric storm.

Finally, as her whole living, breathing soul caved into every perverse turn her powerful mind could exert over her more gentle alabaster body, she screamed, sung, shuddered: " I want ... YO-UR, ccuuuuuummmmm ..."

And then her knees softed and she collapsed against the cold marble floor, her entire being broken into and yet strangely, released as never before.

For whether what was happening to her felt like a real American death or just a little French death, a salvation of the mind or a burning of the soul, this here was a confession; made by herself and received by herself.