Ican't leave my pussy alone this week. When I walk, stand, sit, or perhaps merely breathe, I accumulate an almost imperceptible series of tiny strokes, like I've been surreptitiously going down on myself all day long, and then suddenly I have to be fucked, however inopportune the moment. Three, four, sometimes five times a day. In the middle of taxes. In the bathroom during lunch with an old friend. Leaving class early to get home to my vibrator. Running out for more lube. It's times like these that make me understand why there's a sex industry.
Today is especially bad. It's Jackie's birthday.
I get home, and fall down on the hallway floor. The first touch of my hand to my pussy brings a deep moan, almost a scream from the back of my throat. I could come right away, yet I prefer to prolong my agony/pleasure.
That's how I would have done it to Jackie. I remember Jackie's eventual breasts, perfectly scooped three-quarter oranges perched on a muscular chest, complementing the smooth, round globes of her hard, boyish ass. Even as a child, her quiet power drew us all in. Solid muscle with blond hair, hazel cat eyes, and long dark lashes, she had beat a series of 5th grade boys at arm wrestling, and they still lined up to kiss her. Disdainful, Jackie had preferred building forts with me. Until puberty. Bodies newly round and wet, Jackie and I would find our dad's pornography, and together, turn breathlessly through page after glossy page of beautiful women, giggling and gasping. I think of her agitated and squirming, thighs pressed together, snapping the magazines shut in fear at her own desire, and I squeeze my own thighs so hard the seams of my pants cut flesh.
Oh, if only I had known then what I know now! I would have said, "Shut up and lie down, Jackie. I know what you need, and I'm going to give it to you." I feel her cunt as my own, wet and throbbing from hours of vascular teasing and ready to come, her first orgasm in the fifteen years of her life. I feel her final surrender to me, her trusted confidant, to my mouth, which she has almost forgotten about because my touch is so light and expert. All we feel is pure, wet, intense pleasure between our legs, intensifying slowly and profoundly, dissolving into common sensation.
More, please, yes, oh God, FUCK ME! But I understand what she wants, because it's what I want, what I've wanted for 20 years now. What I wanted with my child's body when I met her at age eight on the playground and saw her underwear clinging to her vulva through the yellow shorts as she sat cross-legged on the ground. What I wanted at 12 when we spread our pussy lips and took turns looking at each other, reporting the visuals. What I wanted at 14 when she started making out with guys and would fill me in on each detail of her body's excursions into that dangerous territory we called sex.
No wonder my body wants to explode from somewhere deep beneath me, to channel molten heat from the earth's core to the farthest star. So as I writhe on my hallway carpet, fucking my own hungry pussy, it becomes Jackie's.
This is for you, Jackie, to celebrate your birth. My wet, wet hand in my pussy is my wet, wet mouth on your pussy. You lunge at my face with the brand-new demand of your body, bursting your bands of fear. It's all over soon, for I can't make you wait much longer, for I can't wait much longer; my pussy walls are crushing my hand with the years of my desire for you. And so we come, come, and come, you and I, Jackie; come with the years of heated play and passion kept under wraps, stifled under hushed warnings and phobic admonitions. We come with spasms upon spasms of joy and release, falling like dominos, finally home, finally here, curling together in the very deepest of pleasures, always our birthright, that we can, at last, call our own.