Solo Fingers
Like all true romantics I masturbate
whenever I get the opportunity. It's something I enjoy
and I've never felt ashamed about doing it. OK, so it's
not even on the same planet as making love with a gorgeous
sexy woman, but it sure beats eating chocolate or watching
TV.
When did I start using my fingers to explore my warm
places? So long ago that I can't remember, but I do
recall that my technique seemed to get better very suddenly
when I reached age fourteen or fifteen. Not sure why,
but it happened pretty fast, and a whole new world opened
up. Wow! There were some days when I just did not want
to get out of bed. I became the sexual plaything of
my own eager digits, especially the middle finger of
my right hand. Biting my nails all day became a necessity
rather than an anti-social habit.
What has this got to do with lesbians and panties, you
might ask? Well, the short answer is this: I'm a lesbian,
plus I don't always take my underwear off when I snuggle
down for some solo fun. Why? I don't know, nor do I
spend a lot of time puzzling over it. But I guess my
fondness for other girls' gussets has something to do
with it, my own gusset being a good substitute when
I'm all alone in the house with no cute honey to cuddle.
When I masturbate, I either fantasize in my head or
use some kind of visual stimulus, like a cheap porno
movie. Women aren't supposed to be wired for getting
off on hardcore porn. Well, here's one voyeuristic girl
who does get off on it, though it has to be a girls-only
movie. Maybe the women in these movies are bi or even
lesbian, maybe they're just hetero actresses doing what
they get paid to do. But the things they do with each
other certainly ring my bell, and I can happily spend
a leisurely hour or two on the sofa watching those girls
get it on, my left hand on the remote and my right hand
fingering my moist little slit through my panties. It's
a whole lot better if the fingers caressing my crotch
belong to somebody else (such as my housemate Karen)
because then I've got one hand free for holding a bottle
of beer or a cigarette.
Of course, the visual stimulus for masturbation can
be something other than straightforward porn. I've stroked
my pink places while watching fairly innocent scenes
in movies, like when Julie Christie strips down to her
patterned underwear in the thriller Don't Look Now.
I've even watched that scene in slow-motion, sitting
on a sofa in front of the TV, wearing a vest and panties,
my crotch being exquisitely caressed through the damp
cotton by Karen's expert fingers. But my best visual
stimulation always comes from watching a real, three-dimensional
woman doing something sexy, either on her own or with
another female.
At home I love watching Karen getting
dressed or undressed. Or coming out of the shower, drying
her neat little body with a big soft towel. Or clipping
her toenails while sitting on a chair, in clean white
panties and bra, her chin resting on a raised knee,
her brown eyes giving me that special shy glance when
she knows I'm staring at her exposed gusset. I'll be
lying on our bed, stretched out on my back, bare-breasted
and gasping, maybe wearing the panties I've had on all
day, my middle finger gently stroking the moist cotton
groove between my cunt lips, whispering her name and
begging her to kiss me.
Sometimes the masturbation goes all
wrong if I become too emotional, or if Karen smiles
at me in a certain way, or if she parts her legs to
give me a better view of her crotch. Then my eyes might
suddenly fill with tears, especially if I'm drunk or
stoned, because Karen turns me on so much. She's so
delicious! People say she looks like the American actress
Anne Archer, which is fairly accurate, but in my opinion
Karen is the more beautiful of the two. She has short
spiky hair, twinkly hazel eyes and a very mischievous
grin.
If I'm alone in the house, feeling horny but too lazy
to rummage around for some porn, my fingers twitching
because I desperately need to masturbate, I might decide
to grab a pair of Karen's panties from the laundry basket.
She knows I do it, and she doesn't have a problem with
it, except when I forget to return the underwear to
the basket when I'm finished. I really love that special
scent, the aroma of her cunt-juice when it dries into
the fabric of her gusset. Usually her panties are similar
to mine: cotton high-legs in white or black or plain
colours, though Karen's are less "sporty"
and she prefers the baby-soft underwear made by companies
such as Sloggi. When I lie on the bed, naked except
for my panties, my left hand dangling Karen's stinky
gusset over my nose while my right hand fondles my crotch,
I get such a warm glow through my whole body.
When I'm in such a horny mood, I just
trail a fingertip gently over my mound and bingo! my
nipples pop up like little pink spikes and my throat
becomes dry. I like to dangle Karen's panties over my
breasts, so that the soft cotton tickles my skin. Then,
when things are starting to get hot, I'll tug her underwear
with my teeth, stretching the fabric until it goes taut,
my tongue flicking out to savour her sweat. I kiss and
lick the gusset, inside and outside, front and back,
my lips paying special attention to any stains. I imagine
how the panties look when they're stretched over her
beautiful neat ass, and my tongue licks all the way
up the back, from the gusset to the rear waistband,
following an invisible line where I reckon the tight
cleft between her ass cheeks has probably spent most
of the day.
By then, my own gusset is pretty damp and my fingertips
are already glistening. The crotch of my panties feels
smooth and slippery, like wet satin, and the shape of
my slit is starting to show through the material. Even
through the fabric my cunt-lips are becoming incredibly
sensitive, the flesh swelling as I slowly caress around
the edge of my slit. Beneath the thin cotton my stiffening
clit feels like a tiny button, its little round head
tingling when I flick it with my thumb. A buzzing sensation,
like a pulse of electricity, throbs in my stomach each
time I touch my clit. Sweat starts to form around my
half-open mouth, as well as on my chest and between
my breasts. My head begins to feel dizzy as I close
my eyes. I fling Karen's panties onto the floor and
concentrate on preparing for my orgasm, trying to pull
all the various sensations together in readiness for
a really powerful climax. My left hand, now free, gently
squeezes my breasts, applying pressure in certain places
where the nerve-endings are particularly responsive.
The squeezing makes the flesh feel firmer, as though
my orbs are swelling like balloons.
I prolong this wonderful solo experience by briefly
withdrawing my right hand from my crotch, allowing the
fingertips to trace the shape of my underwear from the
edge of my mound to where the narrow seamed sides rise
up high on my hips. My left hand leaves my breasts and
joins the right, mirroring the movement, before both
hands plunge down to disappear into the moist dark place
between my thighs. The left hand halts at my slit, stroking
the quivering flesh through a thin barrier of very wet
cotton, but the right continues down until its forefinger
nudges the tight groove where my buttocks begin. There,
where the gusset is narrowest, the fabric slightly bunched,
a probing fingertip pushes against the cotton, forcing
it inwards, heading straight for my twitching anus.
I gasp loudly when the finger finds its target and I
wonder why I allow the eager digit to rub the gusset
around my sensitive asshole, because the fabric sure
as hell feels rough. But then I do know why I allow
it, and I know why I enjoy doing it: it reminds me so
much of Rachel, my ex-lover, my kinky mistress, whom
I once loved so perilously.
"Fuck," I whisper, as the memories come flooding
back. I dare not open my eyes, because I know I'll see
Rachel crouching between my legs, grinning as she tells
me what she intends to do with my body. So I keep my
eyes closed, but I stretch out my limbs, spreadeagling
myself on the bed, feeling once more the silk or velvet
knotted around my wrists and ankles, feeling that strange
mixture of desire and helplessness. Then I release my
body from its imaginary bonds, bringing my arms back,
my hands swiftly returning to the place between my thighs.
A thumb jabs between my ass-cheeks, while a slow finger
strokes the length of my slit, not gently but forcefully,
pushing my panties deep into the groove between my labia.
I wonder if the finger is mine, or is it Rachel's? I
hold my breath, half-hoping the finger will go away,
but instead it presses really hard on my clitoris, pressing
the panties against my poor little button. I expect
to feel pain, but the sensation feels wonderful and
I want it again. Yet somewhere at the back of my brain
I'm shivering in confusion, hating and loving the helplessness,
desperately hoping to feel Rachel's hot breath on my
face while wishing the memories of her touch would disappear.
"No, don't!" I plead to the empty room, almost
opening my eyes when the movement between my buttocks
becomes more intimate. The rear gusset of my panties
is now buried an inch or more in my asshole, a probing
thumb still pushing the material deeper and wriggling
like a worm.
"Rachel, please stop," I beg softly, but the
plea goes unheeded, even when my spine suddenly arches
up from the bed. I know I can no longer hold back my
orgasm, no matter how badly I want to make it last.
And then I come, gasping so loudly that the neighbours
probably think I'm dying, my legs shuddering and my
toes curling. Out from my gaping mouth my tongue darts
out to lick sweat off my upper lip. The moisture tastes
salty, a completely different flavour to the sour taste
of my cunt-juice when I start licking my fingers. I
lie there for a long time, quivering at each pulse of
pleasure until my climax fades to that lovely warm afterglow.
I open my eyes to find that I'm alone in the bedroom,
alone in the house. Rachel's narrow face, her staring
eyes, her cruel sexy smile, are all just memories from
my past, already fading away. I move my legs and realise
that the ankles aren't sore, the ligaments aren't cramped
or stretched, no restraints are visible at the corners
of the bed. The movement makes my crotch feel squelchy
and I know my panties are totally drenched. But I feel
happy and satisfied, though rather tired and thirsty.
I'll rest for a while, maybe sleep for a half hour,
before taking a shower, vowing to remind myself to return
Karen's sweaty underwear to the laundry basket. I guess
my own panties should go in the basket too, but only
after they've dried a little on the radiator.
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