A Growing Desire
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I kept having the same dream. Not that that’s anything new. I’ll have recurring dreams about losing my makeup, missing a flight, failing out of school. But I usually don’t have these types of dreams. The ones where I wake up in the middle of the night feeling guilty, ashamed, and incredibly wet. Guilty because my boyfriend would be gently asleep next to me, unaware what filled my dreams. Ashamed because, well, I love sex. I love the way it feels when my boyfriend pushes deep inside of me, the way he touches me, kisses me, and whispers how much he loves me. I love it when he spanks me. I love it when he takes control of me.
But I grew up with high moral standards and southern Christian summer camps. Dirty words weren’t uttered, heard, or thought. Even now, at twenty-one, I hate the word pussy. I hate the word cock. I feel repulsed at vulgarity. I don’t even know why. It makes me talking dirty to my boyfriend as he fucks me needlessly grueling as I make sweet sounding synonyms of body parts and obscene actions –– I’m okay with fuck, it has enough different uses that it seems innocuous. But other than that, I simply can’t move past that conditioning from my childhood. I was raised that ladies don’t say such things. So every time I had this dream, I would feel so ashamed because the only thought in my mind when I would wake was how much I wanted to touch another girl’s pussy.
My boyfriend, Jake, and I had dated for a year at this point. Though I’ve been with others before him, I have never felt as strongly and deeply about a person. He seems to have been placed on this earth for the sole purpose of being a husband, complete marriage material. At least in contrast to the fun but immature boys that seem to populate the campus dating scene. It’s like watching a bad Judd Apatow movie being around most of them.
I first met Jake in the library, finals week, December. The week that two-thirds of campus discovers the library for the first time, making it more crowded and more noisy than the student union. Freshmen year I had found my sanctuary, however. Tucked up on the fourth floor, through two doors, one with the very dull title ‘The Edgar J. Potts Collection of Official Waindell Documents and Historical Research,’ was a wood-paneled reading room for the rare soul interested in our New England town. The doors and the name acted as a wall to the average student; for the brave student, it acted as a buffer from the rest of the finals studiers who were only too happy to memorize their notes next to hundreds of others.
I made it my home. No one, save a professor or two, ever ventured through the doors. No one, I think, even knew about the reading room behind the documents. It was such a small blip on the library map. And it was on the fourth floor in a library without an elevator.
On this particular snowy December day, I trudged my way through the campus to the library, backpack heavy with my books and computer, struggled up the four flights of stairs, walked to the end of the hall, through the two doors, and found a stranger in my study hole. What the fuck.
His face had been buried in a big book. He looked up when I entered. My frustration melted as I took in his smile and charming eyes.
“Hello.” He had deep voice.
“Hi, you don’t mind, if I join?”
“Not at all, great place to study.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said. I noticed a touch of bitterness was creeping back into me, despite this stranger’s politeness and good looks.
I placed my bags on the table and sat down in the chair. He had returned to his book. Out of the corner of my eye I saw his notebook open, as he took notes from whatever he was studying. He seemed completely immersed. I sighed and removed my computer and textbook from the bag. I kept darting my eyes over toward him as I opened the textbook to the chapter I needed to work on.
We spent two hours in silence. Him absorbed in some boring book on what I finally discerned was a history, me trying to concentrate on my textbook and typing up notes. He broke the silence around noon.
“Hey so, I’m about to grab lunch from the cafe, you mind watching my stuff?”
“You sure you can trust me?” I said.
He laughed. It was a cute laugh. “You have a point. I don’t even know your name.”
“Brett.” I extended my hand.
“Brett, I’m Jake. Do you want me to get you something?”
“Actually, yeah, here’s a five, I just need a coffee.”
“No food? It’s on me.”
“If they have any good looking pastries, I’ll take one. Doesn’t matter the kind.”
As he left I let out a deep breath. I simply couldn’t study any longer. I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. When he stood up, he was taller than I had guessed. Probably six feet. He had dark hair that ran to his ears, with a slight curl, dark brown eyes, and fair skin. His strong jaw and winter stubble made him look like Cedric Diggory from the Harry Potter movies (you know, Robert Pattinson without that vampire bets10 glow). His smile was either a smirk or a childish grin, with strong white teeth and defined lips. It was irresistible. And I was definitely captivated.
I wondered if he thought the same about me. I had never had trouble with dating. But he was a few steps up from my last date. I took my mirror out from my bag and looked at myself. I hadn’t worn much makeup, but my blue eyes and soft skin looked fresh and well rested. My long blonde hair had a nice wave to it. I smoothed out my red V-neck sweater, letting my breasts show a bit more prominently when I heard the door open.
“Alright, here’s your coffee, and here’s a cheese pastry.”
He himself had bought a coffee too, along with a strong smelling sandwich.
“Seriously? This is a small enough space as is, and you come back to fill it up with onion and meat smells?” It was a bit mean considering we’d only met a few hours ago, but I hoped he realized I wanted to flirt.
“A simple thank-you would have sufficed. A boy has got to eat.” He said it with a smile.
“Surely you could have found something that wouldn’t have stunk up the room for the next few hours?”
“But then I wouldn’t get the pleasure of annoying you and enjoying how delicious this sandwich is.”
We finished our meals, books forgotten, and talked for the next hour about ourselves. The simplest details, the silliest stories all seemed so exciting. Every suggestion was revealing, every gesture significant of who this guy was. After an hour, maybe two hours, it was clear that Jake was smart, ambitious, and confident. I found a way to pin every positive masculine adjective on him in my mind. He was simply a man.
We both agreed we were done studying. He asked if he could see me again, perhaps in a less smelly or dull location, and by the time I returned to my dorm at 4 PM, I had a date Friday evening. We went on more dates after that, and we both felt the beginnings of love, and by the last day of the term, we were comfortably ensconced in my warm dorm room as snow piled up outside.
The lights, except my desk lamp, were turned off. The reflection from the setting sun on the snow supplied enough light for us to see each other. I remember at this point, at four dates, I had been surprised at his gentlemanliness and ease. But I was getting restless coming home alone every night and finding my underwear soaked after hot kisses and his gentle hands caressing my body. A girl has needs, and I really hoped his hesitance wasn’t because he was a virgin. We had yet to talk that much of our sexual histories.
I remember he was on top of me, supported by his elbows. His body pressing against mine, he held my face in his right hand, as he kissed me and we whispered to each other how happy we were. It was all very romantic, and we had had a wonderful day together. Suddenly he stopped kissing me, and pulled away slightly. I looked up at him and saw a smile spreading over his rugged features, as if he had a secret to tell me.
He stood up, got off the bed and walked over to my refrigerator. Come over here, he said. He pulled out a bottle of Champagne (where did that come from?) and grabbed two of my wine glasses as he popped open the bottle. I thought we should celebrate the end of the term, he said. I nodded, smiling. Cheers, he said. As I drank mine, he went over to my record player and put on my favorite record. A soft, folky guitarist with a whispery voice. He pulled me towards him, setting down his glass. His lips were all over me. His body pressed tight against me, my breasts crushed against him, as he held the back of my neck with one hand and my lower back with his other hand.
He tongue flicked into my mouth and I met his, moaning softly into his kiss. My heart was hammering; I wouldn’t be able to stand up if he hadn’t been holding so firmly onto me. I loved when he kissed me like this. His mouth making its way back, biting and kissing my neck, my ears, nibbling. His desire clear from the hot breath that hit my ear and sent chills down my spine. I wondered if it would happen, if we would finally do it. I mentally pictured what I had on underneath, and when I remembered, I pushed back into his kiss and returned it even stronger. It was lingerie meant to be seen and appreciated.
Without notice, his strong hands grabbed my butt and pulled me up. I wrapped my legs and arms around him as he carried me back to the bed, our mouths still devouring each other with passion and intensity. He placed me down on the bed, and continued kissing me. I could feel his hardness pressing against me. I moaned with need. He started to work his way down my body. Biting my neck, my shoulders. He grabbed the bottom of my sweater and started pulling it up. I leaned forward to help him, and he looked with lust at the lacy black bra and my full breasts underneath. I smiled.
He was kissing me again. My mind was in a daze. His hands and bets10 giriş mouth seemed everywhere. Until suddenly I felt his right hand behind my back, expertly unclasping the bra. Then his hands were on my breasts, pushing them up, licking underneath, the sides, everywhere but where I needed it the most. Teasing me. God. He would not stop teasing me. Biting, licking, kissing. Finally, I breathed huskily, demanding he take my nipple into my mouth. I ached for it.
And then it happened. The pleasure spread from my nipple to my breast to the rest of my body. I felt soaked with desire. His hot mouth had finally taken my hard nipple into his mouth, and he knew exactly what to do. Sucking it up into his mouth, he bit gently as the other hand snaked its way down my stomach.
Then it was over. I was left breathless as he kissed his way down my stomach. He unbuttoned my jeans, pushed my legs back toward me and yanked them off effortlessly. I lay before him in a matching black thong. The smell of my arousal suddenly filled the room. He was kissing me again, and then whispered in my ear how he couldn’t waste to taste me. His mouth was on my nipples, my breast, my stomach, he kissed his way up my leg, he bit my inner thighs, he breathed over my panty-covered slit. I was frozen with pleasure. When his mouth was on my inner thighs, his hand had found another erogenous zone by my ribs, under my breast. I had become clay in his hands. No one had ever touched me like this. No one had ever suffused my body in pleasure like this. (In fact, as I reflected later, no one had ever given me more than a grudging lick on my vagina.) No one, I realized, had ever cared enough.
I still had my panties on and this had lasted about as long as any of my previous sexual experiences.
I wondered if I should touch him? He had stripped down to tight blue boxer-briefs. I could see the outline of his penis. The hardness I had felt but never seen.
But then I felt his mouth on my underwear. He had bitten down on it and was slowly pulling it down my body. Suddenly I was naked before him. I felt vulnerable but incredibly turned on. Thoughts of touching him had evaporated as I watched him take in the sight of my dripping center. I had shaved myself since our first date, in anticipation of this very moment.
“You’re beautiful,” he said right before his tongue ran from the bottom of my vagina to the top, barely touching my clit.
I nearly screamed with lust.
I looked deep into his eyes, mouth wide open, as his tongue pushed inside me. God, he was good. His tongue explored, gently finding the spots that made me squirm. He sucked me into his mouth. He tongue-fucked me. He tongue skimmed that spot no one had ever touched –– so dirty, but fuck, it felt incredible. Finally, my clit was in his mouth. His tongue danced on it, soft, hard, quick, slow, teasing. My eyes closed. Suddenly a finger was making its way inside my tight hole. I screamed this time.
“FUCK, Jake,” I said. “Don’t stop, babe.”
He kept pushing it into me, and expertly, pressed the flat side of the tip of his index against the top of my vagina, hitting what I assumed was my G-spot, while his tongue expertly worked my clit. I was in danger of coming, and coming fast.
“Fuck, fuck, GOD, that feels good, Jake, please don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He pushed me harder and harder, faster and faster. Jesus Christ. In a blinding light, I felt my entire body convulse as I came all over his mouth. I shook and shook. I felt my pussy –– fuck I said it –– contracting around his eager finger. I was breathless. My screams kept echoing in my ears. The entire room smelled of my juices. And Jake was looking at me with the biggest grin on his face. I was so lost in his eyes that not only did I not notice he had removed his underwear, but his hard dick rested against my wet center.
“I’m going to make love to you now.” That would have been the cheesiest line with anyone else, but all I could do was nod eagerly.
And he certainly did, I smiled to myself. I must’ve had seven orgasms that night under the care of his expert tongue, fingers, and penis. I looked over at the clock. 5:00 AM. Jake was fast asleep next to me still, despite the fact that my room smelled like it did a year ago when he first made love to me and I’d been idly touching myself as I remembered our first times together. I was wide-awake and severely horny. I thought about waking Jake, but he had been exhausted last night from school and work that I figured he needed the sleep. With the burning need to come not going anywhere anytime soon, I crawled out of bed and went out into the living room. It was a bit chilly with only my red silk nightie on.
I opened up my computer, a bit hesitant about what I was about to do. But I needed to satisfy myself or I would never get back to sleep. I briefly wondered what Jake would think. I always tell him when he’s away that I think about him when I bets10 güvenilir mi masturbate. And while that’s generally true, I do like variety. This would be more than just some fantasy in my mind, but the curiosity was killing me. There must be a reason I’m having these dreams. Am I turned on because it’s simply a sex dream? Or am I turned on because I’m? I shook my head before I could finish the thought. Even thinking it made me uncomfortable.
“Because I’m bisexual,” I whispered. My stomach felt a bit queasy.
I went to Google, and an old memory hit me. I was in middle school. Midst of puberty. I spent a lot of time watching TV, and I remembered now, like some old repressed thought, the first time I’d ever thought about another girl in a sexual way. It was mostly an innocent thought, then, but I remembered feeling hot when I watched two of the female characters on my favorite television show make-out. It was so sensual, and no boy had yet to kiss me like that. Then, like good cable television, it was promptly over. And I never thought about it again, except when randy teenage boys would ask if my friends and I would make out for them, and we would demurely say no.
I typed the show’s name and the names of the characters and the word kiss and clicked enter. As the video loaded of the short scene, my hand crept back under my panties, feeling my soft, wet folds. As they started kissing, I felt myself get wetter, my heartbeat sped up, and my finger slipped inside of me as my other hand put pressure on my clit. I imagined I was the more naive one, falling under the sway of the experienced girl.
The video ended. Damn. I wanted more. Jake had admitted he would watch porn occasionally. I had never seen any, and we had never really talked about it besides when I asked him. Fuck it. I googled porn and clicked on the first link.
No wonder boys are so depraved, I thought as I took in the site and its less-than-classy advertisements and its vulgar titles. I saw a search function and I typed, all hesitation vanished, lesbian. It took me awhile, but I found a video that featured two semi-attractive girls that looked more like a typical college student than a porn star, and didn’t start with them already naked and fucking.
I shed my nightie. I placed the computer on the coffee table, propped my feet up, and started fingering myself as the two girls kissed. I took my large breast into my hand and touched my hard nipple as my other hand rubbed my clit, my eyes glued to the video.
Fuck. Jake gets me wet, I mean really wet. He knows just how to please me. He knows how to talk dirty to me. He knows when I want to feel like a slut and when I want to feel like a princess. But I had never felt so sexual than when I fucked myself at five in the morning to two girls having sex with each other. Their sexy moans. Their curvy bodies. Their wild moans. Their desperate kisses.
As I sat there, hair tousled and masturbating crazily, the dream popped back in my mind. My best friend for years was confessing she had always had a crush on me. That she spied on me as we changed together. That she needed to kiss me. And then we were in each other’s arms, kissing madly, with all the softness and sensuality of female flesh. And then another scene, with me on my back and her in between … eating me out.
“I’m coming, I’m coming, fuck,” I whispered to the empty room. I closed my eyes as the orgasm swept over my body, but I kept rubbing despite the surfeit of pleasure. I could hear the strangled moans of the girls in the video as they pleasured each other. My mind darted back to the image of my best friend going down on me. And suddenly, without any warning, I came all over the couch and my legs. Everything was soaked with my juices. My smell of my pussy everywhere.
“Shit,” I said. I had never squirted before, even though Jake would try occasionally. After I came down from my orgasm, the guilt was back: would Jake be upset? But, for whatever reason, I had trouble feeling ashamed about myself for once. I had just covered the couch, and some of the floor, with my juices. Nothing sounded more right, not to mention better, than pussy. I giggled as I thought about the various names I would sometimes substitute. My wetness, me (as if that’s real descriptive, Brett), my center, my vajay. No wonder Jake would look amused as I would tell him I can’t wait to have you deep inside of me. So innocent and imprecise. I let out an involuntary moan when I remembered the time he forced me to say, “I can’t wait to have your thick cock deep inside my wet pussy.” For once, that didn’t leave a bad taste in my mouth. Speaking of taste, I thought to myself. I stuck my fingers in myself and tasted my pussy. I moaned. No wonder Jake loves to go down on me.
I turned off the laptop and pulled back on my nightie. Jake was still asleep in the bedroom. I slipped right next to him and instantly fell asleep.
From the incident forward, I no longer just loved sex. I craved it. Usually Jake was the initiator, but I found myself more frequently, well, attacking him. I seemed to be constantly horny. And when Jake didn’t spend the night, I watched porn, fantasizing about being with another girl.
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