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My room has always been the coldest in the house, and when I look down, I can see my nipples poking through the fabric of my T-shirt. Something about it makes me even hornier, knowing that my body is just as obsessed with the thought of Vincent touching me as my brain is. Every nerve in my body is on edge as I sit up, tossing my T-shirt over my head.
Slowly, I slide my hand down from my neck and over each breast. Bringing both hands to my breasts, I gently pinch my nipples, rolling the tips between my fingers.
I close my eyes and imagine Vincent’s strong hands on me, touching me where I touch myself. In my mind, he takes my breasts into his mouth, pursing his soft lips around me, still gazing at my face while he sucks my hard nipple into his mouth. He nips and bites at them, leaving me panting, gyrating my hips.
I can feel my pussy growing warmer and wetter and can no longer resist the urge to rub my throbbing slit. But, still imagining Vincent, I run my hands down my stomach. I nearly torture myself with the slowness, but the image of Vincent, naked and breathless, taking in every inch of me is exquisite. Even hotter than the idea of sleeping with him is the idea of making him obsess over me. To know that I enchant him as much as he intrigues me.
Once my hands finally reach the wetness between my legs, I lose control. My clit is swollen and overly sensitive, ready to make me come at a moment’s notice. I want to go slow, truly I do, but my fingers move in fast circles. Pressing back into the mattress, I raise my hips to meet my fingers, slowly moving back and forth. The sounds of my wet sex fill the room, and it only heightens my pleasure.
In my mind, Vincent is gripping my hips, pulling me closer and closer to him, burying his cock deep inside me, taking my virginity. I gasp for air, furiously rubbing at my clit as my back arches and my toes curl. I wish the moment would last forever, that I could hold off my orgasm, but I can’t. Racing toward the cliff’s edge, I fly over it. Between heaving gasps, I whisper-yell out into the cold morning air.
“Vincent!”
The crest of my orgasm crashes and washes away, and I feel the muscles of my core clench and tense to their own rhythm. My fingertips move in a few more lazy circles, feeling the wetness being pushed out of me.
My mound is smooth against the palm of my hand; I shaved just yesterday morning. I open my eyes and can see the pink labia just barely peeking out from between my lips. Impulsively, I stick both fingers in my mouth. I’ve never tasted myself before, but my wet fingers against my tongue are sweet and sticky at the same time. It’s not an unpleasant taste, almost like lemons and cream, with a little bit of salt.
Embarrassment washes over me when I sit up and notice the small wet mark I’ve left on the bedsheets.Slut, I think to myself. That’s what my mother would say if she knew I was lusting after the neighbor. What a way to begin my Christmas Day.
I’m sure my mother is still downstairs; I never heard her come up to her room last night. She is probably passed out drunk on the couch, again.
Shaking my head, I strip the sheets from my bed before getting dressed, tugging at each corner in turn. I have to bend over my mattress to free the far half of the sheet and can feel my breasts bounce slightly when I jerk my arms back and forth.
After putting my sheet in the hamper, I gather up the black lace bra and a pair of plain black comfortable underwear and place them on the bare mattress. I head into the bathroom attached to my room and take a hot shower, wanting to wash the shame and confusion off of me. The hot water scalds my skin, and I sing quietly to myself as I wash up.
Once I’m done, I dry off and wrap my hair in a towel and plop it on top of my head. When I go back into my bedroom, I step into the black pair of underwear and fasten the black bra over myself. From my closet, I pick out a red plaid flannel shirt and a pair of fleece-lined yoga pants. Mom probably won’t be lucid for another few hours, so I may as well get cozy. Another Christmas alone with my mother.
I can’t wait to move out.
Once I have my degree, I’ll move far away from here. I’ll write and draw in my spare time and have my own apartment all to myself. I could decorate it and make it my own little space, instead of feeling like I live in a soulless magazine spread.
All dressed, I unleash my wet hair from the towel and quickly arrange it into two French braids on either side of my scalp. The plaits hang to just below my shoulder blades. Taking a breath to prepare for the mess Mom has likely left me downstairs, I open my door and go down the hallway.
I pause when I reach the living room. It seems Mom kicked off her heels at some point last night; they’re laying haphazardly by the tree. She’s snoring on the couch, a mess of hair covering her face. Two empty bottles of wine lay at the bottom of the couch. Scratch that—one empty bottle of wine and one half-empty bottle of wine. I roll my eyes and go into the kitchen.
“Merry Christmas to me,” I mutter as I pour myself a bowl of cereal.
I sit at the kitchen table, looking out the window that peers into the backyard. I’d kept a small garden in the spring, but now the entire yard is covered with untouched snow.
I smile slightly to myself as I eat my cereal. The crotch of my underwear is wet, and I shift in my seat. I’m still a little swollen. My stomach tightens when I remember the way I furiously rubbed myself earlier. I shudder at the dirty, depraved thoughts that have occupied my mind. Was I a bad person for spending my Christmas morning thinking about getting fucked—not having sex, butgetting fucked—by my much older neighbor?
I shake the thoughts out of my head. Even though I know it’s normal for a girl my age to touch herself and have sex, I’m still so freaked out by the idea of sleeping with a man.
It’s not like I’ve never done anything with a guy. On the last day of eleventh grade, I agreed to give my then-boyfriend a blowjob in the back of his car. It lasted about five minutes before he finished in my mouth, and I swallowed it because I didn’t know what else to do. It wasn’t necessarily a bad experience, but it didn’t turn me on either.
That guy and I broke up two weeks later, and I haven’t so much as kissed anyone since. Just threw myself into school, graduated valedictorian in hope of a full-ride scholarship. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen, so I go to the community college down the road to save money.
It’s not that I don’twantto lose my virginity, but all the guys my age seem so…shallow. Erotic novels and my fingers are all I need right now. If the right person comes along, I would love to have sex with them. But no one has yet.
My mom stirs in the living room. I hear her groan and the sound of wine bottles clinking against each other. She is the exact opposite of me; Mom has been a party girl all her life. She likes men, expensive clothes, and alcohol, in that order.
I think she really did try her best to be a housewife and good mom when I was born, but then my dad left, and she lost all control. I grew up with a carousel of seedy men coming to see her, and I vowed to myself that I’d never be like that.
I can hear her stepping out of the living room and listen to see whether she’ll head upstairs or toward the kitchen. When I hear the creak of her stepping onto the staircase, I call out, “Merry Christmas, Mom!”
“Don’t yell,” she snaps back at me before heading to her bedroom.
I shrug. Shouldn’t have expected anything better.That’s the thing, Faith, if you keep your expectations dead-low, she’ll never disappoint you.
