Charlie reached for the door handle slowly. Charlie was a nickname, of course. Charlotte, fully. She wasn’t afraid of a little androgyny. Her hand reached the knob, and began to turn it, when she heard a footstep, and froze.
She didn’t want to leave her room before her mother left for work; and it seemed that that time had not yet come. She removed her hand from the knob and walked toward the bed, to sit down for a moment or two before the front door creaks open and slams shut, and the car engine sounds fade into the distance. She looked around the room.
Over toward her bureau, she noticed a stuffed panda had fallen from its perch. She felt weird still having stuffed animals by the dozens at her age. She felt weird, but at the same time, she still cherished those plush creatures dearly, and the idea of getting rid of them made her almost breakdown crying. In fact, just seeing that the panda had fallen made her sad. She considered herself empathetic to a fault, in all the wrong ways, and selfish to a fault in all the others. She could be cuttingly cruel to her mother over the smallest thing, and dissolve into warm tears over accidentally hurting a hornet. Hornets, the cruel flying spiders of the bug kingdom, with few redeeming qualities, and an unparalleled heebler of jeeblies. And yet she’d cry over forcing one out of her room, when it seemed to want to stay rather badly. And when her mother decided to kill an adorable little arachnid living in the armoire, both emotions would show. That same cutting cruelty would explode on her mother, while she felt her insides melting with empathy for the eight-legged lamented.
All this to say, she felt, then, profoundly maladjusted.
At long last, she heard the car start and begin to pull away, and she lunged for her bedroom door madly. She was fifteen, and craved this alone time more than anything else. Her insides seemed to tingle with it. A strange combination of nervousness, discovery, excitement, and intense lust. Sometimes she’d even shake a little, as she clicked from one video to another, or read some lurid lines of e-rotica. She couldn’t help it.
She felt guilt too, like many do early on, and even sometimes all throughout their lives. But the guilt was an undercurrent to the swelling tides and crashing oceans, and even to the lapping lines along the shores of her mind. For the most part, it was delicious. A true treat, a delicacy, the way her parents talked about tiramisu. And like tiramisu, a taste often acquired with age, this too was only a fairly recent acquisition. She knew she was a comparatively late bloomer; she buzzed through her life before in an almost asexual existence, and hadn’t even quite realized all that existed beyond her own mind and experiences. She saw people her age kissing quickly in the hallways, or saw sex scenes in movies, of course. And she understood the romance of it, but it was far from a biological response. And deep in her heart, she knew she simply hadn’t *gotten it* until very recently, though she was embarrassed to say so. But now, the world around her seemed painted with a new color she hadn’t known existed, or like the air right before a lightning storm, all charged and full of powerful potential. But she still hadn’t grown to like tiramisu.
Her first step was always to remove her bra. She hated her bra more than she hated most things, and got rid of it whenever possible. It was claustrophobic and dulling; she preferred to feel her shirt draped across her bare breasts. Even though it didn’t stimulate them, to be bra-less, they at least felt open to stimulation, and that made so much difference. Like ear-plugs compared to a silent room. She felt she could breathe. She felt somewhat natural. And, while she would be worried about it in public, here, alone, in her home, she loved the subtle bump of her nipples through her shirt, and the shadow they made. She was only 15, but sometimes she felt very much like she was a woman. Especially in moments when her sexual energy was high. She’d sometimes sit near the mirror in her room, bare as anything, and just admire her body, her curves, her movements. Even things many view negatively. In moments like these, she became almost unconditional in her love and lust for herself. Her pubic hair was a delight, the stretch marks along her back from her growth spurts, her slightly aquiline nose, and heavy brow— all these things, she was able to see the full pleasure of, in these intense moments of sexual energy. And while the approval of others is always a fine thing, in moments like these, her own approval felt more than enough.
But then, at school, moving like a ghost through the halls, with her books and her hair pulled back? None of these thoughts were present; she felt like “attractive” was the last thing anyone would consider her. And at times, it made it hard for her to make eye contact with people she admired. Teachers, especially, she felt quite sure would notice her unattractiveness, and she found it impossible to maintain eye contact for more than a moment. In truth, she was mostly of unremarkable looks; the kind of person you see walking down the street, and maybe you look at them for a moment, but you’d have a hard time recalling her face without some reason to remember it. She did have an attractiveness to her, but it took the right situation to truly bring it out. Like many people, her looks shined in scenarios when her personality really came out. She didn’t talk about it much, but she was incredibly interested in the paranormal. And if you happened to mention “The Bell Witch” or “The Kelly-Hopkinsville encounter,” anywhere near her, her whole face would light up, and she’d likely throw herself headlong into an in-depth analysis, if you showed any inclination to listen. As you’d expect though, those situations were few and far between; and even when they did happen, she usually spent the following day regretting it all, and feeling like she’d shown an unflattering and annoying side of herself.
Charlie’s second step depended on her outfit. She’d remove her pants if she was wearing them, or she’d slide off her panties, if she was wearing a dress or a skirt. She much preferred to remove her panties, and keep on an outer layer. She felt an unmatched invigoration by “going without”. But something about removing her pants, taking off her panties, and then putting her pants back on removed a lot of the excitement. A skirt or dress made it easy, and breezy, and she could feel the cloth tickling parts that were previously covered. Pants were more static and stale; and so thick! A layer of panties didn’t make jeans feel any more stifling than they already were. On this particular day, she’d chosen to wear a long skirt for this exact reason. She took great pleasure in the process of removing her panties, and tried her best to make it last: lightly touching herself over them at first, then sliding the panties down a few inches, and letting them fall, by gravity, to her pale ankles. Sometimes she even kept them around her ankles for a while. She found something exciting in it, something delicate and delicious, and downright erotic. And sometimes, once removing them, though she felt odd about it, she’d even hold them near her face, to catch the brief and suggestive scent on them. She enjoyed body smells a lot, but wondered often if other people felt the same, or if she was hopelessly perverted. Even the scent of her armpits, which she knew tended to be thought of as filthy and fairly private parts, captivated her intensely when the mood took her. Recently, she’d even begun to find herself, arm gripped over the top of her head, with her nose turned and pressed toward her armpit, the closer she got to orgasm, inhaling deeply.
She *had* wondered if such a thing was normal, but somewhere deep down she assumed it was, more or less. And regardless, she didn’t see any harm in it, and enjoyed herself while doing it.
Her third step was flexible, and depended on a lot, but was always some form of foreplay. Gentle caressing, of her breasts, or vulva, or buttocks, sometimes over her outfit, sometimes under her outfit. Roaming and sliding hands and fingers, anywhere the gentle gusts of desire took her; neck, shoulders, upper arms, armpits, breasts, down the sides of her torso, goosebumps all the while, to her hips, and thighs, inside and outside, gently parting her lips with her fingers, and feeling the growing slickness. Gripping her ass, squeezing it, sometimes giving it a little spank, though never too strong. Sometimes dipping down between the cheeks to caress herself softly. She loved this stage immensely, and loathed having to rush it. It felt like a battery charging, in her mind; if you wanted the most out of it, you had to keep it charging for as long as possible. And only then, allow it to discharge, when it’s at full strength.
Sometimes, during this step, her mind would wander frightfully far. Not only erotic thoughts. Almost everything came to her head. From math equations, to her friends’ outfits, to the plot of a movie she’d recently watched. Her body was fully into it, but her mind hadn’t begun its tunneling yet. Most of these thoughts were quiet, but undeniably were there, and were being processed by her mind, while her hands continued their role.
Charlie forced her thoughts back to the present, a bit worried she’d lose the mood, and feeling like it was time to focus her mind a bit more anyway. She lifted off her shirt finally, and tossed it to the side. She was laying on the couch now, which was one of her favorite places. The slight risk— the couch being right near the front door— made her shake with excitement. She knew her parents wouldn’t be home for a few hours, but on the off chance something changed, it would be hard to avoid getting caught. And of course, to get caught would have been mortifying. The last thing she wanted was for her parents to know she masturbated; let alone for them to see her doing it. But something nameless in the risk still appealed to her, nevertheless.
She grabbed her breasts and pinched the nipples a bit, paying extra attention to her right breast, which for whatever reason was much more sensitive, always. She licked her thumb and forefinger, and gripped her nipple softly with them, letting it move and slide between the two. She let out a soft moan, and gripped harder. She moved her other hand down, and she played with her vulva, dipping between the lips until her fingers grew slick enough, which was when she slid a finger in. She moved her other hand down as well, to touch her clitoris. Softly at first, but gathering rhythm and force as she continued. Her mind was into it now, intensely. Images of flesh flashed through her mind; vague, but filled to the brim with a youthful lustful energy. Her other hand’s finger was going in and out steadily now, until she decided to add a second finger. It hurt a little, but not badly. Feeling two fingers inside of herself was a unique feeling, and to her it was very pleasing. Fulfilling almost. With two in, she couldn’t move in and out quite as fast, but it wasn’t as necessary to— the thought of her fingers inside of her was enough to make up for it.
She was glowing now in her arousal.
To capture exactly what was flashing through her mind at this stage would be impossible. The erotica was too erratic. Her vision was yielding too quickly to her fancies; a single coherent scene never held fast for more than the fleetingest of fleeting moments. But she had favorites. Scenes that returned more frequently than others. Scenes she could hold in focus for slightly longer than the other more fickle fodder.
One such scene involved a train. And she’s sitting there, alone, not a soul in the train-car with her. And her mind is wild with a tingling arousal. Knowing no-one is around, she slides a hand beneath her waste-band, and begins to play softly, softly. After a moment she’s practically dripping, and slides a finger between her lips, as she continues to circle her clitoris with her other hand. Circles, circles, getting harder and wetter by the second. And just as she’s about to climax, a bell rings, and the doors slide open, and she jerks her hands out from their warm place of pleasure, and pretends to be a proper professional again; but she’s squirming in her seat, and she can’t resist it for long. She removes a scarf from her neck, and places it over her lap, feigning coldness. A convincing act, since she was shivering, though for different reasons than anyone on the train suspected. Beneath the scarf, she quickly got back to work, circling her clitoris firmly with one hand, and fingering her incredibly wet opening with the other. She had to navigate the fact that there were people around now; she couldn’t moan, she couldn’t even conspicuously move her arms beneath the scarf if she hoped to keep her actions a secret. And this covert cunt-play was all the more arousing than when she’d had the train-car to herself. And her movements were quickly speeding up. She found a comfortable way to slide her finger in and out quite quickly without the movement being too obvious, and she was quickly approaching orgasm. And with a final few strokes, she finishes, eyes closing in ecstasy but otherwise keeping a straight face, squirting just enough to leave her pants and the seat beneath her wet, but not enough to give away her activities as long as she remains sitting.
Charlie would often revisit this scene periodically throughout her session, timing the important landmarks with the landmarks of her current session. And, with any luck, climaxing during the imagined moment of climax. And while Charlie herself couldn’t squirt, the idea was intensely exciting to her, and she regularly googled things like “learn how to squirt,” “where to touch if you want to squirt,” and “foods to eat if you want to squirt”. The results were mostly a hodgepodge of yahoo-answers idiocy, and reddit’s internet witticisms, with little she felt inclined to put much faith in. But she found herself googling anyway, with astounding regularity; maybe hoping for a new and shocking breakthrough to make itself apparent, bringing squirting to the women of the world, and triggering a more erotic sequel to the Noah’s flood of biblical fame.
__
Back on the couch, she was shiny with sweat, and her arm was getting tired. But she could feel a small spot of bright light in her pelvis, and she could feel it growing steadily. Charlie didn’t quite know why, but this is how it felt to her, as she grew closer to climax. An incredibly sharp bright light; growing sharper and brighter, until it encompassed an area from the very top of her lungs down to just above her knees. And then the light would burst and crack spectacularly. A Tunguska event all her own, and as much a mystery to her.
But for now, it was just beginning to steady and grow.
She removed one of her fingers from her vagina, and did something she sometimes felt guilty about in her sober moments— though she knew feeling shame over such a thing was ridiculous— she circled around her anus, and slowly inserted her ring finger. Only very slightly at first, but deeper by the moment. And she began to move the finger in and out, even as she moved her other finger in and out of her vagina. The combined effect was dizzying when she was in the right mood. And it was dizzying now. She pinched and twisted her nipples, and felt the little sharp light grow, and grow. She felt warm inside now, in a deeper way than simple physical warmth. She felt a comfort, a cozyness, a belonging, a deep rush like when you’re cleaning your ears or scratching an insistent itch. And it was sustaining. She knew she was close.
And by now, her mind was almost always blank, in the common sense of the word. She searched frantically, and tried to hold tight to an image, to maximize her pleasure, but it was almost always in vain. The images flashed for tenths of seconds, at most, frantic flashes of flesh, not quite realized. Inner thighs, penetrating parts, armpits, breasts; whatever her mind found erotic in a given split second would flash too quickly to be seen, but not too quickly to be perceived. Not too quickly for her body to respond, to shiver with the lust of it.
Her mind really did feel profoundly blank in these moments, though. When in this state, she didn’t really know where her consciousness was, but it was not in her mind, and that was always a welcome change, for the minute or so that it lasted. She felt like an observer, even, in her separation. This feeling was known to give her anxiety, post-orgasm, but during, it was a necessary part of the equation. Part of why she was able to loosen herself, and lose herself.
She continued her probing, fingers sliding in and out with vigor now. Her left hand penetrating, her right hand rubbing her clitoris, round and round in quickening and strengthening circles. She was thrusting her hips now, as she loved to do when she was dissolved in herself. Adding a broader movement seemed to decentralize the pleasure; to spread out the deep warm joy. And before she could slow down to savor the moment, it was happening.
Over the course of four short seconds, her body grew warm, yet shivered, and a light seemed to blot out her whole self. And at that moment, bursting forth from her clitoris and spreading out like a scattering flock of birds, was a peak of pleasure, a quick explosion of light and warmth, and a rushing of some nameless aether inside of her veins and ventricles. It worked its way outward, to her legs and arms, to her fingers and toes, as she contracted her muscles and stretched, and bent, in any which way that made her bliss erupt even more. The pleasure was intense, but the relief had not come yet, and the feeling was maddening. She gripped her buttocks, her breasts, and pressed down on her delta of venus as the mood took her. She flipped onto her stomach, and put her ass in the air, and continued to circle slowly but deliberately around her clitoris, feeling the air flow around her, and against rarely her unsheltered parts. A strong warmth was encompassing her whole body still, but the relief started to hit her, and she lost all need to continue her stimulation, and she collapsed onto the couch.
A slow decrescendo followed. She removed her fingers and hands from their stations, and let her body rest.
–
In these moments, she always felt an intense placidity. Calmer than calm, clear headed. She felt like she had woken up from a dream she couldn’t quite articulate or picture. A relief rushed over her, most of all. She deeply enjoyed her sexuality, but it could be a drain of her energy, and a strong source of tension in her mind and body. Sometimes it even felt like *maybe,* if she didn’t watch vigilantly, it could take over her entirely. The thought scared her, though she didn’t quite believe it could happen.
In these moments, too, she often took stock of her surroundings, and her state.
Dripping with sweat, bangs matted down onto her forehead, flushed cheeks. She took amusement out of the fact that her vulva, inner thighs, and breasts, also got flushed. Some of her clothing lay beside her, and the rest of it was scattered throughout the house, on the path she’d taken from her bedroom to the couch. She could hear a bird chirping loudly outside the living room window, as the sun filtered in, casting a box of light onto the couch and her bare body upon it. The cable box was off, but the TV was on, displaying a plain “No Input” message, that tracked across the screen, bouncing as it hit any of the 4 sides. She reached for the remote, looking closely at her hand as she did so, and switched the TV off.
She soaked in the warmth of the sunlight for a few more minutes before gathering the strength to stand up. She felt a little dizzy as she gathered her clothes and walked up the stairs. It was just past noon, and Steph was coming over at 1 to practice their history presentation. It wasn’t often she was excited for school work, but they’d been given free reign to decide on a topic, within reason, and Mr. Melville had been kind enough to let them pick the Eilean Mor lighthouse disappearances, with the promise that they’d cite all their sources, and make sure they were reliable.
Charlie smiled as she dumped her pile of clothing onto the bathroom floor. She turned the water on to let it heat up, and thought of a tidal wave, sweeping against the rocky coast of a small island off of Scotland, and of the hapless lighthouse attendants, now dragged into an unsolvable mystery, most likely because of a careless action. She thought of the unfair decisions life sometimes made for you, of Steph’s father, of the Aberfan disaster, of the Eilean Mor mystery, of any war, any conflict. Of the bugs her mother kills. History was full of these cruel decisions. Charlie felt helpless. But beneath that was an odd comfort, as she glimpsed the timeless expanse of suffering stretching out in front of her, behind her, and beside her. She stuck her hand into the stream of water, and with a quick scald, felt that it was ready.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/7hwaug/eilean_mor_female_solo