My eyes were closed. I had a tendency to sleep in my white summer dress, and I was still in it now, though it was lifted up well over my breasts. My left hand was caressing one of them, and my right hand was further down, circularly touching, teasing, and entrancing my clitoris with every subtle movement. Summer days had a way of doing this to me; warming the blood, and making me insatiable. I blame the summer, but perhaps I should blame the Winter for doing the opposite; stripping me of this vital energy I love so well. All the while, I had such vivid images in my head. Lusty, luxurious images of a life I wanted, but that felt so unattainable. I was 17 now, still a virgin, in every sense of the word, except, perhaps, as it relates to purity. I was not pure, certainly. A pure girl, the girl my mother thinks I am, doesn’t have such thoughts, and certainly would not be laying in bed, noon of the day, with her dress hiked up so far above where it belongs, and her hand so busy. Pure, certainly not. My clitoris was full of ecstatic energy, each touch and rub bringing me closer. My left hand abandoned my breast, and went down, down, and penetrated me with its finger. I was wet— incredibly so— and my body was getting wetter, too, but with sweat with every passing second. I lunged in and out, gasping, and groaning, and circled, circled, circled. The robins were singing their song outside, as I sang the body electric inside— the song of myself, of my passion, and of my vitality and ecstasy. The sounds of the birds faded away, and my own sounds with it, leaving an absolutely imperceptible sound hanging in the air. A physical internal sound that drowned out all that was external. My hands quickened. Another finger inserted, and another, this one smaller, into another place. My body stiffened, but felt so lose, as a jolt of pure bliss engulfed me. It hit in a few waves, leaving me weak, and My body fell, almost lifeless, relaxing to the bed, where I laid for a moment. Read more »