Hands. Fingers. Pleasure.

Sometimes D and I tell each other sexy stories, a more narrative form of dirty talking, while we jointly self-pleasure. This is a story I told him recently. He obliged with one of his own, of course.

M called to tell me he was stopping over on his way to work. He was a sexy guy I'd met through an ex-boyfriend and we'd been sort of dating for a couple of weeks. I say sort of dating since we were still in high school and pretty much only saw each other on weekends. But M found out that I was home alone on certain afternoons and apparently he'd decided to take advantage.

He rang the bell and I let him in. Almost before I'd had a chance to close and lock the door he'd pinned me against it, devouring me in a kiss. He wasn't much taller than me, but he was strong and his arms and firm chest held me in place as his body began to move against mine. He was hot and hard while I was soft and wet—our yin and yang yearning to join forces.

While one arm kept me against the door, the other hand began an ascent up my thighs. It's been more than 20 years, but I remember exactly what I wore that day: a tight, short white denim mini skirt, a skimpy white tank, with a tan and white striped tank over it, plus strappy white flat sandals. As was my custom, I had on tiny white string bikini panties.

His hand continued to work its way up my thigh until his fingers grazed my pussy through the thin cotton. His fingers slid into the crotch, where he found me open and wet. This was the first time a boy's fingers had such unfettered access to my pussy. Prior gropings under and through clothes had never been like this. First one finger, then another slid inside. The order of things becomes fuzzy at this point, but soon he was working my clit with the expertise that came with his slutty reputation. Pinned to the door I couldn't move much, just enough to writhe against him as his fingers continued to stroke me. And then the orgasm overtook me. It was the first I'd had brought on by another's hand. I felt euphoric, dirty, ecstatic, out of breath, and triumphant all in the same moment.

And almost as soon as he'd walked through the front door he walked back out, on his way to flog t-shirts or tacos or whatever it was he did in his after school job. He left me there panting, my panties soaked and bunched between my lips.

I can't remember the last time I recalled this instance, but I'm rather certain my obsessive desire to have a hand in my pussy at all times derives from that afternoon. I think I crave that more than any other act—the endless creativity and permutations 2 hands and ten fingers offer when I really need to get off. Despite the perfection of the cock that shares my bed, sometimes nothing satisfies me more than those fingers pressed deep inside, drawing out the sensations and emotions like nothing else can.

Republished with permission from Always Each Other. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact us. Photo by John B. Root.