dog though his dog died years ago. From him, the boy-
man watching me. Even from the TV and the movie in the
corner that started al of this in the first place.
I go away to the place where everything feels good, and I
don't have to think about anything but the whisper of my
fingertips along my sides. Down across my bely, which
wil never be flat enough no matter how many crunches I
do or lunches I skip. The metal button on my jeans isn't
cold or warm, it's the same temperature as my skin. My
fingers miss it in their first walk across, though the belt
loops snag my touch.
I don't open the button at first. I slide my hand down the
front of my jeans. My panties are already damp from the
hour we've been on the couch. Sometimes, though I'd
never dare tel him this, no matter what I'm about to share,
my pussy gets wet even before we start kissing.
Sometimes, when I'm in the shower getting ready to meet
him, I do what I'm doing now with my hands, which is rub
them al over my body and pretend they're his. Sometimes
I spend the entire date—the movie, the dinner, bowling,
whatever it is, waiting for it al to be over so we can get to
whatever it is, waiting for it al to be over so we can get to
this part. The couch, the backseat. His hands and mouth
on mine. His cock inside me.
I gasp aloud when my finger finds the smal bump at the
front of my panties. I don't have room to stroke, so I
satisfy myself with pushing gently. I use my middle finger.
The fuck finger, he cals it. It's the one he uses inside me to
get me ready before he uses his dick, but when he touches
my clit he uses his first finger. Or his thumb, if I'm on top. I
didn't come to his bed or his backseat or his couch as
anything close to a virgin, but I don't want to think about
who taught him how to do that.
I can always get off faster by myself than with someone
else. I'm already close. Another gentle press of my finger
pushes a shudder through me. My toes curl against the
cushions. My hips lift a little.
I don't have room to do this right, so now I unbutton my
jeans. My zipper ratchets apart, tooth by metal tooth. My
jeans open. I hook my thumbs into the sides and push
them down, over my hips and thighs. They get hung up at
my knees, and he reaches forward to grab a handful of
denim and help me.
In my bra and also-best panties I lean back and give
myself over to his scrutiny. I push my hands over my body,
al the curves that scared and annoyed me when they
started forming but I'm grateful for now. Boys like boobs
and ass and even a little bely is okay if you have the rest
of it, too.
