could hear her breath coming in long, excited gasps.
Monique rubbed her hand down over one breast and let it slide deliciously down her stomach until her fingers touched the tight curl of pubic hair. The growth was soft and silky, the strands floating upwards as the hot water swirled gently around it. The girl fondled the hard rise of her veneris, reaching her middle finger down the velvet slit until it slipped easily into the precious sex itself.
Scarcely aware of what she was doing, Monique began to work the finger deeply into the heart of her quim, pushing it urgently into the pink wet hole until it was buried completely. Her forefinger teased the folds of flesh as widely open as possible, then searched for the stiff button of her clitoris.
The sensitive red clitty felt incredibly sexy to her touch. Monique fought to control her breathing as she started to wiggle her finger around and around the well-concealed bud, flicking it from side to side with her fingernail.
Her hips writhed, grinding slowly beneath the steaming water. She began to frig herself more quickly now as her desire mounted and the tickling sensation in her loins quickened.
The water lapped into her open-lipped cunt, bubbling hotly as Monique fastened her finger all the way inside her sex and forced it in and out of the maddeningly tight hole. She forced herself to keep her eyes open so that she could see her breast being punished by her other hand. The fingers squeezed almost brutally into the resilient dumpling, clenching the white orb into unusual and provocative shapes.
And all the time the cheeky forefinger twiddled at her red nipple — tormenting the poor, sweet bud with a ceaseless backwards and forwards movement across the inflamed and sorely treated rosebud.
Almost before Monique realised that it was upon her, she started to come. Helplessly, feeling herself slipping into a frenzy of furious lust, the girl released her spunk into the water — merging her frothy white juices with the suds. Her body arced upwards out of the bath, straining tensely as she fought to sustain her climax for as long as possible.
Sobbing, she drove her finger ruthlessly up and down the narrow channel of her cunt — spluttering as her mouth went under the water. She threshed wildly, throwing her hands out to grip the sides of the bath.
The spell was broken instantly: her desire left her as quickly as it had come, leaving the girl feeling unrelieved and frustrated. She dragged herself out of the bath and buried her face in a towel, a mixture of guilt and anger forcing the tears to flow unchecked down her cheeks.
She hated herself. She felt dirty and unclean; like a schoolgirl masturbating behind her parents' back. What had possessed her to touch herself like that? Monique had never before allowed her emotions to get the better of her — she had never, never played with her sex in so open and blatant a fashion. Not in broad daylight, not watching herself like that…
At night, curled up in bed with the lights out and her eyes shut tight, she had secretly slipped her fingers between her legs and given herself a little pleasure. But to lie in the bath and…
Monique shivered with self-reproach. Caressing her body was one thing. Merely running her hands over herself to admire the feel of her skin and the shapeliness of her curves… that was very pleasant and was certainly nothing to be ashamed of. Every girl did that… of course they did!
But what she had just done to herself was very different. Monique suddenly remembered that when she had woken up this morning with the cool breeze playing on her nude breasts she had felt the desire to do things to herself. The impulse had been easily dismissed — or so she had imagined. But with the feel of the warm water all around her body, its liquid heat soothing and caressing her…
Monique let the towel drop to the floor. No, she told herself sharply. It's not just that you touched yourself — that's not making you feel like this. She recalled, forced herself to recall, that she had pretended another girl had been fondling her in the bath. And it was this fantasy which had disturbed her so much.
She had played a private game with herself. A game which involved the imagined presence of someone else. Someone of her own sex. Like an electric shock the insight jolted through her entire being — forcing her to acknowledge a desire which she wanted to keep hidden.
Another girl… It was impossible now for her to suppress the image. Her body ached with longing for the gentle hands and fingers of a soft-fleshed female to caress her into a dreamy state of bliss. To coax her lovingly into a merging of naked bodies, breasts pushing against breasts…
Monique realised that she was trembling from head to toe. Her body was glistening with water from the bath and the quivering was causing droplets to trickle teasingly down the valley between her breasts and tickle like gentle fingertips down the inside of her thighs. She shivered again.
Monique: the innocent, the virginal Monique. The girl who had scarcely explored her own body let alone allowed her charms to be touched by other hands. Monique: whose sexual awakening, long delayed, was now blossoming — making her ripe for new experiences.
She let her eyes travel with a new wonderment over her nudity, over the firm swell of her thighs; over the flat whiteness of her tummy, at the sleek curve of her hips. The body which no lover had yet known…
She began to dry herself, rubbing the towel quickly over her moist skin until it tingled and glowed a healthy pink. Deliberately, Monique forced herself to concentrate all her attention on the act of towelling her body. She refused to dwell any longer on the sexual implications of her experience. There was work to be done; Jean and Michael would be up by now and their breakfast had to be prepared.
Monique slipped into her robe again and cleaned the bath. Her heart still pounded and she could feel her pulse racing wildly. She knew that no matter how hard she tried to control her feelings, they could never again be completely repressed. Always, with every reminder of her beautiful young body — every time she felt her breasts thrusting outwards (as she did now, at this very moment, nipples brushing against the material of her robe) — Monique would feel again the glorious excitement when she had imagined another girl holding her breasts possessively and teasing her nipples into erectness.
And she knew, too, though she tried desperately to hide the knowledge from herself, that she could never again be completely innocent. Although the seeds of desire had taken a long time to flower, they were now too vibrant to be ignored. Somehow, Monique thought with a thrill of pleasure, somehow she would make her fantasy a reality. Only then would she be able to rid herself of the lingering self-disgust and shame. By bringing her secret longings out into the open and facing them without fear and remorse she could exorcise them.
Monique closed the bathroom door behind her and went back to her bedroom to dress.
Downstairs, Jean Cameron stared at the empty place on the bed beside her. Michael hadn't returned all night and she felt that familiar sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that told her he had been with another woman.
There was no proof, of course. He was far too considerate and clever for that. There would be no tell-tale hairs on his collar, no smudges of lipstick. And he would be kind and considerate to her for a few days; their relationship would, on the surface, be closer and warmer and he would talk to her more frequently.
But then, slowly and almost imperceptibly, his attitude towards her would change. He would start to find fault with everything she did, then withdraw completely into himself — ignoring her completely and making any form of contact between them impossible.
One day he would announce that he was leaving on a business trip and she wouldn't see him for a few days. And on his return, obviously to drown out the voice of guilt and conscience, Michael would once again act out the role of a tender, loving husband.
The pattern had been established for over a year. Jean had searched herself desperately to find a clue to the cause of their marriage breakdown but was still unable to understand what had really happened to them. She couldn't even pinpoint the exact time when they had begun to drift apart.
Michael rarely made love to her now, and on the infrequent occasions when they had sex it seemed to her an impersonal, almost clinical exercise — as if he was merely using her body to relieve himself… although Jean could see that he was inwardly suffering from their cold and remote relationship, Michael refused to discuss the subject with her. He would grow angry and almost violent if she tried to draw him out on the reason for his behaviour. They had reached an impasse. And if it hadn't been for Cathy, Jean felt that she would have left him long ago. To their daughter, Michael was always affectionate and warm; it was obviously something which she, Jean, had done which had caused their present situation. But she could never discover what…
The tension generated by their estrangement was growing more and more intolerable. If only Michael would talk to her!
Jean pulled herself out of her contemplation and got up. As she moved towards the wardrobe to choose a
