Innocent My Ass
My love affair with myself, more specifically, with my pussy, began at university. It was a matter of survival as I’m blessed (cursed?) with the youthful good looks often described as ‘wholesome’ or, my favourite, ‘girl next door’. To be blunt, I looked about five years younger than everyone else in my year and this was having a very negative effect on my burgeoning sex life.
I am often told that men go crazy for the innocent demure type. This is not quite accurate. They do, but only if it’s expertly blended with a generous shake of dimness, a soupçon of inanity and finished off with a delicate pinch of idiocy. I couldn’t do stupid; I was studying Chemistry. Consequently, I never took that dawn-lit walk of shame back to my halls of residence – damp knickers, a scrunched up ball in my pocket and a dirty smile on my kiss-bruised lips – at any point during those three years of supposedly wild student life. My night would instead end, more often than not, with the object of my lust comparing me to his little sister, kissing me affectionately on the forehead then wandering off to fuck the captain of the netball team in whosever bedroom had been left foolishly unlocked.
It was all so infuriating. But did I let this turn me into a feverish tangle of bitterness? Not at all. Instead I became a master, or should that be mistress, of masturbation. A vastly enjoyable ritual soon developed.
I’d return home after another wholly unfulfilled evening in a frustrated state that could only be resolved in a manner most unbecoming of the girl next door. First of all I’d run a shower, a hot one. Whilst the bathroom was slowly filling with steam, I’d stand in front of the mirror and slowly remove my clothes, teasing myself with the various glimpses of nudity until finally I’d turn around, gently pull my knickers from between my wet hopeful sex and slide them down my thighs to the floor, sneaking a peek over my shoulder at the juicy pink cleft left exposed. Then to the shower, where I’d meticulously soap every centimetre of my skin, lingering over nipples steadily hardening despite the heat, but carefully avoiding my pussy. For now. Once covered in rich lather, I’d step directly under the stream of water and let the torrent wash the bubbles away. Saving the best to last I’d end by bending over slightly, taking my bottom between my hands and splaying my cheeks wide open. Wide enough for the previously untouched slit of my pussy to separate tentatively and allow the water to trickle over its intricate folds before eddying insistently over my hard little clit. I wouldn’t actually stroke myself, instead I’d squeeze my ass-cheeks open and closed with my fingers, creating the sensation that my pussy was being lapped, over and over by the wettest, warmest of tongues. Still denying myself release, I’d briskly dry myself off and slip under the duvet.
I like to lie on my front when I masturbate. And I can’t touch my pussy directly. Well I could of course but that would result in a premature pillow biting shriek and I like to stretch this experience out for as long as possible. So instead, I’d pluck my previously discarded knickers from the floor, stretch the fabric over the fingers of my left hand and, on my front, grind my pussy against them. If this was the solitary action, I’d never cum. The pressure of my fingers has to be accompanied by a trigger, a scenario in my imagination. A story.
My favourite featured one of my tutors. As a chemistry student, practical lab work was a regular feature of the week. Mr Jameson took my tutor group for the last lab session of the day on Thursdays. He wore, as we all did, a long white coat, so I couldn’t discern his build in great detail. What I could see were his large hands. His fingers were long and extremely dexterous, as proven by his delicate handling of the potentially volatile chemicals we used. He clearly took his supervisory role seriously as he’d very rarely smile and was emphatic in his instructions when guiding us through a particularly tricky experiment. I liked his hands very much and as my hand was rhythmically pulsing against my pussy, I’d imagine…
…An experiment I’ve been working on has gone terribly wrong. What should have been a powdery contents in my beaker is instead an unctuous foul smelling mess. Drawn over by my barely restrained curses and the pervasive odour emanating from my bench, Mr Jameson is attempting to work out what went wrong. I’m insisting that I followed his directions to the letter; he is firmly stating I must have misunderstood one of the steps. Irritated, my voice is becoming shriller and neither of us has noticed the rest of the students leave the room. I can see I am beginning to annoy him with my childish protestations but still refuse to back down. Angry now, he walks away from me, slams the lab door shut then stalks back to continue the argument.
“Alice, the results speak for themselves,” he repeats, “the compound wasn’t heated to the temperature I stipulated, not just once but twice, and that’s why you’ve been left with this mess. I suggest you clear up your equipment and pay more attention to my instructions in the future”.
Furious my mouth drops open and I glare at his departing back as he moves to collect his papers.
“Asshole!,” I mumble under my breath and reach over the bench to dismantle the Bunsen burner. I’m quite short so am forced to clamber onto the stool to reach. I haven’t noticed Mr Jameson come to an abrupt halt as my whispered expletive reaches him and make his way back over. I remain oblivious until I feel one of those big hands reach up my lab coat, under my skirt, take a grip on my knickers and yank them down to my knees. I freeze, still kneeling awkwardly over the bench.
“An asshole am I?” he hisses “that’s a rude word from the little girl who sits at the back looking like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. You want to be rude?” The question hangs in the air. ‘My bum is pretty much in your face’ I think ‘Yes I want to be rude.’ I signal my acquiescence; unbuttoning my coat, letting it drop to the floor and arching my back slightly. Mr Jameson lifts my skirt over my hips revealing my naked behind, positioned roughly three inches from his eyes. His hands cup both cheeks easily and he digs his fingers appraisingly into the supple flesh. He pulls me open firmly and breathes onto my sphincter. I moan softly.
“Eat my ass,” I urge.
“Rude girl,” he admonishes, pinching the tender skin of my inner thigh, making me squirm.
“Please eat my ass,” I beg.
Good manners earns me a long measured stroke of his tongue, from the cusp of my pussy to the tight pink whirl of my asshole, where it lingers for a second, circling, before probing persistently against the tight resistance. Finally it gives way and his tongue is slowly, agonisingly slowly, sinking deep within. I moan again, louder.
“Such a rude girl,” he murmurs, drawing away for a second.
I can see where he wants to go with this.
“A very rude girl,” I gasp, “I need my disobedient arse spanked”.
…discarding my knickers on to the bedroom floor I’d let my fingers finally, joyfully, encircle my slippery clit, rubbing furiously as my orgasm began its inevitable ascent….
Mr Jameson needs no further encouragement and the palm of his hand joins his tongue in a joint assault on my bottom. The spanks are measured. He is a scientist after all. They’re also very hard and were it not for the fact his tongue is still plunging deep into me, I’d be inching away from the blistering blows. As it is, the contrast of his mouth’s wet softness against my burning cheeks feels so fucking good, that I buck my hips along to the rhythm. As my moaning gets louder (in both the imaginary lab and my bedroom), Mr Jameson takes my ass roughly in both hands, lifts it high and buries his face into my sopping cunt. His lips grip my clit and he sucks hungrily, drinking down the orgasm, which has flooded over his face…
…Needless to say, back in my room, the pillow would now be well and truly bitten and my thighs soaked.
Eventually, my rude imaginings and nimble fingers had a Dorian Gray style effect on my features. Formerly innocent eyes, took on a wicked “I’m not wearing any knickers” glint and my lips, always full, appeared now somehow laden with dirty promises. Not long after I graduated I was able to live out my favourite fucking-fantasies. I never neglected myself though. The relationship between me and my pussy remains and will always be, the first serious love of my life.
Illustration by Tom Sargeant.