Until I’m standing in the middle of my bedroom in nothing but my underwear.
Girls my age wear thongs or lacy, sexy panties. See-through bras or bralettes, or sometimes no bra at all. They wear these items for themselves, to give them confidence. To feel sexy. To turn on the boys or girls or whoever they’re with. Whoever they allow to peel back the layers and see what’s beneath their clothes.
I don’t look at underwear that way at all. They’re just daily items I’ve worn for what feels like forever. I started developing at a young age, like in the fifth grade, and it was so embarrassing, having to get fitted for my first bra, the salesperson exclaiming over my large cup size at such a young age. The way my mother viewed me, undeniable disgust flickering in her gaze.
My breasts have always felt like a burden.
Reaching behind me, I undo the snap, the garment sliding away from my body, and I let it drop to the floor. My breasts are free, my nipples growing hard the longer I stare at them. They’re pink, the areolas large and nothing like what I’ve seen on social media, where all the girls have small breasts and pretty nipples.
Not that I check out nipples but…I’m curious. I’ve been curious about a lot of things lately.
I curl my hands around them, cupping them in my palms. Bringing them together so I can make deeper cleavage. I turn to the side, staring at myself. My stomach. The flare of my hips. My legs. I’m so pale. Almost translucent, with faint blue veins showing just beneath my skin.
I think of Natalie with her perfect body and her tiny breasts. Her long legs and obvious confidence when she sat on Ezra’s lap a few days ago, like she belonged there. All while eyeing Crew as if he was a tasty steak and she was craving red meat. What would it be like, to act like Natalie?
I have no clue.
Facing the mirror once more, I drop my hands from my breasts and reach for the waistband of my underwear, yanking them down before I have second thoughts. Until I’m standing completely naked, staring at my reflection. My body on complete and total display, for my eyes only.
I fixate on my dark pubic hair, and what it hides just beneath. I mean, I’m not an idiot. I know what a vagina is good for. I have periods every month. Sometimes I have cramps. When I was younger, I suffered from them all the time, and my period was so irregular, my mother secretly put me on the pill, never telling my father.
“Just because you’re on birth control doesn’t mean you get to have sex with whoever you want,” she lectured me. I was fourteen at the time, and the last thing I thought about was having sex with anyone.
Someday I’ll marry a nice man and we’ll have plenty of sex that I might or might not enjoy and eventually make babies. That’s how my mother explained it to me. That’s what I have to look forward to.
God, it all sounds so clinical. Awful.
Boring.
I think of Crew. How he touched my breast when he caught me. His firm grip, his muscular body pressed against mine, his fingers streaking across my chest in a featherlight caress. I felt it.
I can feel it right now. When he touched my lips in class this afternoon.
You have a sexy mouth.
His deep voice washes over me and I cup my breasts. Brush my thumbs over my nipples. Making myself tingle.
I go to my bed and lie on top of it, quickly realizing when I prop myself up on my elbows, I can still see my reflection in the mirror. Slowly, I part my knees. My thighs. Until I can see everything. I’m pink.
Everywhere.
I’ve never done anything like this before, examined myself so thoroughly. I stare at the spot between my legs, really looking at myself, and wonder what it would be like, to have someone touch me there.
Oh, I’ve tried masturbating before—more than a few times. Lots of times. But I can never manage to actually make myself come. My mind would start to wander and I’d think of dumb things, like stuff that worried me. Or the guilt would creep in and I’d feel that hint of shame I’m so familiar with. Like I was doing something bad. Plus, I’d never allowed myself to crush on a boy before. Not really.
Until Crew. I think about him constantly. And he makes me feel all of these…things. Feelings I’ve never experienced before and am slowly becoming addicted to.
The way he watches me with that penetrating gaze. His flirtatious tone when he calls me Birdy. I act like I hate it, but secretly I enjoy the nickname.
It makes me feel like we share something special.
He makes me feel special.
Collapsing on the bed, I close my eyes and reach between my legs, skimming past my pubic hair, until I’m cupping myself. Teasing myself. I stroke the seam of my lower lips back and forth, slowly. Shivery sensations shimmering just beneath my skin, making my breath catch.
It feels good.
I carefully part myself, dipping my finger inside. Encountering nothing but slippery wet heat. My mind fixates on Crew. His face. His voice. His hands.
With tentative fingers, I search, sliding through my folds, tentatively circling my entrance before I slip a finger inside, wincing. Then pull it out.
Push it back in.
Oh. That felt good too.
What it would be like, to have Crew kiss me? He has a nice mouth. Full lips. He smells good too. He’s strong. Muscular. I already know how it feels to be in his arms, but what would be like if he really hugged me? Held me close and ran his fingers through my hair? Pressed his mouth against my temple in the softest, sweetest kiss?
I tremble just thinking about it.
When my fingers brush against a distended piece of flesh at the top, I realize it’s my clitoris. I brush it again, a soft sigh falling from my lips when I do so. I keep doing it, circling it. Rubbing it. My breath comes faster, and when I squeeze my thighs together around my hand, that feels even better. The pressure. The intensity.
I roll over onto my stomach, my hand still between my thighs, my fingers busy as I basically dry hump the bed. The heel of my hand. I rock against the mattress, my eyes flying open to catch my reflection yet again.
I’m a mess. My hair is in my eyes, my skin damp with sweat, my breasts swinging, my nipples hard. I arch my back and press my hips to the bed, grinding my palm against my clit and a choked sound leaves me.
Have you ever been kissed?
He whispers it in my ear in my imagination, his mouth brushing my skin. I shiver and shake my head, wishing he was the one who would kiss me first. His lips are soft and warm and that first glide of his tongue against mine…
He pushes my hand away and replaces it with his own, stroking me. He’s so confident. So in command of my body and I let him take control. Just like I always do with everyone and everything in my life.
With Crew, I don’t resent it though.
I want it.
I’m on my back once more, my fingers frantic, my breathing harsh as I seek out the unfamiliar sensation that I can feel growing inside me. It’s almost scary, how big it seems, how mysterious. Almost as if I don’t know what it is, yet I do.
But I’m not afraid. I chase after it, all the air sticking in my throat, my limbs straining, my legs shaking as I stroke and stroke, faster and faster. A gasp leaves me when I go completely still.
So fucking sexy, Birdy.
And then I’m quaking, my entire body consumed, a keening cry leaving my lips as the orgasm slams into me. It’s as if I have no control of my body and the climax stretches on for long, endless seconds. Just as fast as it hits, it’s gone, and I’m left a shaking, sweaty mess. Barely able to catch my breath, my heart beating so hard I swear I’m going into cardiac arrest.
That’s what all the fuss is about. Imagine what would happen if someone else gave me an orgasm? Like Crew?
I squeeze my eyes closed, imagining him in this bed with me, his mouth finding mine, his fingers between my thighs, working their magic.
“Oh God,” I whisper out loud, staring blindly at the ceiling.