Past Imperfect


“Show me.”

“You want to watch me do it?” If Heather couldn’t handle juice talk, how was she going to be able to look at a pussy without flinching? Besides, I wasn’t sure how I felt about putting on such an intimate performance.

“No, like—” She stuttered something awful when she got flustered. Now, she could barely get the words out. “Just show me.”

When I look back on that night, I still have no clue how we reached that moment. I’d known girls who experimented with kissing each other, maybe a little light touching, but nothing like what was happening now. I don’t know if my hesitation stemmed more from shock or the need to protect myself from her.

I heard her get up and root around in her bag. When she climbed back in bed, I reached for her and pulled her against my body, so that her buttocks nestled against my damp panties. My left arm caressed her breast, while my other grasped her palm.

“Squirt some on our hands. Use as much as you want.”

As the sticky liquid cascaded over my fingers, I became aware of my heart thudding against her back. She was a nervous as I; her breathing came in short bursts. Her shoulder rested just below my mouth and I resisted the urge to kiss the smooth skin. Instead, I lowered our hands until I found her clit.

“Tell me when it feels good.”

She nodded. I kept my middle finger below hers so she could feel the patterns I was making. Her pussy felt familiar, but weird and different from my own. The whole time I tried to keep playing with her nipple.

She moaned, arching into me. I forced myself to remember what this was, to stop wanting to taste her body instead of just touch it.

“Wait, stop.” She pulled my hand away.

“What’s the matter?”

She sounded frantic. “It’s too much…the feeling…we’ve got to stop.”

I did kiss her shoulder then, to reassure her. “It’s okay. Trust me.”