The Unwanted Fingers I Desperately Wanted

When I write my erotic fiction, I draw on my own nature and experience a lot. It is no exaggeration to say that I create my characters as various versions of myself. But when did my true essence become known to me? I mean really known. What incident taught me what I didn’t like, and. – more importantly – what I did.

Let me tell you.

Masturbation. And schoolgirl masturbation in particular.

Since I started masturbating in my early teens, scarcely a day has gone by without me indulging in myself. (Yes, I confess – I am an addict!) Often more than once: some days much more than once. I would estimate that if I were to chronicle my most intense orgasms EVER, I would say that at least half were self-inflicted.

But the most revealing one, the one that opened up my bone-deep nature to me, was delivered to me by the fingers of Jilly C (yes, I am almost naming names!). I was sitting in the back row of a mathematics class at my all-girls boarding school. It shook my body for a long time that day, but it moulded my mind over a lifetime; shaped my understanding of myself like nothing she before or since.

Before I tell you of my realisation that I was some kind of needy masochistic submissive, let me tell you about the somewhat less-than delightful Jilly.

She was not exactly a bully. Not as such. Such things were stamped on very quickly by the Quaker Liberalati that ruled the school. But she was, shall we say, assertive in a very insistent way. Difficult to refuse without there being some ill-defined consequences down the line. Jilly was influential. Her father was a sitting M.P, and she and her quite frightful younger sibling had no compunction about trading on the name with staff and pupils alike.

One day, Jilly ‘asked’ me to sit on the back row with her and ‘help’ during the mathematics lesson, I agreed. Not readily, but I kept my doubts to myself. I knew the reputation of ‘the back row girls’, and it had nothing to do with needing help – or bullying come to that. The reputation they ‘enjoyed’ was that they were daring. Daring enough to masturbate when the teachers’ back was turned. We ‘goodies’ who sat forward would spend time wondering if those stories were true. And what exactly was going on behind our heads. Or not, as the case may be.

I was, it seemed, destined to find out, and I was non-too pleased by the idea.

But at the same time I felt like a traveller in an alien land, hoping to have some juicy tale to bring back to my ‘goody’ friends.

About five minutes into the lesson, Miss H turned to the board. At which point Jilly leaned over. ‘Are you wearing knickers?’

Wearing knickers? Of course, I was wearing knickers. Why wouldn’t I be? It was a question to obvious to answer.

‘I’m not.’

This was Jilly C. telling me she was not wearing any knickers. And she smiled a knowing smile.

I felt alarmed. I felt somehow flattered to be trusted with such information.

But most of all, I felt like an initiate—a girl on the cusp.

Jilly’s book was open. But her interest in math seemed to add up to zero.

Thinking back, I felt that I must have been aware at some level of what was to come. But it makes perfect sense that I felt not the slightest alarm—only a curious anticipation. Perhaps even hope. But my goodly self then might not have understood that feeling as I do now.

Our skirts were the most unsexy things imaginable, but Jilly’s was hitched way up. Her substantial thighs showing, and I noticed so was the much skinnier girl’s on her other side.

This was the unknown. And yes, despite any misgivings I may have had, beneath I was seething with anticipation—the excitement of the unknown.

But somehow, whatever it was, I was ready. Willing?…well, that was still open to doubt (and so it remains). But yes, I was ready.

Ready for what? Well, the hand on the knee. And when it came, I felt like I was almost fainting with excitement. That first touch was (literally) lifechanging.

This was it.

I was sitting on Jilly’s left-hand side, and this was her right hand reaching across beneath the sightline above the desk. I can remember quite distinctly parting my thighs. Only a little mind. Just the tiniest fraction. After all…I didn’t want to encourage her, did I?

But whether she saw a red or green light, her hand travelled up my thigh. Not slow, not fast. Just smooth. Practiced.

Heartstopping.

I could feel my face hot and no doubt red—the lesson, whatever was being said, just faded to black. I felt I was in a silent world: just me and that hand. Even Jilly faded.

Her knuckles brushed me. Me. My sex. My vag. My fairy. My cunt.

Just brushed, mind. Through the thin cotton of my newly-despised panties.

I am reasonably sure that, at this point, I was not breathing. Everything inside me was clenched. Apart from my legs, and pretty soon, prying fingers replaced those grazing knuckles.

Then she was touching me. Me. Not my panties, not my thigh. But me. The inner me. Inside. In. My. Cunt.

My eyes, the ones that had blankly stared straight ahead, now dipped as my head fell forward, and I stared close-up at my desk as those fingers worked their way deeper. I have never forgotten that first invasion. It held everything.

And I was ready – so fucking ready – to cum.

Then the fingers stopped. Were stiff. Frozen. My needs with them.

And that is when I heard those words, the words that changed my understanding of myself. All Jilly said was, ‘Do you want me to carry on?’

Even now, the words carry some sexual magic.

Did I? O Christ, yes. Yes, yes and FUCKING YES AGAIN.

But…but…

The words were in my head, in my mouth, but they couldn’t come out. They were lodged there like stones. Saying them was not just difficult for me; it was impossible. I couldn’t do it.

But I was desperate. I could feel my juices flowing. I needed that YES, but it was like staring at something through iron bars. AND I could feel Jilly’s eyes on me, expectant… impatient.

And then, as my stomach could not have been tighter with excitement, I said the only words that I could squeeze out. The words which unwrapped who I am.

‘I can’t stop you, can I?’

In my mind I was shouting, do it, take me, take no notice, carry on, be a bitch to me, be a fucking predator. BULLY MY CUNT.

And Jilly? Jilly moved her fingers again, pushing deeper, and her thumb touched my clit.

That’s all it took.

The word intense doesn’t cover the sheer ferocity of it. I clenched so hard I trapped Jilly’s fingers, and I didn’t care. I felt Like I was about to burst—pieces of me to decorate those bland walls.

I was shaking, quaking. Shattered. And somehow, I realised that I was different. That I had needs and desires that I could not speak the name of, that I could not acknowledge.

But I also knew that I could accept them when available.

On that day, when I wanted it so bad, but couldn’t say so. I needed it taken out of my hands.

So wherever you are now, Jilly, I do remember those fingers very warmly.

I sat on that back row a lot after that. Always in maths. Sometimes it was Jilly, sometimes one of the others. I never minded who went up my skirt as long as it was somebody. I never wore knickers to maths, and I never stopped anyone who took a seat next to me and wanted to acquaint themselves. But interestingly, of all the girls who ‘did’ me…not a single one ever asked permission. I had become, quite literally, an easy touch.

To this day, maths are my worst subject.

Schoolgirl fingerings

Other posts you may enjoy

My earlier urges to show my body off to strangers. My Schoolgirl Exhibitionism tells how train passengers were my earliest ‘targets.’

Female exhibitionism as an adult was taken much more seriously, and the experience was so much more intense. It is a ‘high’ that just can’t be replicated. So keep an eye out 🙂

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