I was sixteen years old when I took a book from my sister. We were on holiday visiting family in far North Queensland, and it was the middle of summer, with scorching hot weather. We were bored teenagers walking the streets of a small country town. We visited the local store that served as the ultimate convenience store because it was a newsagent, post office, takeaway and video store all in one. My sister and I grabbed snacks and magazines to help us keep boredom at bay. While she chatted with the worker, I shyly stood to the side. I spoke when spoken to but stood quietly, not wanting to engage with anyone unnecessarily.
We returned to our relative's house in the middle of the day as the temperature hit its highest. We locked ourselves into our bedroom with the aircon on. We ate snacks, shared the Gameboy and read magazines. As a teenager, the magazine that piqued my interest was 'Cleo' Magazine. A women’s magazine that told helpful stories like, 'Is your crush into you?', 'What’s the best sexual position to provide you with the most pleasure?' And so on.
The item that intrigued me the most was an extra book with the magazine. It was a little book, approximately 15cm x 10cm, with a black cover and silver writing on the front. It was called 'Erotic Short Stories'. This little book had fifteen short stories from random writers. There were no pictures or colours; it was simple, and the best thing was that it was in my hands.
My friends, I have found it! It was the most exciting thing I’d ever touched in my life. That’s a lie. I was already proficient at masturbating by this stage, and my pussy was a pretty exciting thing to explore, but this was the perfect partner in crime. It is the ideal combo for a young girl's early nights in bed.
This little book of erotica slipped into my possession and became one of my nightly rituals over the next few years. It was tucked under my mattress, where I could easily retrieve it whenever needed. Lying in bed, I would reach under the mattress, on the wall side of the bed, and my fingers would feel the smoothness of its little spine. I’d lie back with the light off but the lamp on, open its pages and find my preferred stories. Each story must have been read at least a hundred times in this little book's life and what a life it had.
My favourite stories were ear-tagged for ease, ready for whatever mood took my fancy. I’d find the story that would help me escape to a world of masturbation, sex, anal, threesomes and homosexual desires. With different characters and settings all over the world. I could read these stories over and over again. Even though I knew each story's outcome, the excitement was always there. The anticipation still bubbled, and I became skilful in the art of well-timed orgasmic releases.
Once I'd picked my story, I’d settle in with excitement. I'd hold that little book with one hand because it was the perfect size to handle one-handed, which was extremely helpful. After all, my other hand was about to become exceptionally busy. I would start to read the words on the page, and my hand would creep down under my covers, and I’d give my pussy a rub over my briefs, and I would already feel the heat coming off my mound.
My hand would then travel up under my nightie, and my fingers would pinch and twist each of my nipples so that I could feel the zing of pleasure that would shoot from my nipples straight to my pussy’s core as it would clench with anticipation. An opening that had never had anything in it other than my very own fingers. An opening that would endure years of self-pleasure before it would ever have a cock inserted into it. A pussy that loved being rubbed and enjoyed my fingers as much as my fingers were obsessed with my vagina. They were a team, and along with my little erotica book, they were a powerhouse trio.
As the words from the story spoke of all things that my mind considered naughty, my hand would make its way under the band of my panties, and my digits would find their way towards my slit. Using two fingers, I'd open my soft lips and touch my bud of pleasure. Needing a bit of moisture, my fingers would find the hole already seeping by this stage. I'd gather that wetness, and my fingers would move back over my clit, rubbing it and caressing that magic spot.
If needed, I would zero in on parts of stories that took a particular interest. Phrases like licking and sucking her swollen wet pussy lips and my fingers and imagination would become that mouth on my pussy. My mind would envisage a rock-hard cock being inserted into my pussy because these were the words written on the page. As the character pumped his hips repeatedly, my pussy would be contracting and grasping for more.
I'd picture my tits bouncing like the female leads as I read that his hips were pistoning with precision, pounding her pussy roughly, so deep that his balls were slapping her ass and, in turn, my ass. The story had an orgasming hard cock that would be releasing ropes of cum, and her squirting wetness would cover his cock. He'd end up licking cum from her swollen wet hole, and my imagination would be right there along for the ride.
Well-written words are amazing things that, when seen, enable the mind to want more, need more and entice more. When the words are read, you want to feel the hard cock within your core, needing to feel the orgasm building to the point of explosion and enticing you to try for just one more release.
By this stage, my fingers were rubbing my clit so much that I could feel my pussy leaking juices galore. My fingers would find my hole and quickly pound my opening along with the cock in the story. My palm rubbed my mound with force as my fingers stretched my pussy open. I'd thrust my fingers and prolong my orgasm as long as would be needed so that my release would happen at the exact right time—finely timed releases.
As the characters screamed and moaned with pleasure, I set my quiet orgasm free and silently groaned with them. My pussy would clench and spasm along with the females in the story. Even if the stories were about males, their orgasms would still be exciting to read about. I would imagine that I was the male experiencing the same pleasures as the characters, and it didn't matter if it was a female or male release because they were one and the same as my own. I was them, and they were me. As my waves of climax subsided, I would longingly sigh with a satisfied grin.
I'd close that book with my wet fingers and tuck that little book back into its safe spot under my mattress. I'd switch off my lamp, settle into my soft bed and revisit the stories in my dreams. I'd start to come up with my fantasies and wish to one day write them down with hopes that some other person might have the same reactions to my words as I had with these writers of the past. They might feel the erotic urge deep inside their core as they read my words, and their own hands slowly travel silently towards their secret, naughty desires. It's a wish, and it's a hope.
I'm unsure what happened to that little erotica book, but hopefully, it found another home. After moving a few times, it sadly got lost in my travels. Perhaps it's sitting on a bookshelf somewhere and not hidden away under a mattress. Hopefully, it's covered in the juices of another with hints of my own aroma still attached- little smudges of pleasure and happiness of a teenage girl who became engrossed with her gratification and satisfaction through its words and direction. I hope it's started another person's worship of self-love. As they explore the never-ending art of orgasms, desire and their very own moments of peace and beloved bliss.
