That was only a taste

The next weekend, I came earlier. That first experience told me I wanted more than to just follow the lead of others. I was ready to start choosing for myself.

I’d notice a couple I guessed was in their mid-thirties. They looked playful, and their hands never left each other. Approaching them, I started to openly flirt as they spoke to me. The woman stroked my hair when I leaned closer, laughing at something she’d said. The man touched my thigh casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and my mind was swimming with how open they were in front of each other.

When they asked if I wanted to join them, my mouth said yes before my brain had caught up. I didn’t know what to expect, but being kissed by her while he pulled my dress down was like stepping into a fantasy I hadn’t even known I had. I learned just how soft and teasing a woman’s lips could be, contrasted by his rough calloused hands roaming at the same time. His cock was thick and dripping when he pressed it against my hip.

The rest left me in a heady rush, feeling her sliding her mouth down my body, showing me what it felt like to be opened and savored by another woman. At the same time, he took me from behind, stretching me fully and taking me hard. I clutched at her hair when she made me climax against her tongue, and then watched her turn to him, stroking him until he groaned. She caught every drop of his seed with her mouth, then surprised me by moving back up to kiss me again, sharing him with me in a way I never could have imagined.

It didn’t stop there. After several visits, I no longer waited for someone else to ask. I knew exactly what I wanted, and I went after it. Who wasn’t the focus, it was the adoration I was craving.

If a man smiled at me from across the lounge, I crossed the floor. If a woman brushed my arm in passing, I’d let my fingers tangle with hers to see how she’d react. I learned how to make eye contact that was a signal, and even how to lean in and let my dress fall open just enough to entice someone to make their move.

Sometimes it was a slow and indulgent experience with one man, languidly filling me until I forgot my name. Sometimes it was two, taking turns while the other whispered in my ear about how beautiful I looked, or perhaps even letting them use me like a Chinese Finger Trap. Once, it was one older, younger, and middle-aged guy at the same time, each with a different way of touching me until I didn’t know where one ended and the next began. The sensation of so many hands on you at once is indescribable.

The girl who came that first night had been nervously clinging to her boyfriend’s side. At this point, I was learning who I really was, and getting lost in it.

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