Masturbating to her memories

The mirror isn't heavy. That surprises you. You'd expected the cheap full-length thing to fight back when you lifted it off the door, but May's arms are stronger than they look—Pilates arms, the kind that carry their own quiet strength—and you swing it across the room like it weighs nothing.

You prop it against the wall at the foot of the bed, angled just so. From the mattress, with a pillow folded under your head, you'd be looking straight into it. Every part of you visible. The whole length of May's body, laid out like a photograph you get to move inside of.

"This is insane", you think. "This is actually insane."

Your knees sink into the mattress first. The sheets are the same ones you've had since sophomore year, grey cotton, a little pilled, a faint smell of laundry detergent and your own sweat. They feel different on May's skin. Softer. Every thread registers, and the cotton drags deliciously against your bare thighs as you crawl toward the center of the bed.

You arrange yourself slowly. On your back. Pillow folded under your head, another one wedged under your hips because her memories tell you this angle hits something deeper, something better. Your hair fans out across the pillowcase, blonde strands catching the low light from the lamp. You bend your knees and let them fall open.

The mirror gives you everything.

May stares back. Her tits flattened slightly under their own weight, nipples dark against the pale skin, ribs rising and falling with each breath you take. The smooth plane of her stomach. Below it, the bare, waxed mound, and below that—past the soft crease of her thighs—the pink seam of her pussy, already glistening.

You reach down with one hand and touch it, and the whole world tilts.

The wetness is the first thing. Slick and warm, gathered along the inner lips, and your fingertips slide with almost no resistance. May's fingers know the geography before your brain does—they find the outer lips first, spread them gently, let the cooler air reach the skin that's been covered. Then the inner lips, softer, thinner, slick with something your body just made all by itself.

Your clit peeks out from under its hood, a tiny pale pearl, and the second your middle finger grazes it, your hips jerk off the mattress.

"Ah—"

The sound in the room is May's. High, breathy, a little startled, and it makes you laugh—a nervous, giddy laugh that dissolves into a sharp inhale when your finger circles the clit again.

Her memories guide you. That's the only way to describe it. Your hand moves like it's been doing this for years, because it has. Slow circles first. The exact pressure she likes, not too light, not too firm, the flat of the fingertip rather than the tip. A rhythm your conscious mind never could have found. Your hips roll to meet it in tiny increments, a half-inch at a time, and in the mirror May's back arches in a long, slow curve.

Your other hand finds a breast. Cupping it from below, lifting, thumb dragging across the nipple. The bud hardens instantly and a wire of pleasure runs straight from that point to your clit, connecting them, so that when your thumb circles the nipple your pussy clenches around nothing at all and a small gush of wetness seeps out onto the sheets beneath you.

God, that's—

The thought doesn't finish. May's memories won't let it.

They rise up behind your eyes, bright and detailed, and you let them play while your fingers keep circling.

---

The lacrosse player last spring. His truck parked behind the Sigma house, engine still ticking from the drive. Her jeans around one ankle because there wasn't time to take them off properly. His mouth on her neck, sloppy, urgent, one hand shoved down the front of her underwear with two fingers already inside her before he'd even said her name twice.

She came in four minutes flat. He took fifteen more and she was bored by the end, watching a moth batter itself against the dome light. She let him finish on her stomach because it was faster than arguing. Wiped herself off with a fast-food napkin from the glove box and got dressed before he'd even softened.

She didn't text him back.

---

Your fingers slide lower, gathering wetness from your entrance and dragging it back up to your clit. The motion is muscle memory now. May's muscle memory. You watch your own hand through half-lidded eyes and the image in the mirror is obscene in a way that makes your chest ache—your pale thighs spread wide, your wrist rolling in slow circles, your mouth fallen open.

The other memory surfaces without permission.

---

The changing room at the aquatic center. Junior year. The team's star swimmer had pulled May into a stall after a meet and dropped to his knees on the wet tile without asking anything in return. Just wanted to. May had stood with one foot braced against the wall and one hand in the swimmer's short hair, and let his tongue work, and it had gone on for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of being worked over by someone who clearly enjoyed it, and when May came, she came twice, and the swimmer stood up afterward with a red mark on his knees and a grin, and walked out of the locker room without a word.

No phone number. No follow-up. Nothing. May had loved that. Nothing owed. Nothing given back. Just pleasure extracted cleanly, like a transaction with only one signature.

---

The memory pushes you over the first edge.

Not a full orgasm—a swell, the kind that builds in the belly and rolls outward and then recedes just before it crests. Your hips jerk twice off the mattress and your free hand grips the sheets, twisting them, and a long sound escapes you that isn't quite a word.

You ease off the clit. Circle the entrance instead. Two fingers, middle and ring, sliding in up to the second knuckle with no resistance at all. The stretch is new. You've felt your own cock in your hand a thousand times, but this is different—the fullness comes from inside, radiating outward, and your walls clench around your fingers in a slow, pulsing rhythm you don't control.

---

Two frat guys at the Delta house, a senior and a sophomore, and she'd been spitroasted between them in a bedroom that smelled like cheap cologne and stale beer. One in her mouth, one behind her, and she'd come from the one behind her alone while the one in her mouth watched her face, and when the one behind her finished, she'd finished the other one off with her hand and her mouth at the same time, and when it was over she'd used their bathroom, washed her face, and walked home alone at four in the morning through the empty streets.

She never learned their names. They had always known hers. It was one of the best nights of her junior year.

---

Your fingers curl inside you and the motion—that come-hither angle her hand knows—hits something deep and low, and your whole body tenses like a fist.

The mirror shows everything. Your tits pushed up and swollen, nipples dark and tight, a sheen of sweat breaking across your collarbone. Your thighs shaking at the edges. Your wrist wet to the palm.

You pull the fingers out and bring them to your mouth without thinking, and the taste is strange and sweet and unmistakably May, and you suck them clean while your other hand takes over the clit, faster now, tighter circles.

---

The cute guy from her stats class, the one who was sweet and eager and completely broke. She'd let him come over to "study" and then she'd straddled him on the floor of her flat and ridden him until he'd agreed to do her entire problem set, and she'd kept going after he agreed, just because she wasn't done. He'd come hard. She'd come once. He'd done her homework for the rest of the semester. She'd bought him lunch once as a thank-you. He'd looked at her like she was the sun.

---

The memory of the BBC comes next, unbidden, and the details are sharp—the hotel room downtown, the older guy she'd met through a friend, six-foot-four and built like a door, and the way he'd stretched her open slowly and carefully and then fucked her from behind with one hand flat against her lower back until she'd come twice on his cock and once more on his fingers, and afterward she'd ordered room service and eaten a burger while he showered and neither had said a word about a second time.

You moan aloud at that one. Actually moan, out loud, in your own flat, and the sound in the mirror is May's throat and May's mouth and May's tongue curling behind May's teeth.

---

The unenthusiastic handjob. Last fall. A guy at a Halloween party, dressed as a vampire, twenty-five and cocky and boring, and she'd pulled him into the bathroom and given him a handjob that she now remembers as the laziest thing she's ever done—twelve minutes of half-hearted tugging, her eyes mostly on the door, her mind on whether her friends had left yet—and when he'd finished he'd kissed her cheek and said "thanks" like she'd held a door for him and gone back to the party looking like he'd just won something. She'd washed her hands and rejoined her friends like nothing had happened.

She still thinks about that sometimes. How little effort it can take to make a man's whole night.

---

Your fingers are moving faster now. The circles on your clit have collapsed into a tight, focused pulse, and your other hand is back inside you, three fingers now, fucking yourself in a steady rhythm that pushes the heel of your palm against your clit with every stroke. The mirror shows your tits bouncing with the motion, small tight oscillations, and your mouth is open and your eyes are half-closed and you look like every woman you've ever watched from across a lecture hall and never had the courage to say hello to.

That's the thought that does it.

You were never going to have this. You were never going to be this.

The orgasm hits like a wave that's been building the whole time.

It starts deep in your pussy, in the walls that are clamped around your three fingers, and rolls outward—up through your stomach, into your chest, down into your thighs, out into your fingertips and toes. Your eyes squeeze shut and your back arches and your mouth opens on a sound that doesn't have a shape. Your hips buck against your own hand, two, three, four times, and your fingers keep moving because they can't stop, riding the last wave out, and a gush of wetness spills out around them and soaks into the grey cotton beneath you—a spreading dark stain that you feel under your wrist and ass and lower back.

The aftershocks come in twos and threes. Small, sharp pulses that make your thighs twitch. Your breath rushes in and out in ragged pulls.

You open your eyes.

May is in the mirror. Flushed from her chest to her hairline, sweat-shiny at the throat, one hand still resting between her legs, wet from knuckle to wrist, her pussy lips reddened and puffy. The sheets below her are ruined—a slick, dark patch the size of a dinner plate, spreading past her hip on one side and the base of her spine on the other.

You pull your fingers out slowly. They come free with a soft, wet sound, and you hold them up in front of the mirror and watch May's fingers glisten.

That was—

There's no finishing it. There's no word.