A Girl's Need

The algebra test was hard, but try as she did she couldn't concentrate.

Her hand pushed her dress between her legs, and her fingers squeezed her pussy repeatedly. She wasn't consciously masturbating. It was just a nervous habit, a response to the frustrations of racking her brain for answers and to the rising levels of hormones within her.

If only I could have come last night... or this morning, she thought. But studying late into the night and waking late had precluded playing with her clit, coming, and relieving herself as she almost always did—had to do—at least daily to maintain her equilibrium.

The test ended, and the girl hurried toward home, her pussy throbbing with need. Her vagina was flooded. She could feel her wetness on her panties. Her vulva was tumescent, her clit turgid. She envisioned the ridge of her hooded clit protruding from her labia, as she knew it was, and she envisioned the tip of her clit protruding from its hood, begging to be touched, rubbed, squeezed, and even abused. Her clit was so sensitive she knew it it would be to be rough with it, but sometimes she needed to punish her clit in the worst way to get off in the best.

Really, that was just in her imagination. She didn't want to injure herself. She didn't want to her clit so much that it hurt for hours (or days as she had once done) and would stop her from masturbating two or three times before she slept. But imagining a man holding her captive and taking his fill of her, slaking his thirst in whatever ways he wanted, tying her up, and threatening and hurting her—especially threatening and hurting her. Fear was a favorite fantasy.

The bus ride dragged on interminably, and boys she knew kept wanting to relate to her, to talk, kid her, tease, or flirt... Hurry, hurry, hurry, she thought, exhorting the bus driver to drive faster and traffic lights not to turn red.

She arrived home. Her mom and dad weren't there. She knew they wouldn't be home for hours, and it was only the site over the fence that stopped her from running to her bedroom, ripping off her clothes—she loved it when she could take them all off and be entirely naked—and burying her fingers in her pussy.

The sight was her neighbor, a man twice her age, and the drone of his lawnmower and concentration on his task prevented him from noticing the sexy girl he knew lived next door.

The man did know the girl a little, and she knew him. They'd met a number of times in the presence of her parents. But propriety dictated that he not indicate any _interest _and, likewise, she knew better than to give any sign of encouragement. Yet they did notice each other, and the attraction was obvious.

The girl, her pussy even more, if possible, swollen and inflamed, wondered for the millionth time what it would be like to be touched by a man rather than by herself. She'd had a few _touchings _over her short life as a young woman, but they'd been by boys and by a girlfriend. She knew that being touched by a man would be a whole other experience, and she wanted it.

But do I want to get fucked? she wondered. Am I ready? Will it hurt? She didn't think so, because she'd experimented with a variety of objects in her vagina. But a hard penis? Maybe a really big one? With a man driving it? Would he be rough? Could I get him to be gentle? The idea of rough appealed to her, yet in reality she wanted him to be gentle. But firm, she corrected herself.

The girl changed into a two piece bathing suit, one with a bra that suggested it could be easily opened and looked into. Don't do it, she told herself when she considered playing with her nipples to make them firm. If she started that she knew she wouldn't be able to stop, but she did remove the pads that hid the shape of her nipples, knowing her neighbor's eyes would feast upon them. Thinking of that, feeling it, made her nipples stiffen on their own.

The girl went outside with a book and lay on the chaise near the fence between her and her neighbor. She faced the fence and parted her legs slightly—enough to tease but not enough to give away more than a hint of treasures within. She pretended to read, but the top of the fence was below eye level, and there was no chance that on his next pass her neighbor wouldn't notice her.