My Mission to Masturbation

I think I was 13 the first time I masturbated. At the time I didn’t know what the clitoris was, or rather that it had a great purpose. It was just this fleshy nub at the top of my vulva. An ugly shriveled thing that protruded from my almost hairless genitalia. Like so many young men and women, I thought that majority of the greatness that was sex, came from inserting something into a vagina. I had just gotten my first period, that first red release making me believe that I was a woman. A woman should know about sex and therefore, it was time I learned.

Product of Environment

I was old enough to have started to notice boys, but not quite old enough to yet see their bodies or their genitalia. Having not been exposed to them, I felt like I was doing something wrong when I looked at men’s and boys’ bodies, curious to know why we were different, even though I knew that our private parts were. The glances I took left me feeling like I was a peeping tom. I shied away from the male gender more out of being caught looking than actually being shy.

I remember thinking that I needed to know what the big deal was. Why did girls like boys and women like men so much? Girls in my school were having sex, and while some didn’t enjoy it a whole lot, others made it sound incredible. I would sit on the school bus at each day’s end, listening to these girls whisper about how they loved it. How it felt when the boys in their lives pushed himself into her. Of course, now that I look back, these were the older girls. The ones who had gained a bit of practice.

Curves and Contours

My first time fantasising, I thought of women. I had had plenty of exposure to naked women and girls. At the pool, in gym class. Movies always made women glorious creatures (of course, they are), while men’s bodies were hidden away. Breasts were made to be these beautiful voluptuous orbs that filled a frame, penis’s hidden behind layers, talked about like they were dirty or not worthy of the same attention that women’s body parts received. As I hadn’t actually seen a real-life penis yet, I didn’t have much to go on, but I didn’t think I liked boys all that much.

I lay in my adolescent bed that first time, discovering my body. How my little nipples became erect when I touched them lightly, how my folds became moist after a little bit of rubbing and thinking about how it felt good to be touched there.

I thought of women touching me, me kissing their beautiful full red lips. Holding their round breasts inside my hands. I writhed and moaned inside my bed, touching but not sure what else to do. I had this feeling of being empty like I needed something inside me to fill the space and get rid of the ache that I had created in myself. I got out of my bed, removing my clothes as I went unsure how I could quelch this thirst that I now very much understood. It was a need, a need to feel whole. A need to have something make you feel whole.

Filling a Void

I looked around my bedroom, looking for something to fill my emptiness. I picked things up, just to put them down. I knew that being a virgin, I wouldn’t have a lot of space. I needed to feel what it was like, but I didn’t want to risk hurting myself. I had heard horrible horror stories of girls first times. How they felt like they were being ripped in half, how they had this almost unbearable pain the first time. I didn’t want to experience the pain. How naive I was, now knowing that pain would later become a friend, a bed mate.

My hand finally landed on a nail polish container. The polish an ugly orange color that I was sure I would never use, but the owning of such an implement making me one step closer to womanhood. It had a long handle, thinner than a finger, the base, hardly bigger around than a thumb. This would work, it’s not too big, not too small, just right, I thought, mimicking another overly curious young girl.

I lay back in my bed and ran my fingers through my flesh, the moisture gathered there becoming almost too much as my mind relayed visions of long, lean women touching me, smothering me with their big breasts. Pushing themselves onto my own body. I set the little jar at my entrance and slowly inserted it. When I was holding just the round base, I pulled out and pushed back in.

Impulsive Actions

The handle was thin and it didn’t feel like much, it didn’t scratch the itch that was so persistent inside me. I pushed harder, faster, thrusting it inside myself, my body opening to take more. I pushed and pulled then pushed again and suddenly, it was gone. Buried inside me. Swallowed by my vulva. I had pushed too hard and could no longer feel the base in my wet hold.

I panicked. Sitting up and removing my hands from my pleasure spots, I ran to the bathroom and put one leg up on the sink, looking down at my vulva, trying to find the runaway bottle.  I couldn’t see it and pressed one finger inside, excruciatingly slowly. I could feel it but was worried I would push it in further if I moved around too much. I was too scared to put another finger or thumb inside me to grab it. I was worried I would tear myself, not realising that the vaginal walls are the stretchiest and strongest thing on earth. I was worried about ripping my hymen, not realizing it’s required something larger than a finger.

Eventually, I sat on the toilet and pushed with everything I had, the little bottle escaping with a splash, then a clunk as it collided with the bowl. I sat there, my head in my hands, my chest heaving, tears running down my face. That bottle became garbage and I didn’t touch myself sexually for many years after that.

Learning my Likes

For a long time, I thought I was a lesbian. Even when I started dating boys, I still found women’s bodies attractive. Their curves were more appealing than men. I found their bodies to be curvaceous and bold. Men’s to be flat lines with little promise for lust. To hide my thoughts of homosexuality, I would do almost any sexual act that the boys I began to experiment with could conceive. If I did all these things, maybe the thoughts of being a lesbian would be removed from my brain.

I began to enjoy sex, to love men’s bodies, finding that I enjoyed being full. But I never climaxed. I had heard stories of great orgasms, the wetness created soaking beds. The women these orgasms were ripped from exhausted in their pleasure. I watched porn, to learn how women like to be touched, to see what it was that they so enjoyed. I would see these women on screen, see their pleasure and it would make me think of how my experiences were not like that. I told the guy I was dating as much.

A New Adventure

The next time we came together to have sex, he had me learn how I liked to be touched. Having me strip down and lay on his bed, he took his time touching various parts of my body. Sliding his finger over my folds, slowly inserting them into my vagina. Turning them this way and that.

He removed his fingers from me and pushed them into my mouth. The taste of my own muskiness filling my mouth with saliva, my womanhood with heat. He rubbed and licked each part of me, before settling between my legs. Opening my thighs he ran his tongue from my clit to my puckered hole, to return to my clit, my body coming alive at his touch. His tongue circled and then he pulled back.

Taking my hand he placed it on my nub and just looked at me. I just looked back. Did he want me to touch myself? He didn’t say anything, he just stared at me while I stared back, and eventually, I became daring and circled my clit with my fingers. The jolt of electricity that I experienced told me that I could indeed have the kind of pleasure I had seen.

I rubbed harder and faster, my breaths became panting, ragged gasps. Sweat formed on my brow. I rubbed and I rubbed, my fingers chasing my climax up a hill to reach a plateau. Running across that plateau, standing on the edge, then suddenly, I tipped over. My climax ripped from me, to be hurdled through space. I came hard (even to my standards today), and as I continued rubbing my fingers over myself my boyfriend said loudly, “Push”. I did and I learned how to soak the sheets, and become exhausted from pleasure.

Taming the Beast

To say he created a monster is an understatement. Now that I knew how to find pleasure, I would, daily, sometimes twice a day. I began masturbating so much that eventually, it lost its appeal. It became a routine, like so many other tasks on a list. A part of a daily dance to get from one day to the next. The act of finding pleasure, not so pleasurable anymore. Masturbation just became a part of everyday life.

When Mister K and I first started a D/s dynamic, the first thing I offered was my self-pleasure. It wasn’t doing much for me anyway. It was now a part of the day, not the great chase it had started as.

At first, it wasn’t a big deal. Mister K is a generous lover and makes sure that I am satisfied before himself unless I’ve been a bad girl, then it’s all about him. But there came a time when I missed it. Not the act of masturbating, but the release. I was so used to having those endorphins released each day that the lack started playing with my emotions.

Good things Come

Instead of ordering me to masturbate or stopping me altogether, Mister K has told me that I can, but for every time I do, he needs to see the proof. It’s been interesting, and intriguing to say the least. Most days I choose not too, as I prefer to let Mister K have his way with me. Even my self-pleasure giving way to my submission.

I still fantasise about women quite often and have even had sex with a few (before Mister K and D/s). Though I now know I’m not a lesbian, I’m not sure if I’m bi-sexual, to be honest. I identify as a monogamous, straight woman, but when I masturbate, I’m reminded of that time when I only knew of women’s gorgeous bodies and how it would feel to touch them.

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