Naughty Little Girl

You know he can see you from the other room through the open door and darkness. He does his best to keep his sidelong glances casual.

The thing that gives him away, besides the hungry look in his eye, is the long bulge angling up the front of his trousers. You will him to release it, to slide down the zipper and pull out the fat rod detaining his interest from seeking you, just a few feet away and naked with a hand between your legs. He is enraptured by his organ and strokes it like a treasure.

You no longer hold his attention. Disregarded for a penis, you spread your legs even wider. Just a fingertip and a little pressure will do it. You feel yourself rising as his head drops back, lips part, and release squirts out of the tip of his penis like a geyser. You follow with a shiver, a blessed rush of ecstasy. The blossom liberates tendrils of pleasure unfurling through your veins, boiling the blood, locking the muscles in spasm.
You wake at the tail end of the climax, soft moans escaping your lips, cunt clenching to dissipate the remaining force of the pleasure.

Sometimes it happens when you are alone. Sometimes it happens when you are lying next to one of them; John, Steve, Jason, Don, Rick, Robert, whomever. The dream is always the same. It is someone who is not supposed to see that does; a complete stranger, your uncle, or someone you love to hate. You are ignored, left behind, and you touch yourself until you come.

This has been happening since you were in high school. It scared you at first to wake up like that. It was scary until you found you could make it happen yourself in the bath.

The first time was innocent. Soaking in the warm water, you felt a heaviness you’d felt before, a heaviness that increased when you circled your nipples with your fingertips and watched the bubbles glide down your breasts. Unfortunately, they were too far away to put into your mouth. So you pinched and pulled them away from your body and—


This familiar hunger drove you to eye the faucet at your feet. Warm, wet, trickling. You pulled the plug and let the water circle down the drain. Sliding across the porcelain through soap residue, you aimed the stream at your need with both feet braced against the shower wall. You cried out so loud, your mother came to the door to ask if you were alright.

On this morning you smile, stretch, then reach under the covers and play in the thick wetness matting your pubic hair together. You look at his back to your left.

Eric, is it?

No, Samuel. Yes, his name is Samuel.

You listen carefully to his breathing.

He is still asleep.


Now you can slide from the bed, gather the clothes spread out all over the bedroom floor, and make a run for it. Why stick around? Why have the breakfast he promised, only for it to be eaten, cleared away, then ended with one excuse or another to get you to leave? Why not save him the trouble and the both of you from awkward morning silences?

He moans and shifts in his sleep and you freeze on the edge of the bed with the sheet clutched to your chest.

“Sarah,” he mumbles.

You wonder who she is. It’s not you, your name is Christie. At least you think it is, you keep forgetting.

One day you want to wake up on crisp, white sheets dried in fields of lavender on the Italian countryside. You are sick of jersey knit and flannel, posters of celebrities, sports heroes, and rock groups on the walls, booze and nicotine residue on your teeth and tongue every morning. You are sick of waking up and not knowing where you are. You are sick of them and you are sick of yourself.

You grab a bagel at the corner deli on the way to class.

Dr. Williams is talking about photosynthesis. You take some notes, but mostly you watch him, his khaki-packaged ass when he turns his back to the class to write something on the board, his exuberant gestures that knock tufts of gray hair into his eyes, and the way he hikes up the leg of his pants when he takes a seat on the corner of his desk to make room for his dick and balls. They are big. You know because you’ve sucked them.

It didn’t help your grade at all.

You feel that old need growing again. Your nipples tingle and tighten underneath a lace bra. The crotch of your panties is getting slippery with leaking desire. You shift in your seat to clamp off the pressure and manage to knock a neighbor’s books to the floor. You smile apologetically and help retrieve a pen that has landed at your feet.

How is it you became like this?

The queen of your sexuality is a bitch in heat, sitting on her throne in your mind, a hungry cunt waiting to engulf your offerings whole. She is quieted by one thing only, the brief moment of oblivion when your body takes over completely and your mind is lost to everything. She’ll make you do anything to obtain this peace. And right now she is howling so loudly, you can barely hear yourself think.

You glance at your two study partners. Melanie has her head down on the desk and is asleep. Tracy, who likes to lick cunt as much as you do before and after a study session, is upright in her chair, annoyingly wide-eyed and hanging on every word of the lecture. You decide to get notes from her later and leave early, unable to wait 10 minutes until the end of class. You step out quietly with a glance in the mighty professor’s direction. He frowns at you solemnly for being so disruptive and you head for the bathroom down the hall.

With one leg of your jeans crumpled around an ankle, you position yourself on the toilet and plant your feet against the door of the stall. You never know what might come out of that cunt of yours, so you like to be prepared. You’ve stripped away far too many bed sheets because of it.

Leaning back against the wall with your eyes closed like in the dream, you grab the strip of pubic hair between your legs and pull it back. Your lips stretch flat and out pops your clit, concealed under a little hood of wrinkled flesh. You flick it lightly, teasingly, until a smile tugs at the corners of your mouth.

All of them are there. The bathroom is full of them. All the men, all the boys. They are clawing at one another for a look under the door, through the cracks, over the top from the other stalls on either side. Some only grab hungrily at the front of their pants, others have already pulled it out and are pumping.

“Look at her!”

“What a juicy cunt!”

“She was the best fuck I’ve ever had!”

“My God, she’s going to come!”

And you almost do, but something peels your eyelids open, a sense you really are no longer alone. You find yourself actually staring into one wide, unblinking eye, peering through the crack in the door. You realize it is him from the smoky gray color of the eye—almost wiped out by the dilating black orb of his pupil. You make out the full, slightly parted lips you’ve seen speak a million words and spell endless lines of pleasure up and down your body. And you recognize those brown shoes with little laces and the argyle pattern of his socks at the ankle, visible below the bottom edge of the door.

You drop your feet down and demurely find the other leg of your jeans with a toe. He watches you dress, then steps aside as you emerge from the stall.

“How are you today, Howard?” You ask casually and walk to the sink to wash your hands, irritated he interrupted your impending orgasm. You don’t look up, but can sense him staring at you in the mirror.

“How am I?” His tone reminds you of your father. “Just what do you think you are doing in here? A student ran into class to get me. She thought someone was dying!”

“Oh, someone heard me? I hadn’t realized anyone came in.” You smile wickedly first at the flush of frustration in his face, then at the boner about to burst through the front of his pants.

You shake the water from your hands and reach for a paper towel.

“What were you doing in here? Playing with that dirty cunt of yours?” He growls in your ear when he lunges forward and presses you against the sink.

“Someone has to. You won’t do it anymore.”

“All those college boys don’t cut it for you?” He grinds his dick into your backside. “I see you looking at me in class.”


“So stop it. Everyone will know. And besides, I have to concentrate.”

“And you can’t when I am looking at you?” He unbuttons the front of your pants and nibbles up and down the side of your neck.

“Not when the look has “fuck me” written all over it. It’s over, we can’t do this anymore.”

These are words you’ve heard a hundred times. Your cunt squeezes in anticipation.

You stumble forward when he enters from behind, dives into you, and begins frantic, angry thrusts. His heavy sack swings back and forth and slaps your thick, plump lips with each movement. You watch his face in the mirror, pinched with strain, his brow knitted in concentration. You gaze at your own reflection, the blank eyes staring back, the golden locks of curly hair bobbing upon your shoulders, and you wonder if anyone will come in.

Yes! If someone came in and found you two like this..

His fingers don’t search long through the pubic hair to find the button of your pleasure. It’s red, it’s hot, and it’s bathed in a swathe of foam that drips down your thighs.

“Howard,” you moan, “say it, say those things again.”

He is biting his lip because he doesn’t want to admit he likes to play this way.


He chokes on the words, but you can hear them, and they send you soaring.

“Dirty. Naughty. Little. Girl. Little. Slut. Little. Whore!”

He drives the words separately with each deep plunge of his cock you feel all the way to your toes.

He jerks and freezes against you, so you help finish yourself off.

“That’s right! She’s a little slut! He’s fucking her! He’s fucking her!”

He’s fucking the All-American Girl Next Door. She’s so sweet. She’s so pretty. She loves to have her cheerleading bloomers shoved in her mouth, just don’t smear the pink lipstick…

A tidal wave bursts in your pelvis and shoots around his cock on its way out of your cunt. The release of pressure splatters him and the floor at your feet. It is still dripping when he yanks back and pulls out. The hole makes a squishing sound, as if trying to suck him back in.

You turn around and stare at him with a hand covering the smile on your face.

“God dammit!” he yells and looks down at the wetness darkening the cotton of his pants. He grabs a handful of towels and, in vain, tries to wipe away the soiling. “I have another class in 10 minutes!”

Despite yourself, you start laughing hysterically.

He shoots you one last dirty look and storms out of the room. Wild cackles follow him out the door and down the hallway.

You lean back against the sink and laugh and laugh until you start to cry.

© 2004 Lilie Berlin. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

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