The Night I Discovered What My Body Could Do

I've been touching myself since I was nineteen. At first I carried an enormous amount of guilt, the kind they put into your head from girlhood about what a woman should or shouldn't do with her own body. But the years passed and the guilt wore away, like a stain that washes itself out with time. In its place, something else remained: pleasure, clean and asking no one's permission.

I've always enjoyed touching myself. Spreading my legs for myself, with no audience, with no one telling me what was right. Sliding two fingers into my pussy up to the knuckles, rubbing my clitoris in circles until it swelled and throbbed, or grabbing whatever I had at hand that could serve as an improvised dildo, and letting myself be carried away by the rhythm of my own breathing. It was my private ritual, the only space where I didn't have to answer to anyone.

I did it at night, almost always, when the house was asleep and I could hear my own pulse. I learned to know my body better than any lover who came afterward. I knew exactly where to press inside my pussy to make my skin prickle, how many seconds to hold my breath before I came, how to spread my outer lips with two fingers and use my thumb to grind my clitoris until the orgasm climbed up my spine. That silent education, done alone and in the dark, was the foundation for everything that came afterward.

The first time I heard about squirting, it was like discovering there was a secret room in a house I thought I knew by heart.

I was a curious girl who was just beginning to understand that I liked men and women equally. I spent entire nights watching videos of other girls squirting streams and streams of fluid, pussy spread wide open, soaking sheets and faces, fascinated, with a mixture of envy and desire I didn't know how to name. I want to do that, I thought. I need to know what it feels like to have my cunt gush like that, unable to stop it.

I remember it perfectly: a Saturday night, the house silent. I took my laptop and locked myself in my room. I searched for information, techniques, advice. Most of it said the same thing—patience, pressure in exactly the right spot, don't give up too soon—so I spread a towel over the bed just in case, settled back against the pillow, and prepared to try.

It took time. Nearly half an hour of touching myself, first over my panties, then slipping my hand beneath the elastic and feeling my pussy grow wetter until I soaked it completely. I tore off my panties and threw them on the floor. I spread my legs wide, licked two fingers, and buried them deep inside me, curling them upward, searching for that rough area everyone talked about as if it were a myth. I moved them in and out, squeezed, worked my fingers in circles against the front wall while my other hand rubbed my clitoris without stopping. There was a moment when I thought about giving up, thinking maybe my body just wasn't made for it, my fingers cramping and my cunt burning from all the rubbing. And just then, when I was almost ready to quit, something changed.

A different, urgent pressure rising from inside as if I had to pee but it wasn't piss. A weight gathering behind my pubic bone and pushing to get out.

The squirt came. I almost soaked the computer.

I stayed there, legs spread, watching several hot streams fall onto the towel, my pussy contracting again and again around the emptiness, my cunt releasing liquid in gushes as I trembled through an orgasm I enjoyed to the very last second. It was a physical revelation, almost scandalous. A few hoarse moans had escaped me that I didn't recognize, and my thighs were soaked all the way to my knees. Luckily for me, it would be the first, but nowhere near the last.

***

A few years later I had one of my first serious boyfriends. His name was Tobías, and he lived with the constant anxiety of people who are far away: we'd go weeks without seeing each other, and everything was held together by messages and video calls where he would pull his cock out on camera and I'd open my pajamas to show him my hard tits. One night the subject of sending each other pictures and videos came up, the sort of thing you do when desire can't find anywhere to land.

He asked me for a video. He wanted to see me touching myself, he said, in that low voice he used when he was really horny. He wanted me to push my fingers all the way inside while thinking about his cock, to spread my pussy for him.

I happily agreed. Not to please him, but because the idea of performing for a camera, of knowing I was being watched even from a distance, turned me on in a way I hadn't expected. So I got to work recording the most erotic material I could.

I started with my fingers, slowly, looking into the lens as if it were him. I sucked my fingers until they were shining with saliva and ran them over my nipples until they grew hard, then lowered my hand to my cunt and began spreading my lips for the camera, showing him how wet and shiny I was, how my hole contracted. But I wanted more. I picked up the handle of a hairbrush I had on the bedside table, long and thick, and began to slide it inside slowly, as if it were a cock, feeling the smooth plastic make its way in, forcing the entrance until my pussy swallowed it whole. This is going to be good, I thought, biting my lip so I wouldn't laugh at my own audacity.

Then I thought of changing positions. I rested my torso and breasts on the bed and planted my legs firmly on the floor, offering the camera my ass as the absolute star of the shot. With one hand I spread a cheek, showing him my asshole and my soaked cunt, and with the other I kept fucking myself with the brush, moving it in and out forcefully, faster and faster, until the entire handle came out shining with my juices. It was an unabashed, shameless pose, and that was exactly what I was after.

I kept up the thrusting of my improvised dildo until wet splashes escaped me every time I pushed it inside. The excitement began climbing up my back and along my thighs, until my legs trembled beyond my control. I felt that familiar pressure gathering, that urgent weight I already knew how to interpret. It wasn't just an orgasm announcing itself. It was one of those huge climaxes, the kind that swept everything away.

I pulled the brush out abruptly, and the streams spilled onto the floor in a provocative squirt, an arc of liquid shooting from my open pussy, accompanied by my own guttural moans—"Oh, daddy, look at me come"—which escaped louder than I'd intended. When I finished the show and sat up, still panting, my cunt throbbing and my thighs shining, I looked at the puddle I'd left on the tiles. I smiled. At last I could squirt effortlessly, like someone who learns to ride a bicycle and never forgets.

I sent the video to Tobías. His response arrived barely a minute later, three words typed with trembling hands. That night I understood that I had a power, and that I was only beginning to use it.

***

More years passed. More lovers passed through my life. And with each one I discovered how easy it was for me to become a fountain, how little my body needed before overflowing.

There was one in particular, Damián, who made my squirts his personal sport. The first time it happened, we were doing sixty-nine. I was sitting on his face, my cunt crushed against his mouth, while I had his entire cock down my throat, sucking it with hollowed cheeks and squeezing his balls with my hands. He licked my clitoris with the tip of his tongue, sliding it in and out of my pussy while sucking my entire labia, nibbling at them. Then he brought up two thick fingers and buried them to the knuckles, curling them exactly where they needed to curl, and kept eating my clitoris without slowing down. Before I knew it, I'd filled his mouth with streams. His whole face was soaked, his beard dripping, my fluids running down his neck to his chest.

He didn't complain. He laughed, proud, his lips shining, as if he'd just won something. He pulled my cock from his mouth for a second and gave me a sharp slap on the ass.

—Again —he said, and plunged his tongue back between my folds, sucking my clitoris with his lips and driving his fingers deeper.

From that night on, he made it a habit. Every time we fucked, he fingered me relentlessly, determined not to finish until I was a fountain. He had huge hands and infinite patience, and if he still had energy left, he could put them inside me again and again until he pulled five squirts out of me in a row in a single night. He fucked me first with his cock, pulling it out and thrusting it in hard until the slaps of his pelvis against my ass rang out, and when I'd already had my first orgasm, he pulled out, turned me onto my back, shoved my legs apart, and started with his fingers. Three, sometimes four, thrusting inside my pussy at a rhythm that made me shriek, his palm smacking my clitoris with every drive.

He could be rough. I clung to him after every orgasm, my nails digging into his back, because my legs stopped responding and I felt I would come apart if I didn't hold on to something. The bed was left soaked, and so were my thighs, while he kept moving his wrist inside me as if nothing were happening, sucking one of my nipples while staring straight into my eyes.

He had learned to read my body almost better than I had. He knew the exact instant my breathing changed, that second when I stopped moaning and held my breath, and right then he sped up instead of easing off. It was as if he knew the map of my nerve endings by heart. I surrendered to his certainty, trusting him, knowing he would always take me one step beyond where I thought my limit was.

—Don't let go —he'd whisper in my ear, his voice hoarse, without stopping fucking me with his fingers—. I'm not done with you yet. You're going to let out another squirt, slut, so hold on.

And I didn't want him to stop.

Once we did it in his own bed. We normally fucked in motels, on that neutral ground where no one had to think about the sheets. But that night was different. We started with him sitting on the edge of the mattress and me kneeling between his legs, sucking him with my whole mouth, spitting on the tip and using my hand to jerk his shaft while I sucked him all the way down. He grabbed my hair and began moving my head to his rhythm, fucking my mouth, while I looked up at him through tear-filled eyes, strands of saliva hanging from my chin. Then he threw me onto the bed on my back, shoved my legs apart, and drove his cock into me in one thrust, all the way into my pussy.

That night, in the middle of everything, he took me by the neck and squeezed just enough, choking me lightly and controllably, never crossing the line. With his other hand he kept fucking me, thrusting his pelvis against mine, his cock sliding in and out of my pussy with a wet sound that filled the room.

The gesture hurried my orgasm, concentrating everything at one point, on the verge of bursting. I held my breath, felt my pulse pounding at my temples, and my vision blurred for a second. When he loosened his hand, I let out a long, broken moan that emptied me completely. My pussy clenched around his cock so hard that I heard him curse, and at that same instant I exploded.

I'd soaked his sheets, his arm, half the mattress, his entire cock. A glorious mess. When he pulled out of me, another stream escaped from the front, soaking his belly and thighs.

I looked at him, still panting, my tits rising and falling, waiting for him to make a face at the mess. But Damián was there, lying beside me with a huge grin, looking at what he'd caused like someone admiring his own work. His cock was still hard, gleaming with my juices.

—You'll have to sleep on the wet side —I told him, laughing.

—It was worth every inch —he replied, bending down to suck one of my tits for dessert.

***

Sometimes I think about that nineteen-year-old girl locked in her room on a Saturday night, following the instructions in a video with a towel spread over the bed and her heart racing. She had no idea what she was beginning. She didn't know that that first stream onto the towel was only the prologue to a story that would last for years, with different names, different cocks, and different beds, but always with the same protagonist discovering what she was capable of.

To me, squirting is the most honest way to make pleasure tangible. It isn't faked, it isn't performed, it can't be hidden. Either it happens or it doesn't, and when it does, it leaves everything soaked without apologizing. It's my body shouting the truth.

I like that brazen honesty. In an age when everything is simulated, when you learn to perform desire to please others, my body refuses to lie. I can't fake a squirt the way you can fake a moan; either I really gush or nothing happens. And that inability to deceive, far from making me uncomfortable, seems to me the most liberating thing sex has ever given me.

As I write this, I confess, I have the handle of that same brush from that afternoon buried deep in my pussy, moving slowly in and out while my other hand rubs my clitoris in circles, remembering, letting memory do its work. I can already feel that familiar pressure building in my pubic bone, the weight announcing the stream that's about to come. Some fantasies don't need to be invented. All it takes is closing your eyes, spreading your legs, and returning to that first night when I understood that my body held a liquid secret, and that I had been born to release it.

I'm happy to be capable of having them one after another. Happy I didn't give up during that endless half hour. Happiest of all that I've learned never to feel even a trace of guilt again.