The Night I Finally Managed My First Squirt

I spent the whole night chasing something I had never felt before. For once in my life, I wanted to go so far that I would truly soak the bed. Not just any orgasm. I wanted a squirt, that one I had seen so many times and my body had never given me.

It all started hours earlier, when I got into the shower with nothing but the idea of going to sleep. I tried out a new soap, an oat one that smelled sweet, and I rubbed it slowly between my legs and from behind until I worked up a warm lather. No one was watching me, but I still swayed my hips against the shower wall as if someone were observing me from some corner. I laughed to myself at how slutty I felt in that moment.

I cooled that heat with a stream of cold water on the back of my neck and my nipples. I got out, combed my hair in front of the fogged-up mirror, and put on a loose pajama set, the kind I wear when I really mean to sleep. That was the plan. I swear it.

And then I saw a certain post while I was checking my phone in bed.

I don’t need to say what it was. It was enough to make something flare back up between my thighs. I got up, locked the door, untangled my headphones with fingers already impatient, and looked for exactly what my body was asking for. Big men, firm hands, women screaming without shame. I stayed hypnotized by those images, by the sound of skin slapping against skin, by that total surrender I envied so much.

I started slowly, over the fabric. Then I slid my hand inside the shorts. My fingers found everything hot, slippery, ready. It didn’t take me long to realize I was soaking the sheets, so I folded a towel and placed it under my hips. I knew I was going to need it.

I kept going with my fingers for a good while. I opened myself, closed myself, played with the rhythm. I slid two fingers in, curled them looking for that inner spot that made my back arch, and pulled them out to rub my clit with the wetness I carried with me. Between scene and scene, I started reading some stories I found, stories that got me even hotter than the images, because there I had to imagine everything, give a face, a body, and a voice to every detail. One in particular hooked me: a woman exposed and humiliated in a park in broad daylight, in front of strangers who watched her without touching her. I read it twice. My body responded as if the scene were happening to me, as if it were my legs being forced open by the power of the story.

I want to be her. I want them to look at me like that.

I felt my fingers starting to cramp, so I went for my favorite. A twenty-centimeter dildo, aquamarine, firm but with a soft surface to the touch. I had hidden it in the usual drawer, under the clothes I never wear. I spat on it and rubbed it from tip to base until it was gleaming.

I lifted it to my mouth and took it in slowly, as deep as I could, until my throat tightened and my eyes filled with water. I lowered it, dragging it between my breasts, let it rest for a second on my lower lips and then pushed it against my ass, just to feel the pressure. That night I wasn’t in the mood for that. I slid it toward the center and it went in without resistance, all at once, all the way in.

I sat on it thinking I’d be able to go up and down as if I were riding someone, but it was going in so snugly that it barely moved. I changed positions. I got on my knees and pushed my hips toward the edge of the bed, lifting my ass, offering myself to the air as if there were a man behind me waiting his turn.

That did it. There, the dildo started sliding.

I began with a soft rocking motion, exactly like the rhythm in the video playing in my ears. A couple who had started against the front door, moved to the sofa, and were now in bed, moaning without restraint. For my own pleasure, the man in the video looked a lot like someone I know. A guy with broad arms, firm thighs, a deep voice, and eyes such a vivid green they disarm me every time he crosses my path. For a couple of months I’d been imagining him, wanting him in silence every time I saw him, wondering what his breathing would sound like against my ear, how those big hands would feel gripping my hips. That night I lent him to my fantasy without asking his permission.

Imagine it’s him. Those hands are his. That voice is whispering in your ear how well you behave.

The dildo and my fingers moved in harmony. I didn’t moan very loudly; I didn’t want anyone in the house to hear me, so every time I felt something building I buried my face in the pillow and sped up the movement of my hands. But it didn’t happen. I could feel it close, almost touching it with my fingertips, and then it would slip away.

Three hours. I’d been working my body without mercy for three hours.

Was I still wet? Of course I was, drenched. Tired? A little. At some point I closed my eyes without stopping pushing the dildo inside me and fell into a micro-sleep for a few seconds, that strange rest where the body keeps moving on its own. When I opened them, my fingers were brushing my nipples almost out of inertia. And then an idea came to me.

The clips. I had a pair of plastic clothespins tucked away, the kind for hanging laundry, which I had used for this before.

I stood up with the dildo still inside me. I walked slowly around the room and felt it shifting with every step, pressing right where I liked it. It was delicious to walk around like that, full, on the verge. I took the clips out of the drawer, pulled my pajama top down until my breasts were bare, and clipped one onto each nipple. The friction from the fabric made them sway, and each swing pulled a little, tightening those little buds until they were rock hard.

I went back to the edge of the bed. This time I lay on my back, legs spread wide, with the clips pointing straight up at the ceiling. I pulled the dildo almost all the way out and sank it back in, slowly, measuring every centimeter. The finger on the clit, that never fails. And I kept going, with the moans of some woman wrecked by pleasure filling my ears, wishing with all my soul that I was the one screaming like that.

Then it came.

That different sensation, the one of not wanting to stop for anything in the world. I sped up both hands at once, one pumping the dildo, the other rubbing without rest. My breasts jolted with the movement and the clips swung from side to side, tugging, pulling at that sensitive skin. I felt something opening inside me, a pressure that kept growing and growing.

And suddenly, the water.

It came out of me with the dildo going in and out, making that wet sound, that slap that felt like the most glorious thing in the world. I felt it running down to my ass, soaking the towel, soaking everything. It didn’t stop. My body emptied in waves and I could barely breathe, biting the pillow so I wouldn’t scream.

I did it. I finally did it.

I gradually slowed down, still trembling. And there, with the last spasms, I did something I hadn’t planned: I pulled the clips upward, stretching my breasts until they formed two taut triangles. My nipples looked like two strips of modeling clay pulled to the limit. It hurt, but it was a pain that mixed with pleasure in such a way that I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

When I let go of the clips, that was when I really felt the pain. The blood rushing back all at once to those abused little buds. The cry slipped out inwardly, I crushed it deep into the pillow, and instead of wanting to get away from that sensation, the only thing I thought was that I wanted to do it again.

Again. I want to feel this again.

The dildo had already slipped out completely, abandoned between my open legs. I got up, put the clips back on, and started bouncing on the bed, laughing to myself, feeling how the weight and the movement made them tug even more. When I took them off again, the pain came harder, cleaner, and left my skin burning in a delicious way.

After that, my body asked for a truce. I let myself fall onto the damp towel and closed my eyes.

I was asleep almost immediately.

I woke up about an hour later, still naked, with my favorite resting beside me on the bed. I didn’t resist. I took it back to my mouth one last time, slowly, savoring what was left of the night, and went back to sleep hugging it, certain that this had only been the first of many times.