My First Anal Squirt Dressed as a Schoolgirl

The whole house was mine that September afternoon. My parents had gone out of town for a birthday, and my sister, Camila, was on duty at the hospital until the next day. It was four o’clock and the light came in through the blinds, forming yellow stripes across the parquet floor. I had been waiting for an afternoon like that for weeks.

My name is Salma, though almost no one in my life knows that yet. I’m twenty-two, slim, with wavy brown hair I’d let grow to my shoulders over the last year of college. I’m fair-skinned, I’m five foot nine barefoot, and ever since I started going to the gym to work on my lower body, my profile silhouette had begun to look like the one I’d always imagined for myself. My friends envied my hips. I smiled and said nothing.

After the first time I touched myself thinking of myself as a woman—the first time I understood what my body could give me—I didn’t want to go back. Every night I had the room to myself, I looked for something new to experiment with. I started with my own fingers, then the cylindrical handle of a round brush I no longer used, and little by little I built up an improvised repertoire that I hid behind the literature books on the lower shelf.

That afternoon I decided to go further.

I took from the back of my drawer the two objects I’d been saving for an occasion like that. The first was a cylindrical bottle of hair fixative my mother had stopped using: four centimeters thick, thirteen long, smooth plastic, perfect for training. The second, my little treasure, was a glass jar with a ridged base that I’d found on sale in an antique shop. Five centimeters thick, sixteen long. I’d washed it so many times that the original label was only a shadow.

***

I decided to play schoolgirl.

I opened Camila’s closet and took down her short-sleeved white shirt, the one she hadn’t worn in years. I buttoned it up, leaving the first two buttons open, and tied the rest above my navel. From my own drawer I pulled out a plaid skirt I’d bought online, short, ending just two fingers below the tops of my thighs. Black stockings that came halfway up my thighs. A pink satin panty in front, lace in back, which I was wearing for the first time that afternoon.

The makeup took me almost an hour. I wanted it done right. Foundation, concealer, a cat-eye to lengthen my gaze, smoky shadow on my lids, and a wine-colored lipstick that I knew would leave its mark on everything I touched with my mouth. I tied my hair to one side with a ribbon and, last, the black heels I’d hidden in an old shoebox for months.

I looked at myself in the closet mirror. The girl staring back at me was new. It was me, but also someone who only existed when the house was empty. I felt a shiver, and I wasn’t sure if it was fear or desire.

***

I knelt on the bed, turned on low music—something slow, with piano—and took the small dildo in both hands. I kissed it first. Then I slowly stuck out my tongue, licked it from the base, and finally put it in my mouth as if I wanted to learn it. The saliva mixed with the lipstick and began to smear over the plastic. I pushed it deeper, all the way to the back, feeling the smooth tube open my throat and force me to breathe through my nose. The gag reflex hit me suddenly; my eyes watered and two tears slid down my cheeks, dragging the black eyeliner with them.

I pulled back to breathe, panting. Strings of saliva stretched from my mouth to the cylinder and broke over the sheet. I looked at myself in the mirror and there I was: a messy schoolgirl, with smeared lipstick, watery eyes, red cheeks. The sight turned me on more than anything I’d ever read online. I took it again in my hand, ran it over my lips, sucked it again, now hungrier, letting myself make noise, letting out a low moan that vibrated in my throat as if there were already someone in front of me watching me open my mouth.

I got on all fours. I pulled the panty down to my thighs—I didn’t want to take it off completely, I liked feeling it taut on my legs—and let the air brush me. I put lubricant on my fingers and started preparing myself. One first. Then two. The first pressure always burned, but I already knew the trick: breathe, let go, push against my own hand. My fingers sank into the wet flesh more and more easily, and every time I pulled them out a little and pushed them back in I felt my anus open a little more, yielding reluctantly, accepting the sweet punishment of being filled.

When I felt it accept without fighting, I grabbed the glass jar and lubed it completely. I pressed it to the entrance and pushed.

—Ahh.

The glass was different. It was cold, hard, it didn’t give like skin. I pushed and my body answered by closing down. I waited. I rested my forehead on the pillow, bit the cushion. I tried again, slower, letting my own weight push it inward. The tip went in and stayed there, opening me with a firm pressure, heavy, almost insolent.

—Mmmph —I bit harder.

Five centimeters. Ten. Twelve. When I felt the thickness settle inside me, I stayed still for a few seconds, breathing hard. I felt open in a way I’d never been before. It wasn’t just the physical sensation: it was knowing I was doing that to myself, and that no one in the world could see it. The jar seemed to be nailed into the exact center of my body, tightening every muscle around the cold glass, and that tension made me squeeze my thighs, get even wetter, tremble with pure expectation.

I pulled it out carefully, rose up on my knees, and took a moment to look at myself. My lipstick was smeared, the ribbon in my hair crooked, my stockings slid down one leg. I licked my lips. Camila’s shirt had come open completely.

I pushed it in again, now with my body cooperating. I shoved all the way in and started moving against it, slowly at first, then with more rhythm. The sensation of total fullness, of being pushed from inside, left me breathless. The glass brushed my inner walls with a clean, brutal hardness, and the wet sound of my ass swallowing it and letting it go with each sway filled the room along with my broken breathing. My own sex swayed beneath me, abandoned, without needing to touch it, but every movement of my hips made my lips rub against the air and little spasms escape in my belly.

I imagined another scene. I wasn’t alone. There was a man behind me, someone big, his left hand gripping my waist and his right hand pushing the glass for me. I imagined him breathing on my neck, telling me to shut up, biting my earlobe. The fantasy made me lose the rhythm: I started moving faster, uncoordinated, as if he were already on top of me, setting the pace with hard hip thrusts, making me bounce on an impossible cock that opened me wider and wider with each imaginary slam.

—Yes, yes, like that —I murmured into the pillow, not for anyone, just to fill the room with my voice.

I let go of the dildo with one hand and stayed supported only on my forearms, letting the glass go all the way in each time my hips dropped. A dull thud sounded every time my ass hit the base. The room smelled of perfume and sweat, of my own thick arousal, of latex and soap mixed into the hot dampness of the sheet. My breathing was already a continuous moan, rough, with short pauses to swallow saliva and push myself back against the glass as if I needed more, always more.

***

I changed positions. I lay on my back, spread my legs, and braced my feet on the headboard. I grabbed a pillow with one arm, hugged it to my chest, and with the other hand guided the jar again. This time I wanted it to feel like in a movie: me underneath, receiving, legs open, clutching something that was no one but that my mind turned into a man’s body. I put it in again slowly, savoring the instant when the tip pressed at the entrance and then gave way, making the rest of the glass body swallow my insides with a shiver that arched my back.

The angle changed everything. The glass went in straighter and, somewhere along the way, hit a place inside me I’d never found before. It was like a switch. Every time it passed there, a current shot up my back to the base of my skull. My thighs tensed, my knees opened wider, and my fingers dug into the pillow as if they were the only anchors I had left.

—Ah.

It wasn’t a theatrical moan. It was a small sound, almost childish, that slipped out of me without permission. It startled me a little. I stopped. I searched for it again with a short, exploratory motion, and it came back. I insisted. The current grew clearer, longer, more concrete. My head was spinning. I started thrusting my hips in short pulses, clumsily but determinedly, and the jar answered, going in and out with a wet friction that kept my insides throbbing. Each thrust tore a louder sigh from me, a stronger tremble in my belly, a contraction in my ass that made me tighten involuntarily around the glass.

I got up with my legs trembling and knelt again, this time facing the wall. I pressed my left hand against the plaster, spread my feet, arched my back like I’d seen in a photo I kept in a hidden folder on my phone. From that angle the glass went in directly to the exact spot. I felt it opening me better, how each new centimeter of glass settled with solid pressure, and I braced my other hand on the dresser edge so I wouldn’t fall when the first thrust made my legs shake.

It took ten, maybe twelve thrusts. I felt it coming differently, not like the others. It was a wave starting somewhere below my navel and spreading toward my thighs, my feet, my hands. I clenched my teeth. I shut my eyes. My forehead hit the wall tiles and I didn’t care. I kept moving, fast, desperate, letting myself be punished by the glass going in and out, feeling pleasure concentrate into a knot growing more ferocious at the center of my abdomen.

And then it happened.

My sex, without me touching it, without any command, started releasing a transparent liquid in short, steady spurts, as if a valve had given way. I fell forward, resting my forehead and forearms against the wall and letting my body finish on its own what it had started. The liquid ran down my thighs, my stockings, formed a puddle on the parquet. My legs were shaking, my ass burned inside and out, and even so I kept going for a couple more thrusts, as if I wanted to squeeze the last drop of that wonderful pressure out of myself.

I stayed still. Breathing hard. Not really understanding what had just happened.

***

It took me several minutes to move. My legs were so weak I had to sit on the edge of the bed. The glass had slipped out on its own. I took off my heels and sat for a while staring at the ceiling, listening to my own breathing return to normal.

Then I went to the bathroom, turned on the sink tap, and splashed cold water on my face. The eyeliner had left two black streaks from my eyes to my chin. I laughed out loud. I looked like I’d cried at a wedding.

I’d read it a hundred times in forums, in threads about the prostate, in confessions from other girls like me. But reading wasn’t the same as feeling. What my body had just done didn’t resemble any previous orgasm. It was deeper, longer, less genital and more nervous. It was as if I’d been reset from the inside. I still felt the echo of the glass in my anus, the jolt through my inner walls, the tremor spreading up my back every time I remembered the exact point where everything had lit up.

I wanted to do it again.

I cleaned the floor, changed the sheets, drank water. I touched up the eyeliner just enough. And I went back. This time I didn’t need preparation: I was still open, still sensitive, still with my body on alert. I pressed both hands against the wall, spread my feet, arched my back, and slipped it all the way in with one controlled motion. The jar went in with less resistance, and that fact alone made me gasp, because it meant my body was already expecting it, already wanting it, already ready to let itself be taken again.

It took less time. Five thrusts, maybe six, and the wave was already rising again. My head tilted to one side, my tongue hung at the corner of my mouth as if I’d run out of battery, and my body emptied a second time over the parquet, over the stockings, over the tops of my feet. Moisture was streaming down my thighs and my ass pulsed with a deep, almost sore tingling, but that fine pain excited me even more. I clutched the bed edge to hold myself up and kept moving until my legs stopped responding.

I slid down to the floor, slowly, laughing softly. My hair was stuck to my forehead, Camila’s shirt was completely open, my skirt had ridden up to my waist. If someone had opened the door then, I wouldn’t have cared. I was too far gone.

I dressed like a girl on the street as if nothing had happened, washed the clothes in cold water, and put them in the dryer before my sister got back. I returned the shirt to Camila’s closet. I hid the glass jar back in its hiding place, behind the books, with a new kind of affection. I made myself tea and sat on the sofa with my legs still weak, watching through the window as the sky turned orange.

That was my first time. The first time my body gave me something I didn’t even know it could give me. And I knew, sitting on that sofa with the cup trembling slightly in my hands, that it wouldn’t be the last.