“When I was a little girl,” she said, settling into his lap, “my father had a small psychiatric practice in our house.”
It was a lazy Sunday. She wore a soft, very thin summer dress with nothing under it. We were languid from breakfast. We were still new to each other, and the intimacy of her closeness, her body against mine in awkward ways as she sat on my lap, made me very aware of both of our bodies.
“We weren’t rich, but we had a pretty good life. Still, there was no money for a proper office or daycare, and mom worked, so when he had patients over, he would just tell my brother and me to go to our rooms and be very quiet.”
As she told me the story, she sat sideways on my lap, her feet on the arm of the chair, her hands folded in her own lap.
“I was the kind of kid who didn’t find that a punishment or something boring. It was an adventure. It was a game. Like when you pretend the floor was lava,” she laughed.
“So I read books, and I wrote in my diary, and I looked out the window, and there was something romantic in the forced solitude. My brother, in his room next door, wasn’t as good at being quiet, and I would wince every time he dropped a toy or sneezed.”
“By the time I was in high school, it was just part of life,” she explained with a smile.
She settled into my lap, her ass pressing against me. She wasn’t a little girl. Her hips were thick, her belly soft and round, her ass wide. I liked her size. I liked her softness. I wrapped my arms around her and listened to her story.
“By then, another big part of my life was masturbation, of course. Those long sessions my father had were the perfect times to lay in bed and explore,” she said, as my hand moved to her belly and then up, up to the swell of her breasts.
“My breasts were very big, even then. I hated it, the way other kids and even teachers looked at me, but it was that shame that also touched on something else. It was complicated. I remember picturing lots of men looking at me. Faceless figures pinning me down. I remember my fingers between my legs and my other hand covering my mouth. I came like that a lot, in total silence, or sometimes moaning into my pillow,” she said as my fingers found her hard nipple.
“By the time I started fooling around with boys, I found I couldn’t come unless there was the pressure to be quiet. By senior year if someone shushed me, I would feel flutters in my belly and wetness in my panties,” she went on as my hand moved down, between her legs, pulling her dress up to reveal her thighs.
My other hand moved up and closed over her mouth. Her eyes opened wide. I felt her swallow. I felt her breath quicken through her nose.
When my fingers slipped between those thighs, I said, “shh, shh,” right in her ear.
“Your father can hear,” I whispered as my fingers moved faster.
My finger slipped deeper into her warmth, her wetness, then moved back up to her clit. I knew that is what would make her come.
“Your brother is right next door. You can’t let him hear what dirty things you are doing,” I warned.
She nodded vigorously in agreement. Her hips pushed back against my hand.
“You better hurry. I hear someone walking down the hall,” I said, my fingers circling faster.
Her eyes closed, she gasped against my hand. My fingers moved up, covering her mouth and pinching her nose shut. Her eyes shot open.
Then suddenly, her legs were tight around my hand, almost painfully, her body ground down against me, and her hand went to my arm. I let go of her nose and mouth and watched as she came.
After that, she melted, slipping off my lap and onto the floor. I wasn’t sure if it was too much for her, if I broke her, but she put up her hand, holding one finger, needing a minute.
When she turned back to me, her cheeks were red, and her smile was wild. She kissed me and kissed me, deep and long, and then pushed me back, pulling my boxers down and taking my achingly hard cock into her hot mouth.
Unlike her, there was no way I would be quiet.