u/AnaisNin_II

Well I guess I shouldn’t call Henry a nerd; he was actually much too cute to be called a nerd. And he could’ve even been hot if only he knew it. 

He was also tall — like really tall; definitely a good six feet or so the last time I had seen him, which now suddenly made me wonder if he also had a tall cock…

My pussy clamped and sobbed out another wave of its juicy tears, pleading me to find out.   

The only serious critiques of this kinda-but-not-quite-because-he’s-cute-and-maybe-even-hot nerd were his rounded glasses and always too carefully combed hair.   

But surely I could take his glasses off, and the hair thing could easily be taken care of. 

And maybe I — and by consequence, my pussy — had rightfully owed him… 

He only had my snapchat in the first place because I had once gifted it to him; he had earned it, fair and square, by doing all the things he was always so willingly doing for me. 

He was always very worried if I needed help with any of my assignments, he always let me copy off of him whenever I wanted, he always gave me every single page of his notes, and he always offered and even wrote most of my essays. 

He also actually looked at me, like into my eyes, and that was a very nice change from all the horned-up remarks and starving stares that always followed me wherever I went. 

His eyes too would flick frequently and hornily down to the little braless nipples engraved into the thin fabric of the tiny tank tops and tube tops always struggling to conceal them. But soon those eyes would be back and looking right into mine, before darting somewhere else — like the ceiling, or the window, or the wall — with nervousness.   

Even though I usually appreciated all the validation and attention my passion for sucking and fucking had obviously brought me, Henry’s eyes made me feel something different; they made me feel not just craved, but worshipped; like a sloppy-pussied goddess seeping divine wetness. 

Sometimes when I’d approach him, there to pick up my freshly written paper — and after I’d hug him tight with genuine appreciation, purposely pressing the bust of my tits against his chest and allowing him to feel them squished against him, as somewhat of a thank you — I could even see him dropping down to his knee, and then taking my extended hand to kiss it.    

That didn’t mean, however, that I wanted to fuck him — right? 

If I had wanted to fuck him — if I had wanted to allow him the pleasure of my pussy’s oozing and finely ribbed walls clamping airtight around his cock as my phat, cakey ass clapped against his lower abdomen and my big, bouncing tits danced beautifully on my chest — then I definitely would’ve already done so.

He was just too shy and too soft, and he always looked too fucking terrified. 

And don’t forget maybe even hot, my still moistening pussy reminded me — tingling and pulsing hungrily around the four fingers it now pretended were his potentially long, tall shaft. 

Yes, and also don’t forget he’s a nerd and that I probably wouldn’t ever even be considering this if I wasn’t four fingers deep and without cock or cum for two whole weeks, my brain snapped back. 

Just imagine if word was to somehow get out that I’d stretched myself so wide with my four fingers and worked myself so wet with imaginary cocks slamming into each and every one of my holes that I was then left with no choice but to pump my desperate pussy with both nerd cock and nerd cum just so I could finally go to fucking sleep.  

Henry who? they’d ask. 

And I’d have to tell them. 

Wait, you mean the neurotic nerd? 

Again, though — nerd wasn’t fair; maybe smart, and definitely quiet and timid, were the better, nicer words; maybe it didn’t matter that he wore stupid t-shirts and spent his Fridays and Saturdays sitting in movie theaters or thumbing away at PlayStation controllers. 

None of that mattered one bit to my soaked, screaming grip… 

All that mattered right now, in this moment, was that he had a cock. And that there was a very high likelihood of that cock being tall just like him. 

And what if no one ever even found out? What would be the downside then?  

What if it could remain a mystery forever that I had fingered myself to this point of such sloppiness, to this point of my pussy craving even the cock and cum of that one tall nerdy guy with the round glasses and combed hair who did everything I'd ever asked?

Yes, if it stayed a secret then it would be okay.   

Another ding.

Bold. That now made three. 

And this boldness made my pussy twitch.  

Was he dying to finally discover the tightness and torrential wetness of my goddess-like pussy seeping with all its divinity?  

Or were all these late night notifications unrelated to my little hole’s current needs?   

I don’t think he’d ever snapped me a single time in all our years of knowing each other, not even after I posted a full body nude on my story post-breakup one night (I put a 🤤 over each of my nipples and a 😻 over my pussy, don’t worry) calling for anyone and everyone to “hmu” if they were ever “tryna gimme some 🍆”. 

As a result, just about every snapchat I ever got from that point forward was to fuck. It seemed like every single guy on my contact list had at some point “hmu” to “gimme some 🍆” — like literally every single one, and most of them immediately. 

I even had to tell the majority of them that they’d have to wait, some for as long as a few weeks, because there was only time for so much 🍆 in one day. And the list, as you could probably imagine, was of course ordered according to attractiveness. 

But after however many weeks went by, I eventually got them all in — every single one that ever “hmu” — and then I started the rotation over again from the top, with the exclusion of those that I never had any desire to have inside of me again, and the addition of all the new recruits from other platforms like Tinder and Instagram.  

Out of everybody on that long, prestigious list, however, Henry was certainly never one of them. There was never even an inquiry.   

Yet here he was, now, late on this Friday or Saturday night, snapping me three times in a matter of minutes as I lay with my four fingers still stuffed into my little leaking entrance.

I had to at least open them, so I wiped the hand that was previously dedicated to working my clit and used it to move the mouse over his stack of messages in the top right corner while the gangbang/spit roast still played on my MacBook’s screen. 

But again… Did I really want to fuck him? 

And was he even wanting to fuck me? Did he have the courage to fuck me?

I knew he had definitely undressed me with his mind — revealing one by one my big, perfectly perky tits, my phat, perfectly proportioned ass, and finally: my hairless, glistening, and perfectly pink pussy. 

And then more than likely — in that dirty, nerdy mind of his — he’d probably asked me nicely more than once to spread it open with my fingers and make it blossom. 

And as I held it open for him — wide, wide open, in its full, shining, perfectly pink bloom —he’d probably plunge his tongue right into it, then through it, and into the depths of the tiny little period-sized hole of darkness at its blossomed center — tasting the sweet saltiness of my sex — before replacing his tongue with his throbbing cock. 

I mean, why else would a guy be so nice? 

Why else would he be so willing to do all those things for me for four long years?  

He might’ve even had some massive, heart-aching crush on me — as if that was up for any sort of debate; as if that wasn’t a fact. 

Of course he wanted to fuck me. The opportunity would've been simply too impossible to pass up.  

I just couldn’t imagine him, with that permanent look of pure fear and crippling self-consciousness always plastered all across his face, taking out his cock and fucking anybody; not even nerdy girls, and most definitely not me. 

I would’ve been shocked if it somehow turned out he was anything but a virgin.

He was definitely a virgin.  

But maybe he wanted my pussy — this pussy he made blossom with his mind, this pussy he plunged his dreaming tongue into — to be the first pussy his virgin cock ever felt… 

Maybe he wanted to put those nervous, worshipping, virgin eyes — the ones that really looked at me, and only occasionally down at my thinly veiled nipples — on skin they’d never explored…       

Something about that realization suddenly put the motion back into the four fingers still filling my flooded entrance. 

My hips started to writhe again, my eyes rolled back in my head, and my mouth fell open — dropping the slobbery remote right onto my tits. 

Had he lost his mind? Did he so badly want his first pussy to be my pussy that he’d risk the shame and embarrassment of almost certain, obvious rejection? 

My pussy had hoped so…  

It suddenly clenched around my fingers and released yet another wave of creamy moisture — crying more desperately than ever for this kinda-but-not-quite-because-he’s-cute-and-potentially-even-hot nerd’s cock, making me gasp and throw my head back — as I continued to massage the thin little ribs of intense sensitivity lining my drenched and aching walls. 

Any cock — even this probably virgin cock ready for its first pleading pussy to be my pleading pussy — would have worked just fine. 

More than just fine.

It would have accepted quite literally anyone, anything, anywhere; it needed to be filled with as many virgin inches as he had to offer and pumped full of his thick, hot ropes of virgin cum. 

But why his cock? Why his cum? 

What was it about this virgin cock that now made such a mess of me and my pussy? 

I thought about propositioning a more trusted cock whose performance had already been well tested and proven and ignoring the poor virgin Henry all together. 

But where was the fun, and the thrill, in that? My pussy argued. 

I actually hesitated in my single life so far to suck or fuck the same cock more than once. The second time was hardly ever like the first time, and even if it was, it was still always down hill from there.

You probably couldn’t call it boring, exactly, but it was definitely stripped of the excitement that went hand-in-hand with the anticipation and surprise of newness, with the build up of his cock’s big reveal, and with the wettening validation of witnessing yet another guy grow rock hard from just the sight of your full tits and their quarter-sized nipples swinging back and forth for his widened, worshipping eyes.

That worship, that worshipping look in their eye — that legitimate shock and speechlessness that pours over them when you first reveal your body, so soft and smooth and delicate, yet so ready to be fucked rough and hard — as their cocks continued to grow, and leak, was my favorite part. 

That moment I went to slip my top over my head, or remove my thong, on the brink of unveiling the nakedness of my tits and my ass and my pussy to him for the first time, was the moment I officially started to gush — all in anticipation of that worshipping look that typically preceded the stiffening and leaking of his cock; because that look confirmed immediately that all of this was the best they’d ever seen; the tits, the ass, and the pussy; or, even if it wasn’t, their expressions didn’t argue much.  

And suddenly, as long as they still had that worshipping look, I wanted them to do whatever they wished to do to me for however many hours they wished to do it for. They might’ve been the ones doing the fucking, but it was me, my body, in full control, casting its new spell over them. 

The second time, however, that look was usually gone. 

The staggering size and shape of your beautiful tits and the bubbly roundness of your plump, peachy ass and the vice-like grip of your little pussy flooding with all its juices were no longer new. There was other newness out there to be had next. And with a lot of the older, more experienced cocks, you sometimes wouldn’t even get that look at all in the first place.  

But imagine the look, imagine the worship, in the eyes of a virgin, I thought… 

Imagine first the look in his eyes when he sees not just the nicest nakedness he’s ever seen, but the only nakedness he’s ever seen; when he runs his tongue around his first nipple, when he slaps his first cakey asscheek, and when he traces his finger along the seeping slit of his first wet pussy. 

Then imagine his squeal as his twitching cock feels its very first feminine touch; me slipping my hand through his waistband and into his boxers, grabbing him firmly by his virgin shaft.

And imagine it throbbing against my tongue, and coating my mouth with the enormous globs of virgin pre-cum squeezing out of its tip, like toothpaste out of its tube, thanks to the tightness of my lips bobbing up and down on it, bringing it nearer and nearer to the entrance of my airway, and extending my tongue to work it around the shaft and maybe even graze the balls.     

And then, finally, imagine his worshipping virgin cock buried deep into my frequently fucked pussy, pushing deeper and deeper than anything’s been for so long, almost two whole weeks, with the exception of only the large-sized zucchinis from the fridge. 

But Henry’s cock — his throbbing, worshipping, virgin cock — would be real; it would be flesh; it would be warm and surging with virgin life; and most importantly it would be attached to a virgin, with that virgin look of worship in his eye. 

This whole thing now became less about Henry, and more about the virgin. I wanted to offer my pussy and all of its sweet slime up to someone for their first fuck; I wanted to be the first hollowed out hole they emptied their cum into; I wanted to bask in the gratification of unleashing the biggest and most powerful load of their entire life: the first one induced by the grip of a real life, sopping wet, and very pink pussy; and I wanted to be watched and savored the entire time by those worshipping virgin eyes while I did it.  

Luckily for Henry, it was becoming evident that he would soon be that virgin.  

A sensation instantly shot up my spine, fantasizing once more about his virgin thickness and his virgin inches sinking deeper and deeper into my absolutely sobbing fuckhole, hollowing me all the way through. 

I pushed in deeper, reaching desperately for my ceiling and wiggling my willing fingers. 

My pussy sloshed and splashed, spitting again all over my sheets. 

My toes curled. 

My back arched. 

And as my jaw snapped open so wide that I could hear it crackling, my mouth released a moan so loud and so agonizing that I had to cover it with my free hand. 

And just for fun, I took that hand and drilled its fingers into my throat, gurgling with satisfaction.

I gagged violently and let the spit spill out of my mouth in long, slobbery strings that covered me and the two big blessings mounted on my chest.

I took one of the slobbery strings from my tits and spread it in circles around my microscopic little asshole that winked in agreement. 

I pressed gently into its center and sighed with relief. 

Would this virgin know how to fuck any hole of his choosing the way I wanted him to? 

If not, then I would teach him. That definitely wouldn’t be a problem. 

I clicked my laptop’s mousepad and opened his snapchats. 

The first one, however, was not of Henry. 

It was of this guy named Cam: Henry’s closest friend. And he flaunted a bottle of tequila. 

Cheesing over Cam’s shoulders were the painfully average in every single way Alex and Connor. Average heights, average builds, average faces, and probably average cocks.

Cam, however, was slightly below average in height — as well as a little on the thicker side — and I wondered for a second if that probably reflected in his cock — and if so, would it maybe be a good little cock for someone’s little ass — before I read the caption:

COME GET FUCKED UP!!!!

I looked closer; Henry was nowhere to be found.  

The timer ran out and the three faces disappeared. 

I opened the second snap: a blur of chaos and what I could only guess was the flash of Henry’s hand stealing his phone back. 

Hm. 

I cupped my tit with my free hand and tugged at my nipple in thought. 

Why couldn’t he just be alone?

None of these three others were cute with the potential of maybe even being hot like Henry. And all of them were very much nerds. But then again, the only thing that put Henry in that slightly higher tier of kinda-but-not-quite nerd was his potential hotness, and his potentially tall cock. 

But I could only assume, that they — these three others — were also virgins… 

And virgins — specifically that virgin worship, that validation of their hypnotized virgin eyes and pulsing virgin cocks, and massive amounts of pent-up virgin cum — were precisely what my deprived and probably nonsensical pussy was drooling over.   

It twitched against my fingers, begging them to resume their stretching penetration, and my teeth dug into my lower lip.

Ugh…

Maybe I would just let them drool over me, over all of this tittage and all of this ass and all of this pussy — soaked with all of its wetness. 

Allowing all of them to fill my hungry holes with their virgin cocks would be me simply going too far; like way too far. 

That could not happen.

But the very thought, and the overpowering yet imaginary sensation, of one of them in my mouth, while another was in my ass, and yet another (the longest and the thickest one, of course) was deep in my pussy — giving it the stretching and hollowing it cried over for the past two weeks, and sending its flood of fluids splashing all over the insides of my thighs, as they all savored me and validated me and made me feel like a fucking goddess with their worshipping eyes — polluted my mind.  

My pussy twitched again.

Stop, I told myself. You’ve just gone too long without cock. And you’ve stretched yourself too wide.  

These were nobodies I was playing make-believe with; nerds. 

I would die if anybody had found out that I let them, and probably even begged them, to fill me to the brim with however many inches of cock they had and however many explosions of cum they could produce. 

I didn’t just fuck anyone…  

The cocks that usually “hmu” to “gimme some 🍆” on snapchat were only in my contacts in the first place because I had actively or at one point found them attractive in some way — and I therefore had no hesitation about offering my sweet little pussy to be filled by their ready cocks.  

However, they had all given up on this sweet little pussy until my grounding was over; I had to turn them all away too many times. 

Sorry, I’d say. I’m still locked away in my room.   

But tonight my pussy was pleading me to make a run for it, a great escape to go out and get pumped with virgin cum; Henry’s virgin cum.   

And maybe I’d even let his friends, those three others, watch me get pumped with his cum; let them worship me, and my tits, and my ass, and all of my spewing holes.

Maybe I’d even let them get close, as close as they wanted, and let them put their worshipping, virgin eyes wherever they pleased. 

Maybe, just maybe, I’d let them touch; no, I’d let them grope, with their virgin hands, the heaviness of my tits, and the cakiness of my ass; I’d let them spread my phat cheeks and spank, and spank again, and jiggle their fullness, and pinch and pull on my pink nipples, like mesmerized virgin maniacs wearing underwear soaked with their own virgin excitement; I’d let them probe my little forbidden asshole, lubing it with my oozing pussy’s concoction of cream and wetness, as their friend pounds his virgin cock into my screaming pussy — his overflowing balls slapping against my slit with each and every pump. 

And maybe, if all went well, I’d even let them unleash their own virgin cocks, and stroke them with their virgin worship. 

I’d let them shoot their streams of cum all across my bouncing, in-the-middle-of-being-fucked nakedness, and splatter against whatever part of me they’d chosen as their target.

Coat me, virgins — my smiling face, my dancing tits, my twerking ass — in your virgin cum.   

Watch it drip down my neck and my stomach and all down my thighs. 

Watch me bring these cum-covered tits to my mouth and lick them clean with my tongue. 

Watch me drop to my knees and beg for some more. 

The more I thought about it, the more my pussy convinced me to let them, these four virgins, take their turns; it told me I wouldn’t be able to withstand their stares; whether I truly wanted them to fill all three of my holes or not didn’t matter; I would simply fail to resist all of that worship and wide-eyed craving; all of that stiff, leaking, yet to be used cock, all right there in that one room, dying to unleash their first and most powerful loads into whatever hole I assigned them.  

No one will ever know, I reassured myself. 

And with that — after one, big, final thrust and wiggle of my fingers — I finally freed my hand from my mess of a pussy, wiped it clean, and opened Henry’s final snap: 

A drunken selfie; him this time; his glasses cocked all crooked and his hair disheveled. 

I looked at it closer. 

The hair really did make a difference… 

I read the caption: Hey sorry… They’re drunk.   

That much had been obvious, and I couldn’t help but giggle.  

Clicking on my camera now, I suddenly saw myself and all my saliva-soaked nakedness barely lit by only the illumination of my laptop’s screen. 

The oblivious virgin certainly needed something visual to understand what I wanted and how desperately I wanted it. 

How bad my pussy desperately wanted it, I mean… 

I then positioned myself on my right side and centered myself in the frame, before taking my left arm and using it to cradle my tits and cover my nipples; those had to remain a mystery until I could see his reaction in person; all of their reactions, actually.  

I made a cute face — sticking the tip of my tongue out of the corner of my mouth while simultaneously looking up and to the left — and took the picture. 

My hair was a bit of nightmare, and if you looked long enough and hard enough you might’ve been able to make out the streaks of spit, but I sent it anyways, with the caption: 

All gooood! 

He opened it instantly. But there was a long pause. 

Surely he was showing it to Cam and Alex and Connor. And surely they were holding some sort of vote to decide what to respond next. 

Until: Ding. 

I opened it; another selfie. 

It said: Oh wow… 

I smirked. Here we go. 

I worked up to my knees and sat back on my heels, seeing on the screen my poorly lit tits bounce up and down and sway side to side above my skinny torso, then bunched up the comforter between my legs in order to conceal my pussy’s slimy, parted slit.

I leaned forward, the heaviness of my tits now hanging below me, and quickly turned on the timer setting before snapping back into position. 

This time, for this photo — sitting on my heels and with the view of my slit strategically blocked by the bunch of comforter — I cupped each tit with both of my hands, and pursing my lips into a duckface, I smushed my bustiness against my chest. 

I captioned it: Tryna fuck? 

He responded immediately, probably in total shock, and clearly before he could even think to consult his trusted comrades: What??? 

I stretched out flat now in front of my computer, my two jiggling asscheeks faced up.  

I looked inquisitively into the camera, fist to chin, and snapped another photo. The outer third, or maybe half, of one of my smooth, bare asscheeks was visible in the frame, but it wasn’t too much. 

I sent it anyway, with the caption: Have you ever fucked anyone before, Henry? 

He opened it. But there was a pause even longer than the first.  

I sent another one; but in this one my face was intentionally more interrogative: 

Tell me the truth, Henry… 

He finally replied: No… 

I knew it. 

I sent another, smiling playfully, curiously: And what about your friends?   

His reply: Cam says he got a handjob on New Year's but idk. 

Even if it were true, handjobs never count. 

I popped into a squat and rolled back onto my bubbly ass, sitting with my knees up in front of my tits and under my chin. 

I then spread my legs wide to reveal the shining pinkness of my pussy’s insides to the camera — still gaped slightly from all the stretching — and I licked my lips in anticipation of what it was about to do to their hungry cocks. 

After scooting forward until perfectly front and center, I took the trusted fingers of my right hand and covered, barely, my shining pinkness — seeping with wetness now at just the sight of itself.  

The phat of my ass squashed underneath me, my smooth, firm thighs extended each way in a v-like formation, and the plumpness of my pussy’s lips peaked around my shield. 

It was perfect. 

I captioned over it: Can I come over? 

Sent. 

Opened. 

I waited. And waited. 

I could imagine them all — all four of these frantic, freaked out virgins — running around the room, and crashing into each other, in an absolute panic. 

He finally responded: We’re down. 

And he sent me the kid Connor’s address: the location of these four virgin cocks, and these eight worshipping virgin eyes. 

The thought sent chills down my spine, and my pussy cried out for me to give my fingers back, but there was cock and cum to be had. 

All the cock and cum my desperate, pleading pussy could possibly ask for…

Four of them...  

So I hurried out my bed and to my bathroom, grabbing a towel off its hook and wiping up the sloppy mess pouring out my pussy and down my legs.

It was late — a Friday or Saturday, I’m almost sure — but I was grounded, and had been for the past two weeks, after getting caught streaming myself live and in the nude on Chaturbate. I was too stupid to think about the fact that my mother still had access to my bank statements, and my plans to save up and move out by fall were suddenly shattered.

I’ll be honest, though — it wasn’t all about the money. In fact, it had very little to do with the money; the money was just a big bonus that seemed to maybe offer some eventual independence and freedom one day.

I even kept the prices on my menu low to entice tipping. 

The reason I really did it, however, was that I fucking loved it; every single minute of it.

The thousands of viewers, all stroking and emptying their cocks; the endless praise in the chat, worshipping and begging to fuck; the ka-ching of tokens pouring in, forcing me to shimmy my shoulders and shake my tits, twerk my ass and pop my pussy.

And as I got more comfortable, I soon began to incorporate toys — like dildos and vibrators and plugs — and eventually started bringing on friends to stream with me, both guys and girls, and sometimes as many as two or three or four or five.  

Basically, I was an exhibitionist before I even knew what an exhibitionist was — a kink that emerged almost immediately after I discovering my boyfriend had stuck his dick into an Australian girl who showed him her pierced nipple at a restaurant in Positano while he and his best group of friends backpacked around Europe before flying off to college at the end of last summer.

But now I was an exhibitionist locked away in her bedroom, on one of the last Fridays or Saturdays of this summer, and I hadn’t been fucked in private or public for far too long — which my pussy was reminding me of constantly; always screaming to be filled by something, anything, and sobbing endless tears of excessive wetness.  

Tonight was no different.

My family was in bed and so was I. This had been the case for a good few hours, because, again, it was late. But I was still up, masturbating, pretending my fingers were cock, in order to silence my crying, leaking, pulsing pussy pleading for penetration. 

Unfortunately, the discovery of my Chaturbate also meant the discovery of my stash of toys: my tools for cumming big and hard whenever I was my only option. But my fingers usually worked just fine, with the exception of a few frustrating nights where I just needed to go deeper and resorted eventually to sneaking down to the fridge and stealing the biggest zucchini in the vegetable drawer. 

I actually sometimes preferred them, my fingers, and I had started to appreciate them some more over the course of these last couple weeks. I could feel the fine, delicate ribs of my slippery walls as they clenched and contracted in response to the intrusion of each finger I carefully added one by one.

And most importantly: my fingers were alive; they were warm and fleshy. 

Regardless of my most recent grounding, I had gotten into the routine of masturbating a minimum of twice per day since becoming single. The first time would be in the morning before school, practically right after opening my eyes; or, sometimes, even before opening my eyes at all.

My fingers would eagerly and almost automatically find their way down to my little slit, already seeping with my juices, and I would welcome them happily by parting my legs and lifting my knees, before spreading the juices evenly and probing the tiny little hole at my pussy’s center with the first finger — usually the middle, longest one.      

Then again during the night, even if I had gotten fucked that day — unless the fucking was just that amazing or occurred late enough in the evening to hold me over  — I would repeat this process (the spreading of my juices and the probing of my minuscule little fuckhole) before going to sleep. I simply had to, or else I wouldn’t be able to sleep at all.  

So there I was, hours into this Friday or Saturday's second round, staring with wide, craving eyes at the sex filling the screen of my MacBook.

I wish that I could remember what it was I was watching on that MacBook, because whatever it was had me on an absolute mission.

Or maybe it was just because I’d been deprived of being filled with cock or cum for too long.

Either way, this seemed to be one of those nights where nothing I could offer myself would be enough. I had just about reached the zucchini phase, but I was giving myself another chance — the creak of the stairs leading down to the kitchen was always too big of a risk.

I didn’t want to put any clothes back on my body either.

I had already came several times, but I wanted to explode; I wanted my fluids to spray across my comforter as I screamed at the top of my lungs.

I could not scream, however, which was the purpose of the remote control, meant for my bedroom’s television, stuffed into my mouth and pressed hard against the base of my throat, playing make-believe that it was a second cock and turning my potential screams into chokes and gags.  

That was probably what I was watching, actually: a spit roast, or maybe even a gang bang.

I had a fetish for multiples back during these days, and I guess I still do.

In fact, in the aftermath of my ex fucking that Australian girl with the pierced nipple, sex with only one partner quickly became almost painfully boring. An extra guy or an extra girl, though an extra guy was usually the ideal, was now an essential. If I didn’t have something to do with my mouth while fucking, I was stressed. 

Having just came down from my most recent cum, and fearing the creaking stairs stopping me from stealing another zucchini from the fridge, I proceeded to slowly and gently add a fourth finger, my pinky finger, to my sopping, mess of a pussy — pushing in desperately and spreading my fingers slowly to stretch the squeeze of its ribbed sleeve wider, further, until my knuckles bottomed out against the bone surrounding my tiny yet totally stuffed little entrance, and my pussy suctioned around them and swallowed them up.

I jolted my head back and squeezed my eyes tight, moaning into the remote against my throat. Bubbles of spit formed at the corners of my mouth and ran down my face, down my neck, and onto my convulsing chest, as I tested the limits of my pussy’s elasticity.  

With my other hand, I gathered a glob of the goo-like concoction that oozed out of my stuffed little entrance and into my ass — a mixture of my pussy’s self-preserving mucus and horny wetness — and used it to lubricate my already aching, bulging clit that begged and begged for a tongue; or, at worst, a vibrator.

Reaching as far up into myself as I could, I moved my fingers in a “come here to me” motion. And I increased the speed of the hand smushing and furiously rubbing my slimy clit. 

But I needed more... 

I opened my eyes, seeing again what I'd bet were big, monstrous cocks all over my screen — fucking the gaping pussy and the slobbery mouth and maybe even the minuscule but now professionally broken in asshole of whoever the lucky actress was.

God, I wished she was me...

God, I wished it was my slobbering mouth and my broken in asshole and my gaped open, ready to squirt pussy...

I dreamed of all the men all over the world, jacking frantically and exploding with cum, as they watched these long, thick, mindblowingly massive cocks plunge in and out of both or maybe even all three of my holes — hollowing me out, deeper and deeper, exploring new, untouched, and gushing terrain — as I’m sealed airtight around their shafts, contracting and whimpering and choking, and taking only a few occasional yet necessary breaks for air.

My pussy contracted; its ceiling collapsing towards its stuffed entrance.

My head snapped back, nearly breaking my neck.

An agonizing groan charged out of me, muffled thankfully by a mouthful of plastic remote.

My legs quaked and my toes curled.

I began to thrust, four fingers deep; deep as I could reach.

Could my little pussy really take all that cock, all that incredible length and girth? I didn’t know, but I was dying to try. That was my other new fetish: size.

I had already had all the normal ones, and plenty of the big ones, too — which were usually attached to the meathead gym guys I’d find on Tinder — but still they were not the cocks I’d watch on my laptop after my mother and step-father would go to bed or leave the house.

The cocks on my laptop, these cocks big enough to actually split you in half, were the cocks my pussy so desperately craved; all the fucking time.

And what about my little ass? Could it also take all that cock?

I already knew the answer, but that’s what practice was for.

I remembered the sensation of my biggest plug breaking the rim’s surface and sliding through the practically microscopic little hole. And I remembered how my little ass would then wrap itself around the plug and swallow it, and the shock of the tube-like canal on the other side being broken in by its round, bulbish shape as it pushed against my dildo-filled pussy's exterior walls.

I’d done anal on a handful of occasions since my breakup, though not that frequently; it wasn’t something you necessarily did casually, or with just anybody. But I did seek it out every once in a while, and it wasn't ever too hard to find someone more than willing.

Also, I would never really bother with anal unless there was someone or something extra around to still pay attention to my needy pussy — so I guess it was more the thought of double penetration that got me sopping, rather than just the anal alone.

The only exception was if I and another guy had already experienced the throb of his hard cock getting clenched by the grip of my flooding pussy too many times for it to still be exciting. In those cases, I would almost always give him my little asshole, and I would stuff my lonely pussy and swirl my crying clit with my own loving fingers.

Like I was doing right now...  

And then how about my tiny little throat? Could its soft muscles stretch wide like my pussy to make room for all that cock? How deep could I take all that length and girth before heaving?

I already knew the answer to that as well. But this time the answer was yes.

I swore back then that I had something like a g-spot somewhere back there in my throat; I swore I had fully cum on multiple occasions whenever someone with enough size could reach deep enough to touch it as they fucked my pretty face. 

My pussy would pulse and tingle and contract without even the slightest touch, and it would leak its fluids onto the floor beneath me — drop by drop like a faucet. And my hips would writhe and I would scream with an overwhelming, hands-free pleasure right into their long, thick cock like it was a microphone — choking and gagging away. 

But no one believed me; my friends told me teasingly that maybe I was just too much of a whore, until I brought a couple of them along one day to watch me suck the big, beautifully black cock of the guy we’d buy our weed, molly, acid, and whatever else from. 

He had face tattoos and cornrows, and he was really fucking hot without or without his gigantic dick. But lucky for him, and me, and whoever else has ever tried it, gigantic would even be an understatement.

I’m not sure how long it was exactly, but if it’s possible for a human cock to be literally a foot in length — like twelve whole inches or maybe even more — then his was. And it was as thick as a forearm from base to tip. 

It was so fucking big that he was afraid to even fuck me with it. He said I couldn’t handle it, that it would hurt me, no matter how often or how convincingly I begged him to at least let me try to take it in my poor little pussy that always drenched itself at the very thought. 

I’d begged him like this for months and months — ever since we first made our agreement that guaranteed free “goods” in exchange for passionate, sloppy head from a suburban white girl — but he never caved. 

My mouth was never off limits, though — so he was more than open to allowing my friends to watch as I proved that I could indeed make myself cum, and cum in full, by simply throating extra large cock.

Feeling now all that warmth and weight and all that suffocating size consuming the entirety of my mouth and prying open my jaw en route to my throat, I squirmed wildly on my bed, burying my four fingers deeper and deeper into my stuffed, soaking fuckhole — and choked and gagged on my own moans.

My wetness sloshed and crashed in waves against my pussy’s widened walls and splashed out all over the sheets. I prayed that no one could hear. 

I lifted my legs higher and spread them wider, pressing them against the abundance of tittage dispersed weightily across my chest and bouncing in rhythm with the short and shallow yet ever-stretching thrusts of my fingers.

My pussy clenched and nearly spit them out, but I wouldn’t relent, and I suddenly felt the air of my bedroom’s rotating fan lovingly lick my now exposed and slightly open asshole. 

I whimpered and my back arched instinctively with intense satisfaction, pushing my asshole out further, as I increased the speed and pressure of the hand digging into my clit.

My gooey fluids pooled around my ass and streamed down my crack, soaking my bed. 

I snapped my head back and opened my mouth wider, extending my tongue and allowing the remote to sink deeper.

I thrusted harder and rubbed faster and presented my asshole for the fan’s air to devour. 

My torso started to jerk forward violently and uncontrollably with near-orgasm spasms, and my legs shook like I was seizing.

I could feel the fluids monsooning inside of me, ready to spray.  

Finally.

The imaginary airtight cocks pumped into my slobbering mouth and my sopping pussy, and the third ate my blossoming ass to prepare it for entrance.

My naked body, covered in its own sex fluids and saliva, jolted off the bed and became momentarily paralyzed as if it’d just been exorcised.

But my fingers, still, went faster and faster, harder and harder.

My jaw burst open and locked. 

My eyes squeezed tighter.

The sounds of my sloppy wetness filled the room and most likely bled into the hall.

Now what could I use to penetrate my forbidden little hole? I began to scan the room.

But right then… 

My laptop went: Ding. 

A notification...

Shit! Was it my mother?! 

My eyes shot open and I froze.

My heart beat so fast that it jiggled my tits.  

Could she hear my wetness sloshing and splashing all over the place as I plunged into it and worked my fingers back and forth?

Was it that loud?

I mean, I was absolutely fucking soaked...

I could feel the doughiness of my asscheeks underneath me trickling with juice, and I could hear the trickles pattering softly against the comforter.

I stayed still, silent, listening, closely.   

After a minute or so, there was still nothing. No doors, no footsteps.  

My mother surely would’ve been at my door by now if my pussy had woken her. And she surely wouldn’t have bothered texting either; she would’ve wanted to catch me in the act. 

It couldn’t have been her. 

Another ding.

Not yet ready to remove the four pruning fingers from my dripping pussy (it wasn’t easy getting them all in there and I didn’t want to start over) I left them right where they were and carefully lowered myself back to flat on the bed, grimacing at the frame’s obnoxious creaks and looking curiously at the screen:

A Snapchat notification (well two of them, obviously) sat in the top right corner. I had to look closer through my still readjusting eyes, unconvinced that I was seeing what I was seeing.

It was just so random. 

But it was real. 

They were snapchats from this guy named Henry.

This nerd named Henry...

It was the summer following my senior year of high school, and I was eighteen. 

And I guess I should probably take a second to say now that everyone appearing in this story was over the age of eighteen. The first of our adult birthdays had already come and gone, and our next steps were coming up fast. 

I, for one, born in September, had already been eighteen for a little less than ten months by the time this one specific night came around.

This one specific, and very embarrassing night, when I gave my tits, my ass, my mouth, and my pussy to four forever grateful virgins, and discovered for the very first time the wettening validation of offering your body up to be used and enjoyed by those who thought they'd never in the wildest dreams ever deserve it — much less get to fuck it.

It was late — a Friday or Saturday, I’m almost sure — but I was grounded, and had been for the past two weeks, after getting caught streaming myself live and in the nude on Chaturbate. I was too stupid to think about the fact that my mother still had access to my bank statements, and my plans to save up and move out by fall were suddenly shattered.

I’ll be honest, though — it wasn’t all about the money. In fact, it had very little to do with the money; the money was just a big bonus that seemed to maybe offer some eventual independence and freedom one day. I even kept my prices low to entice tipping. 

The reason I really did it, however, was that I fucking loved it; every single minute of it.

The thousands of viewers, all stroking and emptying their cocks; the endless praise in the chat, worshipping and begging to fuck; the ka-ching of tokens pouring in, forcing me to shimmy my shoulders and shake my tits, and twerk my ass and pop my pussy.

And as I got more comfortable, I soon began to incorporate toys — like dildos and vibrators and plugs — and eventually started bringing on friends to stream with me, both guys and girls, and sometimes as many as two or three or four or five.  

Basically, I was an exhibitionist before I even knew what an exhibitionist was — a kink that emerged almost immediately after I discovered in early October that my boyfriend had stuck his dick into an Australian girl who showed him her pierced nipple at a restaurant in Positano, while he and his best group of friends backpacked around Europe before flying off to college (he was a year older than me).  

But now I was an exhibitionist locked away in her bedroom, on one of the last Fridays or Saturdays of my summer, and I hadn’t been fucked in private or public for far too long — which my pussy was reminding me of constantly; always screaming to be filled by something, anything, and sobbing endless tears of excessive wetness.  

Tonight was no different.

 My family was in bed and so was I. This had been the case for a good few hours, because, again, it was late. But I was still up, masturbating, pretending my fingers were cock, in order to silence my crying, leaking, pulsing pussy pleading for penetration. 

Unfortunately, the discovery of my Chaturbate also meant the discovery of my stash of toys: my tools for cumming big and hard whenever I was my only option. But my fingers usually worked just fine, with the exception of a few frustrating nights where I just needed to go deeper and resorted eventually to sneaking down to the fridge and stealing the biggest zucchini in the vegetable drawer. 

I actually sometimes preferred them, my fingers, and I had started to appreciate them some more over the course of these last couple weeks. I could feel the fine, delicate ribs of my slippery walls as they clenched and contracted in response to the intrusion of each finger I carefully added, one by one.

And most importantly: my fingers were alive; they were warm and fleshy. 

Regardless of my most recent grounding, I had gotten into the routine of masturbating a minimum of twice per day since becoming single. The first time would be in the morning before school, practically right after opening my eyes; or, sometimes, even before opening my eyes at all.

My fingers would eagerly and almost automatically find their way down to my little slit, already seeping with my juices, and I would welcome them happily by parting my legs and lifting my knees, before spreading the juices evenly and probing the tiny little hole at my pussy’s center with the first finger — usually the middle, longest one.      

Then again during the night, even if I had gotten fucked that day — unless the fucking was just that amazing or occurred late enough in the evening to hold me over  — I would repeat this process (the spreading of my juices and the probing of my minuscule little fuckhole) before going to sleep. I simply had to, or else I wouldn’t be able to sleep at all.  

So there I was, hours into this Friday or Saturday's second round, staring with wide, craving eyes at the sex filling the screen of my MacBook.

I wish that I could remember what it was I was watching on that MacBook, because whatever it was had me on an absolute mission.

Or maybe it was just because I’d been deprived of being filled with cock or cum for too long.

Either way, this seemed to be one of those nights where nothing I could offer myself would be enough. I had just about reached the zucchini phase, but I was giving myself another chance — the creak of the stairs leading down to the kitchen was always too big of a risk.

I didn’t want to put any clothes back on my body either.

I had already came several times, but I wanted to explode; I wanted my fluids to spray across my comforter as I screamed at the top of my lungs.

I could not scream, however, which was the purpose of the remote control, meant for my bedroom’s television, stuffed into my mouth and pressed hard against the base of my throat, playing make-believe that it was a second cock and turning my potential screams into chokes and gags.  

That was probably what I was watching, actually: a spit roast, or maybe even a gang bang.

I had a fetish for multiples back during these days, and I guess I still do.

In fact, in the aftermath of my ex fucking that Australian girl with the pierced nipple, sex with only one partner quickly became almost painfully boring. An extra guy or an extra girl, though an extra guy was usually the ideal, was now an essential. If I didn’t have something to do with my mouth while fucking, I was stressed. 

Having just came down from my most recent cum, and fearing the creaking stairs stopping me from stealing another zucchini from the fridge, I proceeded to slowly and gently add a fourth finger, my pinky finger, to my sopping, mess of a pussy — pushing in desperately and spreading my fingers slowly to stretch the squeeze of its ribbed sleeve wider, further, until my knuckles bottomed out against the bone surrounding my tiny yet totally stuffed little entrance, and my pussy suctioned around them and swallowed them up.

I jolted my head back and squeezed my eyes tight, moaning into the remote against my throat. Bubbles of spit formed at the corners of my mouth and ran down my face, down my neck, and onto my convulsing chest, as I tested the limits of my pussy’s elasticity.  

With my other hand, I gathered a glob of the goo-like concoction that oozed out of my stuffed little entrance and into my ass — a mixture of my pussy’s self-preserving mucus and horny wetness — and used it to lubricate my already aching, bulging clit that begged and begged for a tongue; or, at worst, a vibrator.

Reaching as far up into myself as I could, I moved my fingers in a “come here to me” motion. And I increased the speed of the hand smushing and furiously rubbing my slimy clit. 

But I needed more... 

I opened my eyes, seeing again what I'd bet were big, monstrous cocks all over my screen — fucking the gaping pussy and the slobbery mouth and maybe even the minuscule but now professionally broken in asshole of whoever the lucky actress was.

God, I wished she was me...

God, I wished it was my slobbering mouth and my broken in asshole and my gaped open, ready to squirt pussy...

I dreamed of all the men all over the world, jacking frantically and exploding with cum, as they watched these long, thick, mindblowingly massive cocks plunge in and out of both or maybe even all three of my holes — hollowing me out, deeper and deeper, exploring new, untouched, and gushing terrain — as I’m sealed airtight around their shafts, contracting and whimpering and choking, and taking only a few occasional yet necessary breaks for air.

My pussy contracted; its ceiling collapsing towards its stuffed entrance.

My head snapped back, nearly breaking my neck.

An agonizing groan charged out of me, muffled thankfully by a mouthful of plastic remote.

My legs quaked and my toes curled.

I began to thrust, four fingers deep; deep as I could reach.

Could my little eighteen-year-old pussy really take all that cock, all that incredible length and girth? I didn’t know, but I was dying to try. That was my other new fetish: size.

I had already had all the normal ones, and plenty of the big ones, too — which were usually attached to the meathead gym guys I’d find on Tinder — but still they were not the cocks I’d watch on my laptop after my mother and step-father would go to bed or leave the house.

The cocks on my laptop, these cocks big enough to actually split you in half, were the cocks my pussy so desperately craved; all the fucking time.

And what about my little eighteen-year-old ass? Could it also take all that cock?

I already knew the answer, but that’s what practice was for.

I remembered the sensation of my biggest plug breaking the rim’s surface and sliding through the practically microscopic little hole. And I remembered how my little ass would then wrap itself around the plug and swallow it, and the shock of the tube-like canal on the other side being broken in by its round, bulbish shape as it pushed against my dildo-filled pussy's exterior walls.

I’d done anal on a handful of occasions since my breakup, though not that frequently; it wasn’t something you necessarily did casually, or with just anybody. But I did seek it out every once in a while, and it was never too hard to find someone more than willing.

Also, I would never really bother with anal unless there was someone or something extra to still pay attention to my needy pussy — so I guess it was more the thought of double penetration that got me sopping, rather than just the anal alone.

The only exception was if I and another guy had already experienced the throb of his hard cock getting clenched by the grip of my flooding pussy too many times for it to still be exciting. In those cases, I would almost always give him my little asshole, and I would stuff my lonely pussy and swirl my crying clit with my own loving fingers.

Like I was doing right now...  

And then how about my tiny little eighteen-year-old throat? Could its soft muscles stretch wide like my pussy to make room for all that cock? How deep could I take all that length and girth before finally heaving?

I already knew the answer to that as well. But this time the answer was yes.

I swore back then that I had something like a g-spot somewhere back there in my throat; I swore I had fully cum on multiple occasions whenever someone with enough size could reach deep enough to touch it as they fucked my pretty face. 

My pussy would pulse and tingle and contract without even the slightest touch, and it would leak its fluids onto the floor beneath me — drop by drop like a faucet. And my hips would writhe and I would scream with an overwhelming, hands-free pleasure right into their long, thick cock like it was a microphone — choking and gagging away. 

But no one believed me; my friends told me teasingly that maybe I was just too much of a whore, until I brought a couple of them along one day to watch me suck the big, beautifully black cock of the guy we’d buy our weed, molly, acid, and whatever else from. 

He had face tattoos and cornrows, and he was really fucking hot without or without his gigantic dick. But lucky for him, and me, and whoever else has ever tried it, gigantic would even be an understatement.

I’m not sure how long it was exactly, but if it’s possible for a human cock to be literally a foot in length — like twelve whole inches or maybe even more — then his was. And it was as thick as a forearm from base to tip. 

It was so fucking big that he was afraid to even fuck me with it. He said I couldn’t handle it, that it would hurt me, no matter how often or how convincingly I begged him to at least let me try to take it in my poor little pussy that always drenched itself at the very thought. 

I’d begged him like this for months and months — ever since we first made our agreement that guaranteed free “goods” in exchange for passionate, sloppy head from a suburban white girl — but he never caved. 

My mouth was never off limits, though — so he was more than open to allowing my friends to watch as I proved that I could indeed make myself cum, and cum in full, by simply throating extra large cock.

Feeling all that warmth and weight and all that suffocating size consuming the entirety of my poor mouth and prying open my jaw en route to my throat, I squirmed wildly on my bed, burying my four fingers deeper and deeper into my stuffed, soaking fuckhole — and choked and gagged on my own moans.

My wetness sloshed and crashed in waves against my pussy’s widened walls and splashed out all over the sheets. I prayed that no one could hear. 

I lifted my legs higher and spread them wider, pressing them against the abundance of tittage dispersed weightily across my chest and bouncing in rhythm with the short and shallow yet ever-stretching thrusts of my fingers.

My pussy clenched and nearly spit them out, but I wouldn’t relent, and I suddenly felt the air of my bedroom’s rotating fan lovingly lick my now exposed and slightly open asshole. 

I whimpered and my back arched instinctively with intense satisfaction, pushing my asshole out further, as I increased the speed and pressure of the hand digging into my clit.

My gooey fluids pooled around my ass and streamed down my crack, soaking my bed. 

I snapped my head back and opened my mouth wider, extending my tongue and allowing the remote to sink deeper.

I thrusted harder and rubbed faster and presented my asshole for the fan’s air to devour. 

My torso started to jerk forward violently and uncontrollably with near-orgasm spasms, and my legs shook like I was seizing.

I could feel the fluids monsooning inside of me, ready to spray.  

Finally.

The imaginary airtight cocks pumped into my slobbering mouth and my sopping pussy, and the third ate my blossoming ass to prepare it for entrance.

My naked body, covered in its own sex fluids and saliva, jolted off the bed and became momentarily paralyzed as if it’d just been exorcised.

But my fingers, still, went faster and faster, harder and harder.

My jaw burst open and locked. 

My eyes squeezed tighter.

The sounds of my sloppy wetness filled the room and most likely bled into the hall.

Now what could I use to penetrate my forbidden little hole? I began to scan the room.

But right then… 

My laptop went: Ding. 

A notification...

Shit! Was it my mother?! 

My eyes shot open and I froze.

My heart beat so fast that it jiggled my tits.  

Could she hear my wetness sloshing and splashing all over the place as I plunged into it and worked my fingers back and forth?

Was it that loud?

I mean, I was absolutely fucking soaked...

I could feel the doughiness of my asscheeks underneath me trickling with juice, and I could hear the trickles pattering softly against the comforter.

I stayed still, silent, listening, closely.   

After a minute or so, there was still nothing. No doors, no footsteps.  

My mother surely would’ve been at my door by now if my pussy had woken her. And she surely wouldn’t have bothered texting either; she would’ve wanted to catch me in the act. 

It couldn’t have been her. 

Another ding.

Not yet ready to remove the four pruning fingers from my dripping pussy (it wasn’t easy getting them all in there and I didn’t want to start over) I left them right where they were and carefully lowered myself back to flat on the bed, grimacing at the frame’s obnoxious creaks and looking curiously at the screen:

A Snapchat notification (well two of them, obviously) sat in the top right corner. I had to look closer through my still readjusting eyes, unconvinced that I was seeing what I was seeing.

It was just so random. 

But it was real. 

They were snapchats from this guy named Henry.

This nerd named Henry...

It was the summer following my senior year of high school, and I was eighteen. 

And I guess I should probably take a second to say now that everyone appearing in this story was over the age of eighteen. The first of our adult birthdays had already come and gone, and our next steps were coming up fast. 

I, for one, born in September, had already been eighteen for a little less than ten months by the time this one specific night came around.

This one specific, and very embarrassing night, when I gave my tits, my ass, my mouth, and my pussy to four forever grateful virgins, and discovered for the very first time the wettening validation of offering your body up to be used and enjoyed by those who thought they'd never in the wildest dreams ever deserve it — much less get to fuck it.

It was late — a Friday or Saturday, I’m almost sure — but I was grounded, and had been for the past two weeks, after getting caught streaming myself live and in the nude on Chaturbate. I was too stupid to think about the fact that my mother still had access to my bank statements, and my plans to save up and move out by fall were suddenly shattered.

I’ll be honest, though — it wasn’t all about the money. In fact, it had very little to do with the money; the money was just a big bonus that seemed to maybe offer some eventual independence and freedom one day. I even kept my prices low to entice tipping. 

The reason I really did it, however, was that I fucking loved it; every single minute of it.

The thousands of viewers, all stroking and emptying their cocks; the endless praise in the chat, worshipping and begging to fuck; the ka-ching of tokens pouring in, forcing me to shimmy my shoulders and shake my tits, and twerk my ass and pop my pussy.

And as I got more comfortable, I soon began to incorporate toys — like dildos and vibrators and plugs — and eventually started bringing on friends to stream with me, both guys and girls, and sometimes as many as two or three or four or five.  

Basically, I was an exhibitionist before I even knew what an exhibitionist was — a kink that emerged almost immediately after I discovered in early October that my boyfriend had stuck his dick into an Australian girl who showed him her pierced nipple at a restaurant in Positano, while he and his best group of friends backpacked around Europe before flying off to college (he was a year older than me).  

But now I was an exhibitionist locked away in her bedroom, on one of the last Fridays or Saturdays of my summer, and I hadn’t been fucked in private or public for far too long — which my pussy was reminding me of constantly; always screaming to be filled by something, anything, and sobbing endless tears of excessive wetness.  

Tonight was no different.

 

My family was in bed and so was I. This had been the case for a good few hours, because, again, it was late. But I was still up, masturbating, pretending my fingers were cock, in order to silence my crying, leaking, pulsing pussy pleading for penetration. 

Unfortunately, the discovery of my Chaturbate also meant the discovery of my stash of toys: my tools for cumming big and hard whenever I was my only option. But my fingers usually worked just fine, with the exception of a few frustrating nights where I just needed to go deeper and resorted eventually to sneaking down to the fridge and stealing the biggest zucchini in the vegetable drawer. 

I actually sometimes preferred them, my fingers, and I had started to appreciate them some more over the course of these last couple weeks. I could feel the fine, delicate ribs of my slippery walls as they clenched and contracted in response to the intrusion of each finger I carefully added, one by one.

And most importantly: my fingers were alive; they were warm and fleshy. 

Regardless of my most recent grounding, I had gotten into the routine of masturbating a minimum of twice per day since becoming single. The first time would be in the morning before school, practically right after opening my eyes; or, sometimes, even before opening my eyes at all.

My fingers would eagerly and almost automatically find their way down to my little slit, already seeping with my juices, and I would welcome them happily by parting my legs and lifting my knees, before spreading the juices evenly and probing the tiny little hole at my pussy’s center with the first finger — usually the middle, longest one.      

Then again during the night, even if I had gotten fucked that day — unless the fucking was just that amazing or occurred late enough in the evening to hold me over  — I would repeat this process (the spreading of my juices and the probing of my minuscule little fuckhole) before going to sleep. I simply had to, or else I wouldn’t be able to sleep at all.  

So there I was, hours into this Friday or Saturday's second round, staring with wide, craving eyes at the sex filling the screen of my MacBook.

I wish that I could remember what it was I was watching on that MacBook, because whatever it was had me on an absolute mission.

Or maybe it was just because I’d been deprived of being filled with cock or cum for too long.

Either way, this seemed to be one of those nights where nothing I could offer myself would be enough. I had just about reached the zucchini phase, but I was giving myself another chance — the creak of the stairs leading down to the kitchen was always too big of a risk.

I didn’t want to put any clothes back on my body either.

I had already came several times, but I wanted to explode; I wanted my fluids to spray across my comforter as I screamed at the top of my lungs.

I could not scream, however, which was the purpose of the remote control, meant for my bedroom’s television, stuffed into my mouth and pressed hard against the base of my throat, playing make-believe that it was a second cock and turning my potential screams into chokes and gags.  

That was probably what I was watching, actually: a spit roast, or maybe even a gang bang.

I had a fetish for multiples back during these days, and I guess I still do.

In fact, in the aftermath of my ex fucking that Australian girl with the pierced nipple, sex with only one partner quickly became almost painfully boring. An extra guy or an extra girl, though an extra guy was usually the ideal, was now an essential. If I didn’t have something to do with my mouth while fucking, I was stressed. 

Having just came down from my most recent cum, and fearing the creaking stairs stopping me from stealing another zucchini from the fridge, I proceeded to slowly and gently add a fourth finger, my pinky finger, to my sopping, mess of a pussy — pushing in desperately and spreading my fingers slowly to stretch the squeeze of its ribbed sleeve wider, further, until my knuckles bottomed out against the bone surrounding my tiny yet totally stuffed little entrance, and my pussy suctioned around them and swallowed them up.

I jolted my head back and squeezed my eyes tight, moaning into the remote against my throat. Bubbles of spit formed at the corners of my mouth and ran down my face, down my neck, and onto my convulsing chest, as I tested the limits of my pussy’s elasticity.  

With my other hand, I gathered a glob of the goo-like concoction that oozed out of my stuffed little entrance and into my ass — a mixture of my pussy’s self-preserving mucus and horny wetness — and used it to lubricate my already aching, bulging clit that begged and begged for a tongue; or, at worst, a vibrator.

Reaching as far up into myself as I could, I moved my fingers in a “come here to me” motion. And I increased the speed of the hand smushing and furiously rubbing my slimy clit. 

But I needed more... 

I opened my eyes, seeing again what I'd bet were big, monstrous cocks all over my screen — fucking the gaping pussy and the slobbery mouth and maybe even the minuscule but now professionally broken in asshole of whoever the lucky actress was.

God, I wished she was me...

God, I wished it was my slobbering mouth and my broken in asshole and my gaped open, ready to squirt pussy...

I dreamed of all the men all over the world, jacking frantically and exploding with cum, as they watched these long, thick, mindblowingly massive cocks plunge in and out of both or maybe even all three of my holes — hollowing me out, deeper and deeper, exploring new, untouched, and gushing terrain — as I’m sealed airtight around their shafts, contracting and whimpering and choking, and taking only a few occasional yet necessary breaks for air.

My pussy contracted; its ceiling collapsing towards its stuffed entrance.

My head snapped back, nearly breaking my neck.

An agonizing groan charged out of me, muffled thankfully by a mouthful of plastic remote.

My legs quaked and my toes curled.

I began to thrust, four fingers deep; deep as I could reach.

Could my little eighteen-year-old pussy really take all that cock, all that incredible length and girth? I didn’t know, but I was dying to try. That was my other new fetish: size.

I had already had all the normal ones, and plenty of the big ones, too — which were usually attached to the meathead gym guys I’d find on Tinder — but still they were not the cocks I’d watch on my laptop after my mother and step-father would go to bed or leave the house.

The cocks on my laptop, these cocks big enough to actually split you in half, were the cocks my pussy so desperately craved; all the fucking time.

And what about my little eighteen-year-old ass? Could it also take all that cock?

I already knew the answer, but that’s what practice was for.

I remembered the sensation of my biggest plug breaking the rim’s surface and sliding through the practically microscopic little hole. And I remembered how my little ass would then wrap itself around the plug and swallow it, and the shock of the tube-like canal on the other side being broken in by its round, bulbish shape as it pushed against my dildo-filled pussy's exterior walls.

I’d done anal on a handful of occasions since my breakup, though not that frequently; it wasn’t something you necessarily did casually, or with just anybody. But I did seek it out every once in a while, and it was never too hard to find someone more than willing.

Also, I would never really bother with anal unless there was someone or something extra to still pay attention to my needy pussy — so I guess it was more the thought of double penetration that got me sopping, rather than just the anal alone.

The only exception was if I and another guy had already experienced the throb of his hard cock getting clenched by the grip of my flooding pussy too many times for it to still be exciting. In those cases, I would almost always give him my little asshole, and I would stuff my lonely pussy and swirl my crying clit with my own loving fingers.

Like I was doing right now...  

And then how about my tiny little eighteen-year-old throat? Could its soft muscles stretch wide like my pussy to make room for all that cock? How deep could I take all that length and girth before finally heaving?

I already knew the answer to that as well. But this time the answer was yes.

I swore back then that I had something like a g-spot somewhere back there in my throat; I swore I had fully cum on multiple occasions whenever someone with enough size could reach deep enough to touch it as they fucked my pretty face. 

My pussy would pulse and tingle and contract without even the slightest touch, and it would leak its fluids onto the floor beneath me — drop by drop like a faucet. And my hips would writhe and I would scream with an overwhelming, hands-free pleasure right into their long, thick cock like it was a microphone — choking and gagging away. 

But no one believed me; my friends told me teasingly that maybe I was just too much of a whore, until I brought a couple of them along one day to watch me suck the big, beautifully black cock of the guy we’d buy our weed, molly, acid, and whatever else from. 

He had face tattoos and cornrows, and he was really fucking hot without or without his gigantic dick. But lucky for him, and me, and whoever else has ever tried it, gigantic would even be an understatement.

I’m not sure how long it was exactly, but if it’s possible for a human cock to be literally a foot in length — like twelve whole inches or maybe even more — then his was. And it was as thick as a forearm from base to tip. 

It was so fucking big that he was afraid to even fuck me with it. He said I couldn’t handle it, that it would hurt me, no matter how often or how convincingly I begged him to at least let me try to take it in my poor little pussy that always drenched itself at the very thought. 

I’d begged him like this for months and months — ever since we first made our agreement that guaranteed free “goods” in exchange for passionate, sloppy head from a suburban white girl — but he never caved. 

My mouth was never off limits, though — so he was more than open to allowing my friends to watch as I proved that I could indeed make myself cum, and cum in full, by simply throating extra large cock.

Feeling all that warmth and weight and all that suffocating size consuming the entirety of my poor mouth and prying open my jaw en route to my throat, I squirmed wildly on my bed, burying my four fingers deeper and deeper into my stuffed, soaking fuckhole — and choked and gagged on my own moans.

My wetness sloshed and crashed in waves against my pussy’s widened walls and splashed out all over the sheets. I prayed that no one could hear. 

I lifted my legs higher and spread them wider, pressing them against the abundance of tittage dispersed weightily across my chest and bouncing in rhythm with the short and shallow yet ever-stretching thrusts of my fingers.

My pussy clenched and nearly spit them out, but I wouldn’t relent, and I suddenly felt the air of my bedroom’s rotating fan lovingly lick my now exposed and slightly open asshole. 

I whimpered and my back arched instinctively with intense satisfaction, pushing my asshole out further, as I increased the speed and pressure of the hand digging into my clit.

My gooey fluids pooled around my ass and streamed down my crack, soaking my bed. 

I snapped my head back and opened my mouth wider, extending my tongue and allowing the remote to sink deeper.

I thrusted harder and rubbed faster and presented my asshole for the fan’s air to devour. 

My torso started to jerk forward violently and uncontrollably with near-orgasm spasms, and my legs shook like I was seizing.

I could feel the fluids monsooning inside of me, ready to spray.  

Finally.

The imaginary airtight cocks pumped into my slobbering mouth and my sopping pussy, and the third ate my blossoming ass to prepare it for entrance.

My naked body, covered in its own sex fluids and saliva, jolted off the bed and became momentarily paralyzed as if it’d just been exorcised.

But my fingers, still, went faster and faster, harder and harder.

My jaw burst open and locked. 

My eyes squeezed tighter.

The sounds of my sloppy wetness filled the room and most likely bled into the hall.

Now what could I use to penetrate my forbidden little hole? I began to scan the room.

But right then… 

My laptop went: Ding. 

A notification...

Shit! Was it my mother?! 

My eyes shot open and I froze.

My heart beat so fast that it jiggled my tits.  

Could she hear my wetness sloshing and splashing all over the place as I plunged into it and worked my fingers back and forth?

Was it that loud?

I mean, I was absolutely fucking soaked...

I could feel the doughiness of my asscheeks underneath me trickling with juice, and I could hear the trickles pattering softly against the comforter.

I stayed still, silent, listening, closely.   

After a minute or so, there was still nothing. No doors, no footsteps.  

My mother surely would’ve been at my door by now if my pussy had woken her. And she surely wouldn’t have bothered texting either; she would’ve wanted to catch me in the act. 

It couldn’t have been her. 

Another ding.

Not yet ready to remove the four pruning fingers from my dripping pussy (it wasn’t easy getting them all in there and I didn’t want to start over) I left them right where they were and carefully lowered myself back to flat on the bed, grimacing at the frame’s obnoxious creaks and looking curiously at the screen:

A Snapchat notification (well two of them, obviously) sat in the top right corner. I had to look closer through my still readjusting eyes, unconvinced that I was seeing what I was seeing.

It was just so random. 

But it was real. 

They were snapchats from this guy named Henry.

This nerd named Henry...