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Title: Solo Fingers

Like all true romantics I masturbate whenever I get the opportunity. It's something I enjoy and I've never felt ashamed about doing it. OK, so it's not even on the same planet as making love with a gorgeous sexy woman, but it sure beats eating chocolate or watching TV.
When did I start using my fingers to explore my warm places? So long ago that I can't remember, but I do recall that my technique seemed to get better very suddenly when I reached age fourteen or fifteen. Not sure why, but it happened pretty fast, and a whole new world opened up. Wow! There were some days when I just did not want to get out of bed. I became the sexual plaything of my own eager digits, especially the middle finger of my right hand. Biting my nails all day became a necessity rather than an anti-social habit.

What has this got to do with lesbians and panties, you might ask? Well, the short answer is this: I'm a lesbian, plus I don't always take my underwear off when I snuggle down for some solo fun. Why? I don't know, nor do I spend a lot of time puzzling over it. But I guess my fondness for other girls' gussets has something to do with it, my own gusset being a good substitute when I'm all alone in the house with no cute honey to cuddle.

When I masturbate, I either fantasize in my head or use some kind of visual stimulus, like a cheap porno movie. Women aren't supposed to be wired for getting off on hardcore porn. Well, here's one voyeuristic girl who does get off on it, though it has to be a girls-only movie. Maybe the women in these movies are bi or even lesbian, maybe they're just hetero actresses doing what they get paid to do. But the things they do with each other certainly ring my bell, and I can happily spend a leisurely hour or two on the sofa watching those girls get it on, my left hand on the remote and my right hand fingering my moist little slit through my panties. It's a whole lot better if the fingers caressing my crotch belong to somebody else (such as my housemate Karen) because then I've got one hand free for holding a bottle of beer or a cigarette.

Of course, the visual stimulus for masturbation can be something other than straightforward porn. I've stroked my pink places while watching fairly innocent scenes in movies, like when Julie Christie strips down to her patterned underwear in the thriller Don't Look Now. I've even watched that scene in slow-motion, sitting on a sofa in front of the TV, wearing a vest and panties, my crotch being exquisitely caressed through the damp cotton by Karen's expert fingers. But my best visual stimulation always comes from watching a real, three-dimensional woman doing something sexy, either on her own or with another female. At home I love watching Karen getting dressed or undressed. Or coming out of the shower, drying her neat little body with a big soft towel. Or clipping her toenails while sitting on a chair, in clean white panties and bra, her chin resting on a raised knee, her brown eyes giving me that special shy glance when she knows I'm staring at her exposed gusset. I'll be lying on our bed, stretched out on my back, bare-breasted and gasping, maybe wearing the panties I've had on all day, my middle finger gently stroking the moist cotton groove between my cunt lips, whispering her name and begging her to kiss me. Sometimes the masturbation goes all wrong if I become too emotional, or if Karen smiles at me in a certain way, or if she parts her legs to give me a better view of her crotch. Then my eyes might suddenly fill with tears, especially if I'm drunk or stoned, because Karen turns me on so much. She's so delicious! People say she looks like the American actress Anne Archer, which is fairly accurate, but in my opinion Karen is the more beautiful of the two. She has short spiky hair, twinkly hazel eyes and a very mischievous grin.

If I'm alone in the house, feeling horny but too lazy to rummage around for some porn, my fingers twitching because I desperately need to masturbate, I might decide to grab a pair of Karen's panties from the laundry basket. She knows I do it, and she doesn't have a problem with it, except when I forget to return the underwear to the basket when I'm finished. I really love that special scent, the aroma of her cunt-juice when it dries into the fabric of her gusset. Usually her panties are similar to mine: cotton high-legs in white or black or plain colours, though Karen's are less "sporty" and she prefers the baby-soft underwear made by companies such as Sloggi. When I lie on the bed, naked except for my panties, my left hand dangling Karen's stinky gusset over my nose while my right hand fondles my crotch, I get such a warm glow through my whole body. When I'm in such a horny mood, I just trail a fingertip gently over my mound and bingo! my nipples pop up like little pink spikes and my throat becomes dry. I like to dangle Karen's panties over my breasts, so that the soft cotton tickles my skin. Then, when things are starting to get hot, I'll tug her underwear with my teeth, stretching the fabric until it goes taut, my tongue flicking out to savour her sweat. I kiss and lick the gusset, inside and outside, front and back, my lips paying special attention to any stains. I imagine how the panties look when they're stretched over her beautiful neat ass, and my tongue licks all the way up the back, from the gusset to the rear waistband, following an invisible line where I reckon the tight cleft between her ass cheeks has probably spent most of the day.

By then, my own gusset is pretty damp and my fingertips are already glistening. The crotch of my panties feels smooth and slippery, like wet satin, and the shape of my slit is starting to show through the material. Even through the fabric my cunt-lips are becoming incredibly sensitive, the flesh swelling as I slowly caress around the edge of my slit. Beneath the thin cotton my stiffening clit feels like a tiny button, its little round head tingling when I flick it with my thumb. A buzzing sensation, like a pulse of electricity, throbs in my stomach each time I touch my clit. Sweat starts to form around my half-open mouth, as well as on my chest and between my breasts. My head begins to feel dizzy as I close my eyes. I fling Karen's panties onto the floor and concentrate on preparing for my orgasm, trying to pull all the various sensations together in readiness for a really powerful climax. My left hand, now free, gently squeezes my breasts, applying pressure in certain places where the nerve-endings are particularly responsive. The squeezing makes the flesh feel firmer, as though my orbs are swelling like balloons.

I prolong this wonderful solo experience by briefly withdrawing my right hand from my crotch, allowing the fingertips to trace the shape of my underwear from the edge of my mound to where the narrow seamed sides rise up high on my hips. My left hand leaves my breasts and joins the right, mirroring the movement, before both hands plunge down to disappear into the moist dark place between my thighs. The left hand halts at my slit, stroking the quivering flesh through a thin barrier of very wet cotton, but the right continues down until its forefinger nudges the tight groove where my buttocks begin. There, where the gusset is narrowest, the fabric slightly bunched, a probing fingertip pushes against the cotton, forcing it inwards, heading straight for my twitching anus. I gasp loudly when the finger finds its target and I wonder why I allow the eager digit to rub the gusset around my sensitive asshole, because the fabric sure as hell feels rough. But then I do know why I allow it, and I know why I enjoy doing it: it reminds me so much of Rachel, my ex-lover, my kinky mistress, whom I once loved so perilously.

"Fuck," I whisper, as the memories come flooding back. I dare not open my eyes, because I know I'll see Rachel crouching between my legs, grinning as she tells me what she intends to do with my body. So I keep my eyes closed, but I stretch out my limbs, spreadeagling myself on the bed, feeling once more the silk or velvet knotted around my wrists and ankles, feeling that strange mixture of desire and helplessness. Then I release my body from its imaginary bonds, bringing my arms back, my hands swiftly returning to the place between my thighs. A thumb jabs between my ass-cheeks, while a slow finger strokes the length of my slit, not gently but forcefully, pushing my panties deep into the groove between my labia. I wonder if the finger is mine, or is it Rachel's? I hold my breath, half-hoping the finger will go away, but instead it presses really hard on my clitoris, pressing the panties against my poor little button. I expect to feel pain, but the sensation feels wonderful and I want it again. Yet somewhere at the back of my brain I'm shivering in confusion, hating and loving the helplessness, desperately hoping to feel Rachel's hot breath on my face while wishing the memories of her touch would disappear.

"No, don't!" I plead to the empty room, almost opening my eyes when the movement between my buttocks becomes more intimate. The rear gusset of my panties is now buried an inch or more in my asshole, a probing thumb still pushing the material deeper and wriggling like a worm.

"Rachel, please stop," I beg softly, but the plea goes unheeded, even when my spine suddenly arches up from the bed. I know I can no longer hold back my orgasm, no matter how badly I want to make it last.

And then I come, gasping so loudly that the neighbours probably think I'm dying, my legs shuddering and my toes curling. Out from my gaping mouth my tongue darts out to lick sweat off my upper lip. The moisture tastes salty, a completely different flavour to the sour taste of my cunt-juice when I start licking my fingers. I lie there for a long time, quivering at each pulse of pleasure until my climax fades to that lovely warm afterglow. I open my eyes to find that I'm alone in the bedroom, alone in the house. Rachel's narrow face, her staring eyes, her cruel sexy smile, are all just memories from my past, already fading away. I move my legs and realise that the ankles aren't sore, the ligaments aren't cramped or stretched, no restraints are visible at the corners of the bed. The movement makes my crotch feel squelchy and I know my panties are totally drenched. But I feel happy and satisfied, though rather tired and thirsty. I'll rest for a while, maybe sleep for a half hour, before taking a shower, vowing to remind myself to return Karen's sweaty underwear to the laundry basket. I guess my own panties should go in the basket too, but only after they've dried a little on the radiator.

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