When it began, they were strangers.
Cassidy was home from college for the summer, a soon-to-be sophomore, whiling the days away at her parents’ suburban neighborhood pool. Dana was an older woman–practically thirty!–who happened to be sunbathing at the chair next to Cassidy’s one Friday. She said she worked at an agency that had put her on a sort of furlough–indefinite Fridays off without pay.
The first few weeks were downright cliché. Dana offering her SPF 30, Your back looks pink, I have the best lotion, let me get your thighs, too. Even to Cassidy, every bit of it was trite: two women “coincidentally” meeting regularly, her coy relishing of Dana’s lubricated massages, the plain fact that she was a virgin. Still, no amount of banality could have stopped her from showing up each Friday and waiting on her belly for more.
This would be the fourth consecutive week. Each time before, Dana’s lotioning had taken a bit longer than the week prior. Because they were now regulars and always sat in the same corner, it was almost as if they were invisible to everyone else. The lifeguards were pubescent–preoccupied solely with each other–while pretending to oversee the splashing children. The mums mostly dozed under chlorine-wrinkled People magazines. Only the sun could see the way Dana’s fingertips glided along the sides of Cassidy’s breasts and grazed the elastic of her suit bottom; the way her palms worked the meaty flesh high on Cassidy’s thighs. But she had always stopped there.
Cassidy’s fantasies about Dana’s fingers maneuvering between her legs and slipping inside her cunt began the after the second impromptu massage, and were now a near constant buzz under all her other waking thoughts. She was a living, breathing kegel exercise — puckering, always puckering — begging to be entered. Today had to be the day.
Her lawn chair was angled so that, laying flat on her stomach, if she propped her chin on her hands in front of her she could keep the entrance to the pool in her natural gaze. She watched the door for Dana’s clover green bikini.
If it happened, if she managed to present herself in such a way as to finally be penetrated, she wondered if she could consider it her first sex.
Nothing had ever entered her body. Well, except Jeremy Paul’s tongue, which had probed her mouth and ears back in eighth grade, but that wasn’t sexual at all, not to her. She felt like a bit of a freak to have somehow avoided being touched her whole life.
Last semester at uni, she had tried to play with a dildo. Her roommate blatantly kept two in their dorm room–one for showers, and one in her desk drawer that she swore she used everyday while Cassidy was at the library. She gave Cassidy a similar model as a birthday gift, waterproof, and encouraged her to carry it in her shower bucket like the other girls did with theirs.
She tried. She was secretly terrified that it would hurt. She’d sit naked behind the curtains of the extra large shower stall, the one with the seat for shaving, and rubbed the length of it along her clitoris and vulva until her vagina pulsed and all her folds shined wet. She circled her inner labia with the mushroom head, her walls throbbing, pleading to be quenched, but she could never bring herself to push it inside.
The blend of yearning with fear was excruciating. Always, after these attempts–planned for when she knew her roommate would be away–she rushed back to her bed to gather the corner of her sheets into a big cluster of fabric she could mount face down. Once the clump pressed sufficiently at her groin, she freed a hand to squeeze her nipples; one, then the other. She rotated her hips over the bulge jammed between her legs. Eventually both hands were needed at her pelvis. She circled faster and faster and faster until she came, breathlessly, the way she had been doing since she was a little girl.
Today would be different.
TO BE CONTINUED
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