This is a continuation of On the Island of Mhowra, as told from Becca’s point of view.
“Put it in me.” Rachel sat on the edge of the tub with her legs spread wide. I’d never seen a naked person up close. She held herself open with both hands. I saw the dark skin of her hole’s entrance, the shiny line of her closed vagina.
The drums were drumming. The water bubbled from the jets. Steam rose like a night on the island of Mhowra, just like I imagined from the magazine. This was our Drusha ritual: mine, Rachel’s and Maggie’s. Our pact was to leave our virginity behind.
“Put it in me,” Rachel said again, handing me the cucumber.
I gripped the slippery shaft and let the curved end rest between her labia where her hands pulled her skin wide. Maggie backed away further in the tub.
“Push it.” Rachel seemed so certain. So ready.
Maggie and I were not.
But I twisted the vegetable, slowly pressing it upwards until it slid in a centimeter.
Rachel moaned and put one hand on each of our shoulders. Sweat dripped from under her breasts. Our giggling from earlier entirely forgotten: I was a reverse midwife stretching her open. I twisted and pressed some more. It went into her. She moaned louder.
She squeezed our shoulders hard and leaned forward, squatting in the tub instead of sitting on the edge. Her bottom hung over the surface of the bubbling water.
“Does it hurt?” Maggie asked.
“Shut up,” Rachel said. She looked like an animal, her eyes wild.
I didn’t know what to do. Maggie started crying. Half the cucumber was in Rachel’s cunt and she began rubbing her nipples. She said, “Don’t stop,” even though the skin stretching around the shaft looked like it was about to rip.
I pushed up two more inches until she moaned again. I panicked that the dildo was stuck inside her, but as soon as I let go, it began to slide out. Before it left her body she grabbed it and slid it back in. “Do it,” she told me. “Fuck me.”
Was this how it was for the Veccan girls?
I pushed the cucumber into her repeatedly, the way she demanded. Each time her muscles flexed and pushed it out. It seemed to me like we’d done what we set out to, we de-virginized her. But she kept squatting over the jetting water, rubbing her nipples panting, “Don’t stop.”
I wanted to feel what she felt. All of my cells craved touch and more than that: entry. I wanted to envelop her. I wanted all of Rachel’s skin to touch all of mine. It didn’t matter that Maggie was there watching, almost cowering with her arms folded over her chest in the corner of the whirring jacuzzi. At least she had stopped crying.
I thought that Rachel must be trying to come like the woman in the magazine. Her belly was taut, hips thrusting with each of my pushes. My own vulva spasmed as I watched the green shaft going into her, so slippery it became easy to pump faster. “Yes,” Rachel said, breathless.
I decided to take a risk. I used my non-pumping hand to touch her clit. With two fingertips, I pressed and rubbed, keeping tempo with her movement. It wasn’t easy. She gasped and cried out and I let myself believe she loved it enough to love me, too.
Then in true, selfish-Rachel, greedy form she said, “Maggie!”
Not me: Becca. No. “Maggie.”
“Maggie,” she said again, “Lick my clit.”
It was just like everything else with Rachel. Like at school, and cheerleading practice, and the mall. She always contrived every situation to place herself at the center. I hated it, and yet I found myself standing in line along with her other minions. Pretty girls chirping: “I’ll carry your books, Rachel. I’ll polish your saddle shoes. I’ll buy your Orange Julius. I’ll lick your clit.”
But Maggie didn’t move. So Rachel held the cucumber, keeping it inside herself, and cautiously leaned towards Maggie, kissing her flush cheek. “Please, Magpie, I think I can come with you.”
I don’t know what I expected, but this didn’t feel like the Drusha we had talked about. It was supposed to feel good. It was supposed to feel good for all of us. I wanted to leave.
Maggie remained still in the corner, too overwhelmed to play along. Rachel wasn’t going to force her. It didn’t matter. I was done. I stood up to reach for a towel.
Then Rachel surprised me. She pulled the cucumber from her vagina and ran it slowly up my inner thigh. A part of me thought Ew, that was just in you, but the stronger feeling was elation. It was as if she saw me. For once, maybe I wasn’t invisible to her.
She skimmed the wet phallus along my labia. I tingled from the stroke.
“It’s Becca’s turn,” she said.
My body clenched. I braced myself for visibility.
Photo: Public Domain. The Large Bathers by Pierre-Auguste Renoir
This post was written for Wicked Wednesday, a site where writers share erotic stories (fiction and non) every week. The fun is hosted by the bright light Marie Rebelle of Rebel’s Notes, whose endeavors you can support at Patreon.
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