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    Young NaCl's Story
    As usual, I'm thinking of me.

    I'm thinking of what a delightful evening I spent last Friday. I
    remember every delicious detail. But then my memory has a habit
    of gripping the particulars of such events and keeping them safe.
    Shall I relive my memory?

    I believe I shall.

    I had been deliberately without sex for a few weeks, not a great
    length of time, but long enough to make my hunger sharp. Long
    enough to make the warmth of my hand, casually resting on my
    thigh as I drove, more stirring than usual.

    As I recall, I arrived at the parking lot, pulled into a spot
    that was, as I playfully thought, "right under a light!", and
    turned off the motor. I remained seated behind the wheel.

    A few weeks seemed like such a long time. Though I began with
    friendly thoughts, very soon those friendly thoughts were
    supplanted by a few exploratory caresses. How it excites me to
    feel my own warm, soft hand, trailing slowly down along my neck,
    followed leisurely by the a touch of the very tip of my tongue to
    a fingertip and a nibble every now and then on the sensitive pads
    of my fingers. The way I draw my teeth lightly across the
    delicate skin--well, I must know. I remember it.

    And then to my mouth, my lips soft and gentle at first, mouth
    open. I remember lifting my other hand to brush back my hair,
    getting caught up in the silky feel of its length. I remember my
    excitement as my tongue began to stroke the roof of my mouth,
    lightly, playing along the tender skin there.

    And then the feel of my mouth changed as I moved, and my arms
    came up, hands resting on my chest, occasionally meandering up or
    down, agonizingly slowly. My heat became more demanding as my
    hands and my breasts came into contact. The way I started when
    my fingers brushed down across my nipple was enough to straighten
    me up in the seat.

    I had enjoyed my reaction, so I continued, concentrating on my
    left nipple, the more sensitive one. I could feel it harden
    through the fabric of my blouse as I rubbed it lightly, could
    hear the small sounds of pleasure I made as I squeezed it between
    my fingers. Now under my blouse, stroking my smooth skin with my
    palms, up my sides until my fingers had found myself once more.
    Gently rubbing with my thumbs in a definite rhythm, one that was
    echoed by the way I began to move my hips as I touched myself.
    Very soon both of my nipples were stiff and my breath was coming
    hard and deep. Now--drawing my fingernails across such tender
    skin, hearing the soft cry I gave, feeling the effect I was
    having on myself--lovely.

    I pushed back against the seat then, smiling in a wonderfully
    wanton way. I pushed my skirt up, and I placed my hands on my
    thighs. I traced down with my palms, I remember, then up with
    the tips of my fingers, but slowly now. Further up--mmm--and
    what ridiculous disappointment when I withdrew my hands!

    I brought my hands up again to cup my breasts, caressing them
    slowly through my blouse. As exciting as my touch was, it wasn't
    enough. When I unbuttoned my blouse and slipped my hand inside--
    well, that was enough. As soon as I felt my fingertip brush my
    nipple through the lace of my bra, I felt a rush of heat through
    my entire body. I teased myself just as I had teased earlier.
    Just as I had wanted to lick my nipples, to take them in my
    mouth, to hear my sharp intake of breath-- I wanted to but could
    not.

    I had no complaints about what happened next. I reached under my
    skirt once more, this time removing the lace panties I wore.
    "They're in the way," I thought.

    So then my hands were on my thighs again, caressing the tender
    skin on the insides, but also massaging the muscles there.
    Somewhere along the line I also pulled my skirt up further, far
    enough so that any casual passerby could, with a single glance,
    have become well-acquainted with my body. But I wanted to see
    myself, and if they could, too--well, all right.

    I make myself do shameless things.

    I remember the exquisite sensation of my fingers twining in the
    soft triangle of hair there, gently and suggestively. And I
    remember my moan as I traced down with a fingertip over my outer
    lips; I remember the surge of warmth that was now centered under
    my hands. Then very lightly, I drew my fingertip from bottom to
    top, increasing the pressure as I stroked my clit, then down
    again to slide my finger inside me, gathering some of the
    moisture that had been there for most of the evening, awaiting my
    kind attention. I soon became slick with my caresses, and my
    touch was so very exciting, feeling my fingertip slide down over
    me, then up again, finding a rhythm and a pressure that made
    other concerns much less urgent all of a sudden.

    Other concerns like passing pedestrians, walking by on their way
    into the theater.

    I clearly remember what happened next. My warm breath came fast,
    and the knowledge that I had excited myself so was almost as
    delicious as the feel of my finger as it traced my sensitive
    lips. I moved along the outside, as I had done before, then
    stroked myself teasingly with my fingers before devoting my thumb
    to flicking my clit back and forth, slowly at first, then faster.

    And my finger was inside me again, increasing the pleasure I was
    feeling. As I rubbed myself and then, for a few heart-stopping
    seconds, gently tugged on my clit, I could feel myself moving my
    other fingers in and out of me. I don't know how I've always
    known just how I want to be touched; I haven't ever thought about
    it. I haven't needed to. And this was no exception. As I
    continued more deliberately, I felt my whole body begin to
    tremble, felt a hard surge of some darkly wonderful heat.

    I knew then that I was almost there, because, although I'm not
    sure, I think I was being rather vocal. I seem to remember that
    I spoke my own name, and I am almost certain that I cried out as
    I felt first the few seconds of utter rigidity, then the
    fluttering pleasure that made my body convulse again and again as
    I came. And I caressed my thigh once I was still, brought my
    juicy hand to my mouth as I rested there, completely relaxed and
    absolutely alive.

    But how to repay myself, my dear, for such indescribable release?

    My hands found my nipples again. I was hoping to bring myself
    back to the state of arousal I had felt before. But on further
    inspection, namely moving down to touch my thighs, I found that I
    was still as ready as I had been before, if not more so. Because
    I could feel my warmth as I continued up until my hand brushed
    against the stiffness of my clit and I moaned, one of my soft
    small sounds that I love to hear. More sounds then, as I
    continued to stroke myself, a slight bit of pressure now--

    Not close enough. I couldn't get close enough to myself. I loved
    the way my lips felt, the smooth, taut skin there-- I held myself
    for a moment, just to recall the shape of myself, just to hear my
    sigh as I moved my thumb over the sensitive ridges.

    Still not close enough.

    I gazed down, then, I lay there enjoying the sight of myself--I
    love the way I look--and breathing in the warm scent of my body.
    Then, not wanting to wait any longer, I ran my finger down the
    length of my labia, just the tip of my finger at first, but then
    covering as much of myself with my hand as I could. I imagined
    how I must look, eyes closed, with the helpless, almost dazed
    expression that I take on when I make love to myself like this.

    I decided now to pretend that I still felt a bit uncertain about
    what kind of touching will excite myself most. Feeling
    experimental, I first lightly stroked the tip of my clit with my
    fingers, skirting around the small hood that sets it apart, and,
    my God, enjoying the feel of that immensely. I pressed my thighs
    tightly together, closing my lips around my hand and hearing my
    small gasp of response. I began to stroke, first letting the
    tips of my fingers rotate on my clit, then traveling down
    further, plunging the fingers into my vulva.

    I continued my motions, first plunging in and then withdrawing,
    until I found a rhythm to follow, thrusting my hips up and back
    to guide my fingers in and out of my now-swollen lips. My
    excitement grew as I moved; I can't describe the agonizing,
    wonderful heat that I felt, hearing myself whisper my name and
    feeling my hands in my pussy.

    And I wanted myself to come once more. I wanted to feel my
    growing excitement, then my sounds of surprise, then the way my
    entire body begins to shake when I'm there. I wanted to taste
    myself.

    But I stopped. I was feeling disoriented, and for a moment I
    couldn't understand why I hadn't let myself finish, until I once
    again remembered that I was in the middle of a parking lot that
    was as bright as day, and noticed several passersby who could
    easily have turned such intimacy into a spectator sport.

    "I'm sure the car was rocking," I laughed to myself as I
    rearranged myself and prepared to follow the audience into the
    theater. And I noticed a police car which had pulled up at some
    point, unremarked by me. Perhaps I was right to stop--can you
    imagine the mortification of being caught in such a position by a
    duly-appointed officer of the law?

    But my excitement hadn't abated at all by the time I had seated
    myself at the very back of the theater, in the uppermost row of
    seats that formed a stairstep configuration; from where I sat I
    overlooked the entire theater. No, if anything I was now more
    excited, feeling my bare thighs pressed together under my skirt,
    no underwear still, knowing how easy it would be for me to touch
    my secrets and feel the warmth and the wetness that my earlier
    attentions had caused.

    At some point during the movie, I moved my hand to my thigh once
    more, stroking myself casually, almost absent-mindedly, it
    seemed. But then I was slowly pushing my skirt up again, inch by
    inch, until my fingers rested on my bare skin.

    Now, I felt a moment of panic, but looking around, I realized
    that no one could see me, and, as long as I was able to stay
    quiet, no one need know what was going on. So I continued,
    moving my troublesome skirt out of the way.

    Once again my fingers met first the extra-sensitive skin of the
    insides of my thighs, and I remember that I willingly spread my
    legs apart for myself, wanting to feel my excitement.

    And as before, my touch soon had me shaking with the need to make
    love to myself. Even as I thrust my fingers inside me, my other
    hand moved to my jacket pocket, feeling for the long, hard object
    I carried there.

    And I stroked myself as I had before, hearing my soft moans
    again. I recall what I murmered to myself then; "I can't wait.
    I want it inside me now."

    Never mind the presence of a respectable crowd not fifty feet
    below me. I had wanted it inside me all evening, wanted to feel
    myself being entered directly and deeply.

    Moving very slowly, I placed the dildo on its broad, flat base,
    so that it stood up proudly in the theatre seat. As I positioned
    myself above it and lifted my skirt, facing the screen as I was,
    I could feel the head of my surrogate cock brushing against my
    moistened lips and my swollen clit, and it felt so achingly good
    that I was almost ready to come before I lowered myself down onto
    it and felt it pushing into me.

    I unbuttoned the first few buttons of my blouse again, and then I
    moved one hand inside to stroke my breasts. I love the way I
    touch my nipples, and, though I really would have liked to feel
    my lips there, the gently insistent stroking of my fingertips was
    enough.

    I began to move within myself then, as I thrust the dildo inside
    me from behind. First in, deep, then out, almost all the way, so
    that the head of my plastic lover was entering me over and over.
    I had lost all touch with such details as time or place, but I
    remember that I was honestly trying to be quiet, doing a pretty
    good job, too, until my thumb came around and began to stroke my
    clit, stiff and slick with my wetness. Then I think I made some
    sounds. Do I remember? I don't.

    And I came then--the sensation of that hardness so deep inside me
    combined with my deliberate caresses brought me off almost right
    away. I felt my hand moving harder then, and faster, and I
    stiffened, gasped, and started to tremble. Then I felt more
    heat, more wetness, as I came deep inside with a few final
    thrusts. I felt the violence of my heartbeat, felt my breath
    coming ragged and warm.
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