The Lesbian Diaries Volume One E-Book

Giselle Renarde

• Herausgeber: Giselle Renarde
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Ready to indulge yourself in queer confessional fiction? The first three books in Giselle Renarde’s “Lesbian Diaries” are now available in one collection!

Ariadne’s Diary: Ariadne is desperate for love, and she wants her teacher to give it to her. When Ariadne’s grades slip into the danger zone, the buxom Ms. Bambini offers up some most unusual tutoring sessions. Ariadne never imagined her life would head down such a torrid path, but will Ms. Bambini’s help become Ariadne’s downfall? 

Bridie’s Diary: Bridie never expected to find herself in this position at midlife: leaving her husband, purchasing her childhood home, falling in love with her tenant. Ness is everything Bridie is not. She’s young and bold and artsy and trans. But when Bridie’s best friend shows up, she’s torn between fresh possibilities and familiar passions. Will Bridie choose the old or the new? Or will life choose for her?

Cosima’s Diary: Cosima is a paid unicorn. No, not the mythical creature, though women like Cosima are almost as rare—that’s why she’s so much in demand. Cosima consorts with married couples. It’s not just a job, to her. She thinks of it as a calling. That’s why she’s so torn when she meets Lenore: part-time barista, part-time nurse, full-time girl of Cosima’s dreams. Lenore’s not so sure she wants to date a woman she has to share. Can Cosima choose between the vocation she loves and the woman she wants?

Lesbian fiction from award-winning queer Canadian author Giselle Renarde.

Leseprobe

Lesbian Diaries Volume 1

© March 2020 by Giselle Renarde

All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be access by minors.

Cover design © 2020 Giselle Renarde

First Edition 2020

Ariadne’s Diary © September 2019

Bridie’s Diary © October 2019

Cosima’s Diary © November 2019

Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

Table of Contents:

Ariadne’s Diary

Bridie’s Diary

Cosima’s Diary

Ariadne’s Diary

I’m in Love with my Teacher!

The Lesbian Diaries

Book 1

By

Giselle Renarde

TUESDAY MAY 9TH @ 4:35 p.m. 

Dear Diary, 

I did it again.

I said I wouldn’t, but you know how it goes. Happens often enough.

There I was, sitting in class, waiting for Ms. Bambini to hand around our tests, when I got The Need between my legs. You know The Need: the one I can’t ignore, no matter how hard I try?

It doesn’t make sense.  By that point in the day, I’d already run home to get off real fast. That was during lunch hour.  You know Ms. Bambini’s class is right after lunch. 

You’d think if I got myself off good enough, the satisfaction would last for an hour, at least. So why doesn’t it?  Why does this keep happening to me?

The Need is ruining my life!

When Ms. Bambini came around with a stack of tests pressed to her big, beautiful breasts, all I could think was: ‘Oh, to be that paper! To be a flat, white nothingness that disappears into the mundane! A woman of Ms. Bambini’s ample assets would press me against her heaving bosom and not think twice about it!’

In my next life, I want to come back as paper.

Ms. Bambini set my test face-down on my desk.  She flashed me a sympathetic smile as she walked by.  You know better than anyone how crappy my marks have been this year.  And clearly it’s not because I can’t write words on a page!  Look!  I’m doing it right now!  I fill you with thoughts every day, Dear Diary: thoughts in word form, from my pen to your ears.  Obviously I’m capable of doing it. 

Thing is, when I’m sitting there in class and Ms. Bambini’s standing at the board talking about Ma and Pa Joad, it’s like I can’t even force myself to listen. I’m just staring at those gorgeous, golden breasts. 

Her breasts are often swaddled in black bras, you know.  Black, even when her blouse is light-coloured like it was today: creamy, shot with strands of golden thread.  Her black skirt came down to her knees.  So tight and form-fitting.  It showcased her ass like you wouldn’t believe.

If you want to see a generously-proportioned hour-glass figure, take a look at Ms. Bambini.  She’ll put your eye out. 

Oh great!  Now I’ve got The Need again.  I can’t even get through telling you one story without The Need coming back.  But you know what?  I’m just going to cross my legs and think of England, or however that goes, because I really want to tell you what happened today.

Like I said, I was in class waiting for the test to start.  Ms. Bambini was giving me The Need, as usual.  She finished handing out test papers and when she got to the back of the class she said: “Time to flip your papers and show me what you’re made of!”

I was actually doing okay in the beginning, believe it or not.  Or, I think I was.  Hard to know, since I never actually finished reading The Grapes of Wrath.  But I watched enough YouTube videos about it that I think I had a pretty good handle on the topic.

Then, tragedy befell: Ms. Bambini started walking up and down the aisles.  I could feel her behind me as I got to the short answer questions.  I swear I could feel her body heat baking my back. 

What a rush!  She smelled so good, and it wasn’t perfume.  Even though the school is a scent-free environment, she keeps a tube of body lotion in her desk: black cherry and almond. 

God, that scent! 

My eyes unfocused as she passed me by.  It was wonderful and wild and awful, too, because I couldn’t see the words on the page.  I couldn’t read the questions.  When I closed my eyes, her sweet aroma encircled me like a hot hug. 

I thought it was all in my mind until I heard her voice saying, “Ariadne?  Are you okay?”

When I opened my eyes, there she was: her face only inches from mine, her full pink lips close enough to bite.  Her dark hair fell across her shoulders as she leaned forward, but those tumbling curls only drew my eyes to the danger zone: her full, round breasts held in check by two firm cups.

I imagined my hands serving that purpose instead.  I imagined reaching around and holding her breasts from behind, following her all day long, forever being her bra.

Of course, my hands weren’t up to the task.  They were too small to hold so much flesh.  I would fail at being Ms. Bambini’s bra just like I was going to fail this test. 

That’s what I was thinking while I stared into my teacher’s forbidden cleavage.

I told her I had to go to the bathroom.

“Are you feeling ill?” she asked, setting one warm hand on my forehead.

Her touch was forceful, not like a mother’s, more like she thought she could heal me by touching me skin-on-skin. 

You know what I’m going to tell you next, Dear Diary.  You’ve heard it all before.

When Ms. Bambini felt my forehead and her cherry-almond scent swirled around my face, The Need between my legs roared through my body like a bear. 

I had to get off.  I couldn’t wait until after the test.  I had to do it right that second or I swear I would have exploded there in the classroom.  Confetti would have shot out my neck hole.  It would have been something else.

I told Ms. Bambini I wasn’t sick.  I didn’t want her to picture me puking.  I said I was fine, I just needed to use the bathroom right away.

She said, “You should have gone before class, Ariadne.  You know my rule: if you leave in the middle of a test, you forfeit your right to complete it.”

The twins—Jack and Jenny Mogaby, not Ms. Bambini’s boobs—glared at me for talking during a test.  I even felt bad about that.  I wasn’t trying to distract the rest of the class.  I just couldn’t concentrate.  I had to get out of the room and as far away from my teacher as humanly possible. 

Especially when she leaned in a little more, just a fraction of an inch, but enough for her left breast to slide forward in her bra. 

That’s when I spied it: the rosy-brown edge of her nipple! 

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.  I just sat there and stared.  It was so much darker than my own nipples.  Dark pink compared to baby pink.  Is that because she’s older?  Not old-old, just older than me.  Do nipples get darker with age?  I don’t know.  But, God, did I ever want to press my face to her chest, dig inside her bra with just my mouth, and suck my teacher’s tits.

I tried to stand, but my knees were too wobbly.  Anyway, Ms. Bambini was blocking my path.  I had to crawl over the side of my desk where the metal pole was attached to my chair—and when I say “crawl” what I really mean is “fall” because, yeah, I landed flat on my hands and knees.

My ears started buzzing the way they do when I’m about to faint.  I could hardly hear Ms. Bambini’s voice when she asked if I was okay. 

Nobody else in the class seemed to notice me at all, not that I was willing to look anyone in the eye.  I was so embarrassed, not just because I’d fallen on the floor, but because I’d fallen with my butt in the air.

As you know, Dear Diary, when I get turned on, I get more than a little wet.  That’s why I always wear dark-coloured pants and skirts—or, better yet, patterns and prints.  Most girls are afraid of getting their periods all over their pants.  Me?  I’m afraid that my pussy will pump out so much of that clear, glossy liquid it’ll soak through my panties and leave a wet spot on my jeans.

If anybody was looking at my ass as I crawled across the floor of Ms. Bambini’s class, they probably thought I’d peed my pants.  And you know what?  That’s almost less embarrassing than people knowing I was going to fail one more test because I couldn’t wait another 50 minutes to put my hand down my panties.

The rest is nothing new to you, Dear Diary. 

As soon as I’d locked myself in the bathroom stall, I pushed down my jeans, leaned my back against the wall, and pressed three flat fingers against my throbbing clit.  You should have seen how swollen it was. My God!  Some days I wonder if it’s trying to be a dick, the way it surges and grows down there, peeking out between my lips, showing itself to me, begging to be touched.

I bet people—“people” meaning menfolk—think all girls are really soft and tender, the way we touch ourselves... that, if we do it at all, we do it in a sunny meadow surrounded by daisies, or else in bed under the covers in the dead of night, when we’re unlikely to be caught.

Diary, you know me better than that.  If I tried to be tender I’d never get off.

So today in the girls’ bathroom, I scoured my swollen clit.  No lead-up.  Just spread my legs as wide as they’d go with my jeans around my knees.  My clit begged for touch.  I hadn’t brought anything with me, not even my backpack, so all I had at my disposal was a pair of hands. 

But that was enough. 

More than enough. 

I stroked off roughly, up and down, on a slight diagonal.  Started with quick motions that only got faster as my muscles tightened and twitched.  Not just the muscles in my arm, but the ones in my legs, too, and my butt.  Soon I was standing on tip-toes, crushing my clit with quick blows. 

Some people would be amazed, I think, at how violent I get with my own body.  But I need it that way.  It’s not even a matter of liking.  It’s not a preference.  If I had my own way, do you think I’d choose to spend half my life rushing off to put my hand down my pants?  Once in a while, fine, but not like this.  Not this constant urge to fuck my own hand until I find an orgasm buried in there.

Not that it takes very long. 

That’s another thing that would probably surprise most people—“people” again meaning menfolk.  I bet they think girls take, like, an hour to come.  Nope, not me.  All I have to do is slap myself around a bit, stroke off hard and fast, and an orgasm finds me like storm. 

My whole body tightens and trembles.  My butt clenches tight.  I stand on tip-toes.  I bite my lip so nobody hears.  I stroke off so fast, so fast, so fast my hand’s a blur.  I keep at it even as I’m coming. 

I keep coming, keep coming, keep coming.  I come until it hurts. 

Then I stop. 

Then I touch myself again just to see if I can, but it still hurts and so I pull up my pants and rush from the stall and stare at my reddened cheeks in the mirror.  It’s so obvious what I’ve done.  I splash cold water on my face, but the redness doesn’t die down right away.  I grab one of those brown paper towels that smells like wood when you wet it, and I pat my skin dry.

I didn’t go back to Ms. Bambini’s class right away.  No point.  It’s not like I could finish my test.  If I got all those multiple choice questions right, I might get 20% max. Whoop-dee-doo! 

I’m going to fail this class for sure, Dear Diary.  Ms. Bambini probably thinks I’m an idiot.  That’s the worst part.  I wish I could show her I’m not, but every time I look at that fine body of hers I turn into a bumbling moron.

Oh shoot, my mom just knocked on my door.  It’s Happy Family Dinner Time in the Hartford-Chen Household. 

(groans)

Wish me luck.

Ariadne 

Tuesday May 9th @ 11:11 p.m.

Dear Diary, 

It’s 11:11.  Make a wish.

I wish I could go back in time to stop myself from buying that stupid little cheap-ass vibrator online.

That’s right, Dear Diary.  It came today.  And how did I find out?  Glad you asked.

My mom stood up in the middle of dinner and said, “Oh!  Ariadne!  I almost forgot—something came in the mail for you.”

At first I was barely listening, because I figured it would be one more rejection letter from another university.  There’s enough competition between students who actually have good grades.  Why would they consider accepting someone who’s flunking every course taught by even passably attractive teachers?  Not gonna happen.

Anyway, when my mom came back to the table holding one of those bubble wrap envelopes, my face must have turned sheet white.  I should have said nothing.  I should have acted really casual and just been like, “Oh, good, yeah, just leave it on the hall table and I’ll grab it on my way upstairs.”

But no.  I had to act like a complete whack job. 

The first thing I did was scream, “You didn’t open it, did you?”

My mom said no, of course she didn’t, and what was the big deal anyway?  What was inside?

While she proclaimed her innocence, I stood up and grabbed the envelope from across the table.  I figured she’d be holding on tight, but I guess she wasn’t, because when I pulled it out of her hand it came to me easily and I ended up knocking over Uncle Elwin’s glass of generic store-brand soda.  Good thing it wasn’t The Real Thing or he’d probably have slit my throat.

As it was, the soda soaked Cousin Carter’s garlic bread and he started screaming because soggy baked goods freak this kid out.  You should see what happens if he sets foot inside a coffee shop. All that dunking of donuts!  Kid can’t handle it.

Meanwhile, my brother started asking, “What’s in the package?  What’s in the package?” but he asked the question like a hundred million times because, as you know, Max is big on repetition right now.

I was hugging the envelope to my chest, and I guess I looked kind of guilty, because my mom and my grandma both teamed up on me, like, “Yeah, Ariadne, what’s in the package?”

Think fast.  What’s embarrassing enough that I’d want to hide it, but less embarrassing than a vibrator?

“Hemorrhoids,” I said.  “It’s hemorrhoid cream.  I have hemorrhoids.”

One of these days I’ll learn to think before I speak.

Because here’s the thing about hemorrhoids: I don’t really know what they are.  I know it’s something to do with your butt and I know it’s something embarrassing, but I only even know that much because I overheard my Aunt Marcie talking to my mom about it.

Anyway, I guess hemorrhoids was the right answer, because my mom and my grandma and Uncle Elwin all started nodding and smiling like they were reminiscing about a day at the beach. 

My grandma said, “I had raging ‘roids with all my kids.  Whoa, Nelly!”

“Same here,” my mother joined in.  “Worst case ever with you, Ariadne.  When I was carrying Max I got them too, but with you?  Yikes!  I could hardly sit!”

In addition to being gross, this conversation was starting to worry me, because my mom and grandma were both talking about getting hemorrhoids when they were pregnant.  Any minute now, they were probably going to ask, “Wait a minute, Ariadne... you’re not pregnant, are you?” 

They asked me that all the time, and every time I wanted to scream, “No, I’m not pregnant!  You have to have sex before you can get pregnant!”  But instead I’d just grumble “No” and leave the room. 

It’s so embarrassing, talking to your family about sex stuff.  Even when you’re an adult.  I’d rather just not.

Luckily, nobody asked if I was pregnant. 

As Uncle Elwin soaked up the spilled soda with his stash of McDonalds napkins, he said, “You’ve got to eat more fiber, Airy.  Spend less time on the pot.  Of everyone in this household, you spend more time on the john than anyone.  That’s where hemorrhoids come from, you know.  All that pushing, all that forcing.”

This conversation was going from bad to worse.

“You need to eat more fruits and vegetables,” my grandmother added.  “Bran buds in the morning.  No more buttered toast for breakfast.  Fruit, yogurt, a sprinkle of bran—you’re good to go.”

I rolled my eyes just as my mother got around to asking me if I’d seen a doctor.  No?  Why not?  Just because I was a legal adult didn’t mean I was equipped to take care of myself.  If only I’d told her about the problem, we could have gone to the drugstore.  A mother-daughter field trip!  We could have picked something off the shelf, saved the shipping fees.  And those online pharmacies, you know the prices are so inflated to begin with!  It might not even be hemorrhoid cream in that package.  Could be toothpaste.  You don’t know what these shysters are up to.  Plenty of people online are just looking to pull a fast one.

With a heavy sigh, I asked to be excused. 

As I left the table, Cousin Carter kept asking, “Adne, what’s a hem-roid?  Adne, what’s a hem-roid?”

I grumbled, “Ask your grandmother” as I marched toward the stairs.

Even when I was alone in my room, I couldn’t bring myself to open the package.  I was sure my mother would burst through the door at any moment, wanting to talk more about my made-up butt condition.

When Uncle Elwin took the boys out for an after-dinner bike ride, my mom and my grandma settled in front of the TV.  I guess nobody was coming to talk to me after all.

That’s when I finally tore open the envelope.

What I found inside disappointed me, to say the least.  I was expecting the vibe to be a giant purple monster.  It wasn’t.  It was a sad piece of plastic not much bigger than my thumb.  Okay, so maybe it was twice as big as my thumb, but you know what I mean.  It wasn’t huge.  Nowhere near.

It didn’t come with batteries, so I had to sneak downstairs to raid the junk drawer.

I’d been hoping the buzz would blow me away.  No such luck.  After I’d put the batteries in the toy, I turned it on and held it gently against my cheek.  It was vibrating, sure, but not in a way that would make me lose my mind. 

I held it to my crotch and closed my eyes, feeling the buzz through my jeans.

Okay, so that was a nice feeling.

I laid face-up on my bed and held the vibe gently to my crotch.  Hard to decide whether the buzz was a turn-on feeling or a relaxing feeling.  Well, I guess it wasn’t too much of a turn-on because I turned it off maybe a minute later. 

No orgasm to report, which—as you know—is rare for me.

All in all, I wish I hadn’t wasted my money on that cheap piece of crap.  I should have bought one of those heavy-duty mofos, but they cost an arm and a leg.

Where am I going to find that kind of money, Dear Diary? 

Wednesday May 10th @ 3:30 a.m.

Dear Diary,

You’re going to kill me.

First off, I know I should be asleep right now.  I was asleep for a while.  And then I dreamed about how to make money doing what I love!

You know how there are girls who jerk off in front of their webcams and strangers pay to watch them?  I could do that!  Why not, right?  I spend half my life getting off for free.  If I can make money from my nympho clit, why shouldn’t I?

Except I had no idea how to do it or where to start. 

So I turned on my computer and searched “how to be a cam girl.”  A bunch of search result came up but I didn’t feel like reading anything (isn’t it funny how I love writing but I hate reading?) so I clicked on the first search result that was a video.  All I learned from that clip was that anyone can be a cam model if they’re over eighteen (check) and attractive (check?).

I don’t want to sound needy or anything, but would you say I’m attractive, Dear Diary? 

I guess I’m kind of cute, but I wouldn’t say I’m beautiful.  I don’t look old enough to be beautiful.  Probably a lot of people would be surprised I’m even eighteen.  Most people (menfolk) would probably look at my little body and be like “Ewww, why would I want to watch this kidlet diddle herself?”  Because, you know, I’ve got these tiny tits and this stupid limp hair and that birthmark on my belly, but I guess I could cover that with makeup. 

The only thing I guess I have going for me is the whole being half Chinese thing.  I know there are people out there (menfolk) with, like, a fetish for Asian girls or whatever.  But I wish I hadn’t thought about that because it’s squicking me out, the idea of being some dude’s me-so-horny fetish object. Gross.

I figured I’d have to shave my pussy even though I don’t have a lot of hair.  You know how they say the camera puts on ten pounds?  It’s like that with pubic hair, too.  The camera puts on pubic hair.  Better to get rid of it.

Long story short, I shaved my pussy real quick.

Actually, Dear Diary, you’d be amazed how different a shaved pussy is from a hairy one.  It’s slick and smooth.  Wow.  And so much more sensitive!  As soon as I’d done the deed, my clit was like... standing at attention!  My lips were so slick that juice actually came gliding down my thighs as I kneeled naked on my bed.

I had my laptop in front of me and earbuds in.  I didn’t want to wake anyone with the sounds of cam girl tutorials.  My clit was begging like you wouldn’t believe, but I didn’t want to waste any masturbation.  If there was money to be made on the internet, I wanted to make it.  I wanted someone to give me cold hard cash for doing it.

But I still had no idea how you got money from people or where you went on the internet to do it.  The first video I’d watched wasn’t very informative.  I spotted another one that was sixteen minutes long, so I figured that would give me all the information I needed.

The girl who did that video was super-cute and like British or something.  She had bright red hair and tattoos and nice big boobs, not that you could see them—this is YouTube we’re talking about—but she had on a black bra under a white top, so you could definitely make out what was going on there.

Anyway, this girl was basically giving you tips about being a cam model.  Not sexual tips, or even where to go on the internet to make money, more stuff like copyright and buying the proper equipment.  Like, I don’t even have money to buy a quality vibe!  How am I going to buy a good webcam and microphone and spotlights and stuff?

Then she got into talking about guys.

She was saying to remember that the guys who are paying you are human beings just like you are.  That said, some of them are assholes and they’ll harass you and swear at you and that’s just part of the job.

Like, for real?

I guess I hadn’t really considered that there would be actual menfolk out there in the world and they’d be looking at my naked body and, like, chatting to me while I was touching myself.  The idea made me queasy.

Oh, and I almost forgot!  This girl also said that some people (menfolk) will, like, record you doing your thing and then post the video to places you don’t want it.  She said something like “Get ready to see your vagina all over the internet.”

So maybe this seemed like a good idea from a distance, and maybe it would be a good job for girls who actually know what they’re doing, but if I tried it?  Just the idea of the dirty things strange men might say to me, and having to be strong through all that... I don’t think I could.

Plus, if someone posted naked videos of me on a bunch of sites, anyone could see them.  That’s the thing about the internet: your dad can see your vagina from the other side of the planet.

Well, I guess my plans to dominate the cam girl world are over before they even began.  I didn’t have the guts to go for the glory.

But I still had a slick, smooth pussy that was crying out to be touched.  And I still had that cheap crappy vibe.  And I still had a pretty girl on my computer screen.  Her NSFW twitter was listed and, as pretty as she was with clothes on, I wanted to see her naked.

Wow.  I didn’t know you could tweet stuff like that: a video of her deep-throating an entire dildo.  Like, the WHOLE THING.  Holy crap. 

And then a picture of her rubbing oil all over her naked tits.  Her bare breasts were great, full and fleshy and kind of pendulous with pretty pink nipples—same shade as mine.  Reminded me of seeing the edge of Ms. Bambino’s nipple, how dark it was, how different from my own.  Just the memory of seeing it and smelling her black cherry and almond lotion... it made me dizzy. 

My head dropped for a second, and in that moment I felt a bolt of electricity between my legs.

I grabbed the stupid purple vibe.

There were lots of screen shots in the red-haired cam model’s twitter stream.  I guess she does porn too, because she was selling videos of herself getting fucked by some guy with a bunch of tattoos.  At first it made me kind of sad that she was having sex with a dude, but I guess a lot of girls have sex with dudes.  I just have to get over it.

In one video, she was getting him off with her feet.  Like, she had both feet wrapped around this dude’s hard cock and she was stroking it up and down like that, with his dick between her feet.  She was touching herself too, and her boobs were exposed, bouncing a bit as she moved. 

I couldn’t stop watching.

Before I knew it, I’d turned on my vibe and I was pressing it directly against my swollen clit.

Wow.  Okay.  Touching the vibe to my naked clit was way different than pressing it against my crotch when I had jeans on. 

And I think the fact that I’d just shaved my pussy made a big difference too, made me more sensitive.  Not that I had a lot of hair before, but without any hair at all it was like POW!  The vibrations zapped my clit like an electrical current. 

With my jeans on, it had felt like a massage.  Without jeans or panties or pubic hair, it actually HURT.  Like, I kept trying to touch the little vibe to my clit, but I kept having to pull back.  The sensation was way too intense.

I kept scrolling through this girl’s twitter feed until I got to a video of her playing with her breasts.  God, what pretty breasts she had.  I appreciated the saucy look on her face as she touched her tits.  The way she looked at the camera made me feel like I was in on some joke, some little tease. 

I pressed my vibe against my clit again, coming at it from the side instead of hitting it head-on.  This time it didn’t shock me too much.  Made my belly flutter, actually. 

That’s when I started rubbing my clit with the vibe.  Felt weird.  Not bad.  Just different than what I’m used to.

This internet girl was so cute, so sexy but not in an intimidating way.  She’s the kind of girl I’d love to be friends with.  Friends with kissing.  More than kissing.  Friends with kissing and touching and licking. 

Can you imagine what it would feel like to have another girl lick your clit?  I’m not sure if I can, but I bet it would feel warm and wet and I bet she’d make me come so hard.

And can you imagine what it would feel like if that same girl spread her legs and pushed her pussy against yours and then you both started rubbing your clits together?  Oh my God, that’s all I could think about as I looked at pictures of the red-haired girl: her tongue tickling my clit, her coy eyes dancing as she sucks my shaved pussy into her mouth, the feel of her lips on my nip and her face close to mine. 

Kissing.  Kissing.  Kissing. 

Oh God, and she reaches between my legs and finds my clit and strokes it.  She knows just what she’s doing.  She’s so good at rubbing me there.

Of course, as I pictured her doing this to me, I was in actuality doing it to myself: stroking my clit in wide, sloppy circles.  My pussy lips were so slick.  And the most amazing part was that something was buzzing inside me, a sensation I’d never experienced before. 

WOW, WOW, WOW!

That’s when I realized... wait... where’s my vibrator?

You guessed it, Dear Diary: my pussy had swallowed my tiny purple vibe while I was busy stroking my clit.  Gone!

At first I was like, “Oh my God, what do I do now?  How do I get it out?”  Because when I say my pussy swallowed the vibe, I mean the vibe was fully inside of me.  Not sticking out in any way.  Fully engulfed by my hungry puss. 

I tried to stick my finger and thumb into my vagina to pull out the vibe, but it kept clamping down.  I felt like the vibe was travelling farther and farther into my body. 

Panic took over when I came across a picture of the red-haired cam girl getting off with one dildo in her pussy and another up her butt.

Oh. My. God.

Suddenly I didn’t even care that there was a vibrator lost in space.  I could feel it trembling inside of me.  When I played with my pussy, my touch felt different than usual.  Better.  More intense.  Part of that could have been the fact that I’d never shaved before.  I felt baby-smooth and my fingers loved gliding across the surface of my slippery lips before striking my swollen clit.

Felt so good, Dear Diary.  I can’t even tell you.  I just kept scouring my clit, driving it, pushing it, punishing it.  I pinched my nipples.  Oh God!  That felt so amazing!

My pussy started pulsing as I rubbed off, and suddenly my vagina shot the vibe out onto my bed.  I guess it’s hard to lose anything permanently in a pussy.  But, for whatever reason, as soon as my body had ejected that slim little vibe, I found myself picking it up and poking it at my ass. 

I’ve shoved a great assortment of objects up my snatch, as you well know, but I’ve never put anything in my ass.  Well, except my finger.  But seeing the red-haired cam girl with one dildo in her pussy and another in her ass made me want to do the same. 

But I only had the one vibe, so I guess it would have to take turns.

As soon as I touched the vibe to my asshole, it pretty much opened up and sucked the vibe right in.  I made sure to hold on to the base because I know you really can lose things in your ass.  I’ve seen X-rays on the internet of all the weird things people have gotten stuck up their butts.  Someone actually got a headless Barbie doll stuck up there.  Can you even imagine?

So I held on tight to make sure I wouldn’t lose it while I flicked my clit with the other hand. 

I was actually really surprised at how easily that thing spilled into my ass.  I’ve always heard that anal takes time and patience.  Maybe it’s just because my vibe was in my pussy first, and my pussy was so sloppy and slick. 

Maybe that’s why it was so easy to shove that vibe up my butt.

Actually, you know what?  I could feel the vibrations way more intensely in my butthole than in my vagina.  Maybe I’d bought a butt vibe by mistake.  It seemed the right size for a butt.  It was too small for a pussy, even a virgin one like mine. 

Anyway, the vibrations made my legs tremor as I kneeled in front of my computer, staring at the pretty girl with the bright red hair.

My hand moved so fast I couldn’t even see it properly.  It was just a flash between my legs, working my clit hard while my vibe buzzed in my ass.  My whole body started to flap like a flag in the wind when I started coming. 

I have a lot of orgasms, as you know, but this was one of the best I’ve had in weeks.  It felt so good to have something shoved up my butthole.  I think even if it wasn’t vibrating it still would have felt good, but the buzzing made it even better.  I came so hard I had to bite my shoulder to keep from screaming. 

Oh God, that’s going to leave a mark.  Good thing it isn’t quite tank top weather.

Okay, well, I’m super-sleepy now and I can hardly keep my eyes open, but I wanted to tell you all about it before going to bed.  I don’t think I could be a cam model myself, but I sure am glad other girls do it.  Pretty inspiring stuff.

Ciao for now,

Ariadne 

Wednesday May 10th @ 4:18 p.m.

Dear Diary,

What a day.

I guess I didn’t get enough sleep last night (well, you of all people know I didn’t), because I caught a cat nap in Ms. Bambini’s class.

Why hers, of all classes?  Why couldn’t I fall asleep in front of a teacher who isn’t hot as hell?  Like, why couldn’t I have fallen asleep in Mr. Gabel’s class?  He could have woken me up with his crusty yellow beard.  It would have been fine, not embarrassing at all.

Why did I have to fall asleep in front of Ms. Bambini?

Probably because her class is right after lunch.  Lunch always makes me sleepy.

Anyway, in case it wasn’t humiliating enough to be woken up by the prettiest teacher in the whole school softly poking my shoulder (the one with the bite mark, as it happens), when I got home from school my mom was like, “I need to have a little talk with you, young lady.”

Oh no!  Not a “young lady” talk!  She must have found my vibrator!

But no.  It was something even worse than your mom finding your vibrator.

Ms. Bambini had called the house.  She’d called to tell my mom I’d fallen asleep in class. And not just that.  She’d also expressed her concern that my grades were falling off the map.  She wanted to arrange a parent/teacher meeting to “discuss Ariadne’s progress.” 

Oh my God!  Literally nothing on this planet could be more embarrassing than your mom talking about you behind your back with the sexiest teacher alive!

Here’s the surprise: instead of arranging the meeting, my mother told Ms. Bambini that “Ariadne is a legal adult, which means she can handle her education on her own.” 

Can you even believe that?  Instead of treating me like a little kid, my mom told my teacher to take it up with me directly!

Of course, it’s also going to be super-embarrassing to sit down with Ms. Bambini and talk to her about what’s preventing me from getting better grades.  I can’t actually tell her, can I?  What am I supposed to say?  “Oh, I failed that test because every time I look at your boobs I have to masturbate.” 

She’d probably have me suspended for, like, sexual harassment or something.

So, anyway, that happened.  I’ll talk more later.  Dinner’s ready and I’m so hungry I could eat an entire goat, right to the hair on his chinny-chin-chin.

Ciao for now!

Ariadne

Wednesday May 10th @ 10:38 p.m. 

Dear Diary,

So much has happened since the last time I wrote you.  I don’t even know where to start. I guess I’ll just dive right in.

Okay, I’d been in my room trying to concentrate on my homework for Ms. Bambini’s class, since she’s so concerned about my education or whatever.  But I was really craving ice cream, so I went downstairs to get some and when I got to the kitchen, my mom was just finishing leaving a voicemail for someone.  Had to be my dad, because she was saying, like, “Okay, well, I guess I’ll talk to you later.  Love you.”  But the way she said it sounded really pissy and annoyed, like what she was really saying was, “Where the hell are you?  Why aren’t you picking up?  I’m your wife, goddamn it!  You can’t spare five minutes to talk to me?”

But my mom isn’t like that.  She’s not the kind of person who confronts things head-on.  She’s more likely to spew sideways, and that’s exactly what happened.

When my mom noticed me, she put on this fake smile and was all like, “Honey!  How’s it going?  How’s your homework coming along?”

I felt bad for her.  She missed my dad so much.  We all did, but she was the one who felt like she had to act happy all the time.

Anyway, I told her my homework was coming along just fine and I would talk to Ms. Bambini tomorrow after school.  I didn’t ask my mom if she’d been trying to get in touch with my dad.  I didn’t want to start something.

She was like, “Study break?” and I told her yeah I was craving ice cream and she was like, “Mmm scoop me a small bowl and we’ll dish.  Get it?”

I rolled my eyes but smiled because she was trying so hard to be happy.

And then the bad thing happened.

When I opened the freezer, I didn’t see the kind of ice cream I was craving.  It’s actually not ice cream at all.  It’s made of cashews but it’s chocolate fudge flavoured and oh my actual GOD it is the best dessert on the planet.  I’m not even joking.  My dad started buying it because he’s lactose intolerant and now I’m obsessed too.

But, like I said, I couldn’t find it in the freezer.  I could only find normal ice cream.  So I asked my mom if we had any of the cashew kind.  It was an innocent question, in my mind, but you should have seen her face when I asked it.  The fake smile disappeared.  Her eyes went from sparkly and sad to fiery and fierce.

When she screamed at me, I actually jumped.  Not even kidding.  I wasn’t expecting it.

She said, “That’s your father’s ice cream!  Why would I buy any?  It’s not like he’s around to eat it.  When he comes back, maybe you can ask him to buy it for you, but who knows when that’ll be?  I ask and I ask and I get no answers!  ‘When are you coming home, honey?’ And do you think he tells me?  No, no.  He just changes the subject.  That’s when I can get in touch with him at all!”

I was like, “Wow, Ma.  You are legit acting like a crazy person right now.”

Let me tell you, that was exactly the wrong thing to say.

She was like, “Crazy?  You want crazy?” 

And she gave it to me. 

I don’t even know what she was ranting about.  A lot of it was yelling at me for not helping with the cooking and cleaning, but, like, why would I?  That’s what my grandma’s for.  I shouldn’t have said that, either, because then my mom accused me of taking this family for granted and what if I woke up one morning and everyone was gone?  I told her I would be happy if everyone was gone because then I’d have the house to myself.

Things devolved pretty fast.

We were, like, screaming in each other’s faces and crying and stuff.  You know how it goes, Dear Diary.  You’ve seen it all before.

But this time I really wanted to get out of the house.  And I really wanted that ice cream. 

So, as my mom was screaming about what a terrible daughter I am, I marched out of the kitchen all the way to the front hall.  I knew she kept her keys in her purse, so I grabbed it, just picked up her purse, slung it over my shoulder, and shot out the front door. 

I could hear my mom screaming “Are you listening to me, young lady?” but that just made me slam the door harder.

Basically what I’m saying is I stole my mom’s car.

And her purse.

What is wrong with me?

I just had to get out, Dear Diary.  I had to get out of there and drive. 

And be alone for a while. 

That’s the thing about living with this big family: even with the door closed, you’re never really alone.  Even when you’re lonely as hell, there’s always someone in the next room.  It sucks.

That’s why driving is so great.  Maybe I should swallow my pride and become a cam girl after all, to save for a car.  Because when you’re in the car and it’s dark outside, you can crank up the volume and sing along and just riiiide.

I drove down deserted streets, getting horny as hell with Lana del Rey and dreaming of chocolate cashew ice cream.  Yeah, it was expensive.  But I had my mom’s wallet.

It wasn’t until I’d pulled up outside the all-night supermarket that I realized two things: 

1) The clothes I had on weren’t clothes at all. It’d left the house in a short silk nightie the colour of an eggplant.  At least I’d put on a robe, although that didn’t help much.  It was almost as short as the nightie, didn’t even reach my knees. 

2) I wasn’t wearing shoes.

Fuck it.  Rules are made to be broken, right Dear Diary?  I figured I’d put “No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service” to the test.

The hardest part was avoiding broken glass in the parking lot.  The supermarket itself was a bastion of cleanliness.  The only problem was that the only people who shop for groceries in the middle of the night are weird men and crazy ladies.  So there were a lot of people watching as I marched toward the back of the store with my mom’s car keys in one hand and a wad of cash in the other.

Okay, so it’s not like there were huge crowds of people staring at me as I found the ice cream I wanted, but here’s what I learned from this experience: even one or two strangers leering at your scantily-clad body is one or two too many.

I could never be a cam girl.  I hereby raise a glass to all those who do the work.  You’re better women than I.

So I grabbed that little tub of ice cream and hurried back to the front of the store, making a quick detour to the prepared foods section first so I could grab a plastic spoon.  Then it was straight on to pay.  No line-up, thank God.

It wasn’t until I was standing across from the cashier that I realized she was HAWT. 

I can’t believe I just spelled hot like that.  I’m such a loser. 

This girl, this cashier, she was shorter than me. That’s rare.  But she didn’t have a body like mine.  She was an explosion of curves.  Like, how can you fit that many curves on one little body?  Her boobs were so big they barely fit in her top.  And it’s not like she was wearing a low-cut top or anything.  She was just like BOOM an explosion of dark and delicious boobage. 

She smiled coyly at me as she scanned the ice cream.  I thought for sure she’d comment on my clothing, or lack thereof, but I guess girls who work the late shift are used to seeing people in pyjamas. 

What she did comment on was the ice cream.  I guess maybe because it was expensive?  She picked it up and was like, “Cashew ice cream?”

“It’s good,” I told her. 

Part of me wanted to be like, “Want to come out to my car for a taste?” 

Oh my God, can you even imagine?  Getting licked by a girl is, like, my greatest aspiration in life, but I seriously can’t envision myself coming on to another human.  Can you?  Just walking up to a hot chick with huge tits and going, “Hey, baby.  I want to do sex with you.”

Why am I so awkward, Dear Diary?  Why can’t I be the kind of girl who’s like, “Hey, you!  Yeah, you!  Come do some lesbianing with me!”?

See?  I can’t even think of a come-on that isn’t awkward.  I suck at being a person.

Ugh.

So instead of hitting on the sexy cashier (which probably wouldn’t have gotten me very far anyway), I gave her my mom’s cash and walked out of the supermarket with my cashew ice cream and a plastic spoon.

Once I’d passed through those automatic glass doors, I pretty much sprinted to the car.  That cashier’s big tits had been an instant turn-on (like, what isn’t, these days?) and, since I wasn’t wearing any panties, I could feel the juice slicking my thighs. 

As I jumped over patches of broken glass in the parking lot, I felt like a deer being chased through the woods.  I felt like men could smell how aroused my pussy was, even though it wasn’t for them. 

That’s the thing about the menfolk: they think everything’s theirs. 

It isn’t. 

I’m not.

Even just getting into the car wasn’t enough.  I jammed the tub of ice cream against my crotch to cool the fire that was burning me up down there.  Like, honestly, could I go two minutes without touching myself please?

This is getting ridiculous.

After driving around without thinking where I was going, I ended up in the school parking lot.  There were still a bunch of lights on in the classrooms, but only one other car in the lot.  Probably belonged to the janitor or security guard. 

I parked on the opposite side of the lot, under the burnt-out light, so I could be in the dark. 

It was nice, being out alone at night, protected by the metal frame all around me (or whatever cars are made of—plastic?) with only Lana’s seductively doleful voice for company.  She’s so sexy.  I’d let her lick me, easy.  I’d let her do anything to me.  From the first note, I’m aroused. Every time.  That’s what her music does: it transports me to this shadowy underworld of dark sexuality. 

For real. 

When I listen to Lana’s music, I’m in another world where everything’s pulpy and red and throbbing. Just like my pussy.  Listening to Lana is like living inside my own pussy.  Is that weird?  Yes, of course it’s weird.  I answered my own question, there.  But that’s how it feels.

I dug into that delicious ice cream, and I’m telling you right now: worth every penny of my mom’s money.  Well, my dad’s money, really.  It’s not like my mom has a job.  My dad’s the one who supports us. 

That’s why it pisses me off when my mom gets mad at him for not being at home with us.  Like, yeah, I miss him too.  He’s my dad.  Of course I miss him.  I miss him every day.  But being mad at him for doing his job won’t bring him home any faster.  He’s earning money so we can all live in a nice house and eat cashew ice cream!  How can you be mad at him for that?

As I slid small scoops of rich chocolate ice cream onto my tongue, weird things started happening.  You’re going to think I’m crazy, Dear Diary, but I’ve always been honest with you.

The taste of that goddamn cashew ice cream reminded me of my dad so much that I started crying because I missed him.  That’s not the weird part.  The weird part is that Lana was still coming through the speakers, and her seductive voice was making me horny as hell.  So there I was, crying about my father and aching to touch myself. 

My stomach turned because those two impulses, or whatever you’d call them, were grossing me out. 

But being grossed out didn’t stop me from wanting to touch my clit.

I’m a pervert.  I know.  You don’t have to tell me.

My biggest aggravation in that moment was that I had a tub of ice cream in one hand and a plastic spoon in the other.  If I wanted to touch myself so badly, I’d have to put the ice cream down.  I didn’t want to.  My pussy was begging for stimulation, but my tongue craved more of that sweetness.  I couldn’t choose between the two.

So what did I do?  Glad you asked, Dear Diary.  I’ll tell you what I did.

I chose my pussy, same as always. 

But as I wondered if the little ice cream tub would fit into the cup holder, the gearshift caught my eye.

You don’t know what my mom’s gearshift looks like.  You’ve never seen the inside of her car.  So I’ll tell you.  It’s a sturdy stick with a bulb at the top.  The bulb part is covered in grey leather, hand-stitched.  It’s actually kind of beautiful when you really look at it.

And when I really looked at it, all I could think was: I wonder if that would fit inside my pussy.

So instead of abandoning my expensive ice cream, I took off my robe (left on my nightie) and straddled the gear shift, one knee on the driver’s seat, one on the passenger’s.  I held the ice cream in one hand while I pulled up my nightie.  I really wanted to watch what would happen when I lowered myself on that leather bulb.

Even though the light above me was burnt out, there was enough light coming off the school that I could see my thighs glistening.  They trembled around that beautiful grey bulb. 

Did I just call a gear shift beautiful? 

Why, yes I did.  And I’d do it again.  That gear shift was more beautiful than most of the sex toys I’ve seen online.  It turned me on just looking at it.

As I lowered myself slowly on the gear shift, I scooped some more of that decadent chocolate ice cream into my mouth.  I love it because it’s thick and dark, not pumped full of air like normal ice cream.  It’s so dense you have to suck it. Savour it. 

That’s what I was doing when my sweet pussy lips met the grey leather gear shift.

It was cool to the touch, maybe because my pussy was so blazing hot.  Nobody had ever touched me there, but I imagined this is what it would feel like to press my puss against another girl’s thigh or belly or breast or chin or neck.  I started stroking my clit, very gently, against the leather bulb. 

As you know, “gently” isn’t usually my thing, but it felt right in the moment.  I had to go with what felt right.

Every time I traced my slick pussy lips across the gear shift, they left a trail of glistening moisture in their wake.  I’d never seen anything so beautiful. 

That’s when I knew I had to get naked.

I slid the spoon through my ice cream and plunged another mouthful through my lips before putting it on the console and ripping off my nightie.  It felt weird to be naked in my mom’s car.  Naked and straddling the gear shift.  Felt weird, but it also felt right. 

My tiny pink tits glowed in the strange school light.  My pussy remained absolutely hairless.  I was skinny and scrawny and practically without hips.  This wasn’t a body the menfolk online would pay to see.  I’m glad I decided against camming. 

Imagine how embarrassing it would be to set up an account and then sit there on my bed while the menfolk of the internet checked me out.  They’d take one look at me and say, “I’m in the market for a hot young lady, not a twelve-year-old boy!” 

I wouldn’t earn a cent.

No, if I wanted money for sex toys and a car and maybe even my own apartment one day, I’d have to find another way to earn it.

But in that moment, all I wanted was to get off.

I ate a little more ice cream before circling my pussy round and round the leather bulb, trying to wrap my lips around the outsides.  It wasn’t working.  My pussy was obviously too tight. 

Something inside me kept urging me on.  If I kept trying, I’d be able to do it eventually.  I knew I could.  I’d learned in health class that pussies are flexible like that.  If you’re slow and relaxed and really wet, you can get just about anything in there.

So I circled, circled, circled slowly, but my mind was too active.  I was thinking too much.  If only I could focus like this in school!  I’d make the honour roll in a heartbeat!

My pussy was so slick and full and throbbing and wet that I couldn’t resist touching my clit.  I shoved the spoon in the ice cream and slid my fingers down my belly.  When I got to my bare puss, I almost jumped.  I’d already forgotten that I’d shaved it. 

Wow, it was so smooth.  I wasn’t sure why people (menfolk) found the look sexy, because to me it just looked like when I was a kid, but I have to admit it felt good to touch. 

When I slid my fingers across my clit, the sensation was so immediate that I almost came right away.

The thing about pressing my pussy against the gear shift is that I couldn’t really stroke off in that position.  I tried, but my fingers kept hitting the leather bulb.  I would have to swallow it up first.

I closed my eyes and breathed deeply.  It was like some kind of sex meditation.  I tried to clear my mind, and that was sort of easy.  I stopped thinking and started feeling—feeling nothing but my pussy.  It was the centre of my universe.  It guided my days and haunted my nights.  It burned like the sun and begged like a dog. 

My pussy was the most important thing in my life.  I would do anything to please her.

That’s when I felt myself sinking.  For real.

I honestly couldn’t feel my pussy opening, but I guess it did because how else would it swallow something so big? 

When I looked down, I couldn’t believe what I saw.  My vagina devoured the grey leather.  It was like something from a monster movie.  I couldn’t even decide if it was sexy, but I guess it was because I was definitely turned on.

My body slid downward, and suddenly I could feel the bulb inside me.  It was like a pressure in my pelvis.  When I touched my belly, I could feel it there.  Like a baby.  Like a boulder.  I didn’t feel like myself.  I felt like some sort of sex goddess. 

I sucked more ice scream while I moved my hips in slow circles, feeling that foreign mass rotating deep within my walls.  It was like something from an art film.  It was surreal.

I put down the ice cream and pinched my tits.  My fingers were so cold!  It felt amazing.  I kept twisting one nipple while my other hand moved downtown.  My clit was throbbing, like actually pounding in an almost-painful way.  I knew I would come the second I touched it, but that didn’t matter because I could come again and again.

Sure enough, when my fingers met my clit I threw my head back and screamed.  My instant orgasm made my pussy clutch the gear shift and suddenly it felt huge inside me, so much bigger than before.

Once was never enough.

I stroked my clit in small circles and I just kept coming.  I made these weird whimpering sounds like a puppy in a well, but who cares, right?  It’s not like anyone was going to hear me.  I should masturbate in the car more often!

My clit felt swollen and fat like a Swedish Berry.  I’d been pretty gentle with it, but not anymore!  I started stroking it on rough diagonals, bending forward, holding myself up against the dash. 

I tried not to fuck the gear shift.  I didn’t want it to pop out after it took so long to get in.  But when it came to getting off, I didn’t have a lot of control over my own body.  My pussy called the shots.  What was I supposed to do when it started pounding the gear shift?  Tell it to stop?  I couldn’t.  I loved that hugeness moving inside me.

Both nipples needed pinching.  I had to go back and forth between the two while my other hand kept busy with my clit. 

Anyone who saw this would think I was punishing myself.  Didn’t help that I was shrieking at the top of my lungs. 

I could feel my skin glowing.  God, it felt good.  I whacked my wet clit so hard it stung.  I didn’t care. 

My pussy hugged the gear shift while I smacked and whacked my clit.  I could come a thousand times and it would never be like this, never again in all my life.

I leaned back as far as I could.  The driver’s seat and passenger’s seat each caught a shoulder.  They held me up as I spread my legs, wondering how I was going to get out of this position.  I felt so open, so wet and so vulnerable. 

Any human could walk by in this moment and pluck me from the car, lay me across the front end, and fuck the life out of me.  I wouldn’t fight.  I’d just take it.  I would.  My pussy calls the shots, remember?  I’ll do whatever she wants.

After I’d raised myself up from the gear shift and watched my pussy expel it from her grasp, I touched my clit again. 

It didn’t feel the same without something on the inside.

Somehow, I slid into the back seat.  I was so exhausted and out of breath I just lied there panting like a dog.  I touched my tits.  They felt bigger than usual, almost a handful.  I squeezed their entire mass, not just my nipples, and it felt really good.

Eventually I managed to sit up.  When I looked out across the parking lot, I noticed the other car was gone.  That made my insides freeze for a second.  I thought, “Oh my God, what if they saw what I was doing?” 

But why would they come all the way over here?  Their car had been parked at the opposite end of the lot.

My mom’s car was hot and humid and it smelled like sex.  I needed some fresh air, so I threw on my robe, reached for the ice cream, and stepped outside. 

Wow, you should have seen the stars, Dear Diary!  There were so many of them! 

The sky is beautiful at night.  Why don’t I look at it more often?