Lost in My Own Touch

Chapter 2

After school, I got home with my brother. We rode the bus together, like always, him yapping about some school stuff while I just gave one-word answers. My body felt hot, jittery, this weird ache I couldn't quite put a name to. It was like the thrill of doing something bad, even though I hadn't done a damn thing yet. My heart was pounding, hands sweaty inside my hoodie pockets.

I headed to the kitchen to make lunch for us—spaghetti with jarred sauce, nothing fancy. I wanted to get that chore over with quick, lock my bedroom door, and be alone already. But at the same time, I dragged it out as long as I could. Stirred the pot real slow, chopped shit into tiny-ass pieces, wiped down the sink that was already clean. Anything to stall.

My brother was sitting at the kitchen table, messing with his phone and chatting about some dumb thing from his day. I answered without letting on that I was having these filthy thoughts about him. He spent hours locked in his room or the bathroom—everyone knows what boys do when they're holed up that long. That they touch themselves way more, no guilt at all. If I had a sister, maybe I'd have the guts to ask her about it—how it feels, if it hurts, if it's really that good, if you can stop once you start. But he was a guy. My brother. Just thinking about bringing it up with him made me die of embarrassment. My face burned. It'd be too weird. Impossible.

We ate together, mostly in silence. He finished fast and went to his room to play video games. I washed the dishes slow, dried everything, put it away. Finally headed up to my room, locked the door. Took a shower.

I remember thinking about the showerhead. I'd seen in some video that you could use the water pressure. But standing in the shower stall, I figured I might slip, my legs go weak and I'd crack my head or something. All I knew about orgasms was those over-the-top faces from porn actresses, screaming like the world was ending. The handheld sprayer on the toilet seemed too gross, sitting there exposed amid all those germs.

It'd have to be with my hand. Simple.

Before heading to my bed, I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror, still naked after the shower. I was so hairy. Never shaved in my life, didn't even know how. As the hair grew, I just trimmed it with scissors so it wouldn't poke out of my swimsuit in swim class. My mom was always telling me I had to trim it all down nice and neat, so it didn't bunch up in my clothes and draw men's eyes. "Men are animals, Nicole. They notice anything." I followed her advice to the letter. Trimmed with scissors, careful, so nothing showed. So I wouldn't get noticed.

And then... I lay down on the bed, still damp from the shower, and did what I'd promised myself I wouldn't. But I did it.

I propped myself up on the bed, almost sitting, with some pillows behind my back so I wouldn't slide. Spread my legs slow, bent my knees, and propped that mirror—the little round one I used for popping pimples—right between my feet. I wanted to see myself for real. I don't think I'd ever really looked down there before that afternoon. Not calm-like, not with daylight streaming in the window.

I was still pretty hairy, even trimmed. The dark hair covered everything, but it didn't hide the details. My clit, not turned on yet, looked like a shriveled little skin pouch, tucked away and hidden. I knew it swelled up, got bigger, hard and sensitive. My inner lips were long, hanging a bit, with plenty of loose skin there. Even though I was skinny, no curves on my body, my outer lips were puffy. Swollen-looking, you know? They made me paranoid all the time about not showing through my jeans or school shorts. Any tight clothes gave away the bulge, and I hated that.

I tried spreading wider with my fingers, careful, to get a better look at my hymen. There were some thin membranes, delicate skin bits, but it was hard to tell what was what. To me, it looked torn in places, little slits, irregular rips. I'd read online that a hymen doesn't prove shit, that it can be stretchy, break from tampons, bikes, anything, and virginity isn't just some silly membrane. But my mom wouldn't care about science. She was always threatening: "One of these days I'm gonna check, Nicole. Spread your legs and look. If I see you've been messing around, you'll be sorry." She'd say it with a straight face, like it was the most normal thing in the world. It scared the shit out of me, made my stomach twist.

I sat there a while, just staring at the mirror between my feet. The room dead quiet, fan humming on the ceiling, my heart thumping hard, hands kinda shaking. Guilt was right there, whispering that I was dirty, that this was a mortal sin, that God was watching. But the curiosity... and that slow-building heat between my legs... spoke louder. I didn't want to stop looking at myself. Not yet.

I took a deep breath, slow, and almost without thinking, I started touching. Ran my finger lightly over it, just exploring, like that part of my body was new, strange, and mine all at once.

At first it was just a soft warmth, like those accidental tingles I'd get from rubbing against something—the school chair, the bike seat, or studying face-down on the bed. But now, on purpose, it got more intense. More focused. The heat started right in the middle and spread lazy, up my belly, down my thighs, making everything heavy and light at the same time.

I remembered that influencer's voice in the video: "Go slow, find the spot, circle without rushing." I did exactly that. Ran my middle finger super light over my clit, which was already starting to swell, peeking out from its tucked-away spot. It was warm, almost dry at first. I spit on my fingers—felt weird, but it was what I had—and kept going.

Now it slid easier. I circled slow, feeling it harden, pulse a little with each loop. Every motion brought a quiet wave of pleasure that loosened my whole body, like I was letting out a sigh I'd been holding for years. The school stress, my parents' fights echoing in my head, that constant emptiness... it all melted away. For the first time in forever, I felt peace. A warm, lazy peace that started down there and rose slow to my chest, to my mind.

My legs went soft, knees flopping to the sides on their own. My breathing got deep, slow. I closed my eyes for a second, then opened them to check the mirror: everything pink, swollen, glistening. My finger kept the same calm rhythm, sometimes pressing a little. When I hit the right spot, a sweet little jolt shivered through me, but gentle, like a beach wave coming and going.

I didn't want it to end. In that moment, alone in my room, I felt free in a way I'd never felt before. No problems, no weight on my chest, like the world outside—the school, my parents, church, everything—had just vanished. It was just me, the bed, the heat building slow.

I explored myself, getting bolder bit by bit. Ran my hand all over my body, slow, like I was discovering it was really mine. Touched my small tits, pinched the nipples lightly—they hardened right away and sent a shiver straight down. Then I slid my hand up to my face, stroked my cheek, my neck, and brought my fingers to my mouth—tasted myself, salty, kinda sweet, and it made my lips tingle when I licked them.

I closed my thighs slow, squeezing the heat between them, and that warm, wet friction felt so good I let out a low sigh. Then I started rolling on the bed, rubbing against myself—thigh on thigh, belly on the sheet, clit brushing my own skin. It was like my whole body turned into one hot, soft thing, chasing more of that calm pleasure that kept growing.

I writhed slow, no rush, feeling every inch respond. My hips bucked on their own, hands dipping down now and then, but I let my body do what it wanted. It was peace mixed with a quiet urgency, like I was hugging myself from the inside. And for the first time, I wasn't ashamed of myself. I just wanted more.

And the orgasm, I'll tell you about in the next one.