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I don’t know what happened. I mean, I don’t do such things, and I never had any idea I ever would, but I did.

It began on Saturday morning, the 21st of June., Solstice Day. Gina asked me last Monday about going with her to the festival some of her friends were putting together for this day, but I said I just couldn’t. I’d heard about what people did at those festivals, and that kind of behavior wasn’t for me.

“Oh, Sybil, loosen up a little,” Gina laughed. “With a name like Sybil, you have to do those kind of nature festivals. You’d fit right in.”

When I went to bed Friday night everything seemed normal. I did go to sleep naked. I do that once in awhile, and I admit I like it but it seems a little immoral so I don’t do it often. I limit myself to not more than once a week, and when I do it it’s always on Friday night. I can’t do it on Saturday night, because then I’d wake up naked on Sunday morning and that just wouldn’t be right. Not that anybody would know, of course, but somebody might ask and then I’d be embarrassed and then they’d know.

Anyway, when I woke up Saturday morning, the sun was already lighting the room. I checked my radio alarm. It read 5:22. Then I did something that brought me completely awake. It was the first thing I did, and I did it without thinking. I said, quietly, but aloud and as plain as day, “Fuck.”

I hate that word. I never use it. I always cringe on the inside when I hear it. I think it’s a very crude word and it usually makes me feel dirty. There are a lot of words like that, I think, and I hate every one of them. I have no idea why it just popped out like that.

“Fuck.” I listened to it roll around in my ears, and then, not thinking, I repeated it. “Fuck.”

It dawned on me that it didn’t disgust me as it usually did. In fact, I kind of liked the sound of it. I said it again, repeating it at slow intervals. I felt weird doing it, but it wasn’t as bad as I’d experienced it before then. It was kind of like someone had given me permission to hear it from my own voice. I realized then that I’d never actually said the word. I wondered if there was a difference whether a person says a word or whether they hear it.

“Fuck.”

“Fuck.”

“Fuck.”

“Fuck.”

“Fuck.”

It got to be kind of fun. I started to laugh. I said the word louder and repeated it a little faster.

“Fuck.” Fuck.” “Fuck.”

It was great. I got out of bed and padded into the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror and said it where I could see me speaking it.

“Fuck.” “Fuck.” “Fuck.”

My face didn’t break or go bad. Actually, I am a pretty girl. Everybody has always said so, even before I grew up. Three years ago when I moved into this ground-floor apartment and began to live on my own my mother warned me to be careful of men in my life, and never, ever let a man come into the apartment alone or else I would be tempted to succumb to the kind of life her sister Delilah did, with men everywhere all times of the day and night. Mom didn’t approve of Delilah’s knowing so many different men, but it always looked to me like Delilah had a lot more fun than Mom did. I didn’t know what to make of it. I knew Mom was right, though, and I didn’t want to be an immoral woman like Aunt Delilah. Mom warned me that ground floor apartments were dangerous, so I had to keep my shades down and the curtains pulled all the time. I did what my mother said, except some days after I was up and dressed I would open the shades and curtains and let the light in. I love light. I never told mother that I did that. She would have been mortified.

I stood there in front of the mirror speaking to my reflection. I looked at myself from head to toe and I kept repeating the words, sometimes softly, sometimes quite loud.

“Sybil,” I said to myself, “you are standing here saying the word ‘fuck’ over and over like some immoral person. Why doesn’t it sound immoral? There you are, all five-feet-five inches of you, with your standard All-American 34C boobs and your 26-inch waist and your 34-inch hips and your dark brown eyes and long honey-blonde hair down to your waist and your lightly covered slit and you want to put your hand down there and you never do that kind of thing, but you’re going to do it right now.”

I watched as I slid my right hand, flat on my belly, slowly down to my crotch and inserted a finger in my soft slit. I know what’s there, of course. I had sex education in high school and I did read another book about it, too. Gina tells me she does it a lot, masturbate, and it feels very good. She says she slides her finger very softly over her clitoris and sometimes she can bring herself off that way. That’s the way she says it, “bring myself off.” She means she feels especially good.

I don’t masturbate. A few times my fingers have rubbed there, but only one or two rubs and I stop. It’s sinful to masturbate. Mom always said I’d go crazy if I masturbated myself so I don’t do it. I don’t want to be crazy. nişantaşı escort This morning I stood in front of the mirror and I watched as my hand seemed to go down there of its own accord, and I felt it rub and very soon it found my clitoris. It felt very good. It felt as if this was a most wonderful thing to do. I kept rubbing very lightly and pretty soon I felt myself begin to quiver and my knees went weak, and I leaned on the edge of the sink counter with my other hand and then I felt the most wonderful feeling go through me and I wondered if perhaps I was getting sick and I realized that when I get sick it never feels this good. I realized I was pressing against my clit more firmly while the shock went through me like that. When it stopped I let my fingers slide down a little more and I felt wetness. At first I thought I must have peed, but I didn’t remember feeling myself doing that, and I do know what that feels like. I remembered then what I learned in sex education, that a woman gets wet between her legs when her body is ready to have sex with a man.

I kept on looking in the mirror and I brought my hands to cover my breasts.

“Tits.” Oh-oh! I never use that word either. I think it’s very rude and very coarse. I have breasts, not tits.

“Tits.” I said, squeezing my breasts. No, that’s not quite right. I squeezed my tits. I laughed.

“Boobs,” I said as I squeezed again. Where were all these awful words coming from, and why didn’t they feel evil as I said them?

I sat down on the toilet to piss. Oops! I don’t piss, I pee. That’s bad enough, pee, but piss is not used by nice people. I let the stream go. “Piss,” I said. “Yes, I like to piss,” I said. “It feels good to piss.”

I looked down between my thighs as the stream stopped.

“Fuck.” I repeated, and watched as my hand went there. “Fuck.” “Fuck.” “Fuck my cunt.”

Oh! That was new too! Where did that come from? I pulled my hand back and put it on my thigh.

“Cunt.” That’s another word I always thought was kind of coarse.

“Cunt,” I said it again and one hand immediately dropped down between my legs and a finger slipped into my vagina, just one knuckle. It felt very good, I must admit. I pushed it in and out slowly. Every time I did that it felt better and better. My finger went deeper and deeper into my opening. Then I realized I was using two fingers. Soon I was having another quiver like I’d had before.

“Cunt.” “Fuck my cunt.” “Fuck.” “Fuck.” “Cunt.”

I felt as if I wanted to say these words all day. If anyone came I’d have to watch myself, but of course no one comes to see me unless I invite them.

“Fuck my cunt.” “Kiss my tits.” “Suck my twat.” Oh, no, another one! What a disgusting idea! Somehow, though, I didn’t really believe that just then. I felt like it was something I wanted to experience.

I got up and stood in front of the mirror again. I had to admit again that I was at least as pretty as most other girls I knew. Gina always says I am beautiful. I suppose it’s for other people to decide for you.

Reluctantly I turned away from the mirror and went back into my bedroom. I stood there for a couple of minutes trying to decide what to wear. Usually it’s not a chore to decide that, but today I realized I really didn’t want to put anything on. I twirled around slowly, my arms outstretched. It felt good to do that. After a couple of turns I found myself at my bedroom window. I pulled the curtain back, brought the shade up, and opened the window to let the fresh air in. I looked out at the back alley. Nobody was out there. I went out into the living room. It overlooked the street. I pulled the curtains and shades on all three windows. The room was very bright. There were a few cars going by, and then a man walked by. He didn’t even look at my apartment. I realized I didn’t care if he did. No, I told myself, I wish he would look, I wish he would take a look at my naked body.

“Fuck!”

I went into the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee and fry a couple of eggs. I pulled up the curtains and shades on the large window there looking out on the street. I realized my apartment was looking very bright now. I liked the feel of it. I went to the door and stepped out into the hallway to pick up my newspaper. It didn’t feel scary at all to go out there like that, naked, right there in the hallway where anybody could have opened a door and seen me naked. I came back in and made my breakfast and sat down at the table, right next to the window where I could look out. It was not quite six o’clock. I opened the paper and turned it to the comics page. I looked out the window as I turned the pages back and there were two younger women passing by. One of them turned to look at me as she passed. Her eyes went wide as she saw I was naked. She stopped and nodded toward my window, said something, and her companion also turned. The second woman broke into a huge grin and lifted her hands over her head, clasped istanbul escorts together like a boxer who has just won his bout. I giggled. It made me feel good. They went on.

I ate my breakfast as I read the paper. I forgot that I was naked. I have no idea who passed my place or whether they looked in, and I didn’t care. When I finally decided it was time to get about cleaning the apartment, it no longer occurred to me that I was still naked.

“Fuck,” I said softly as I got up from the table. “Fuck my cunt,” I said, still softly. “Lick my twat, suck my boobs, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!” I said, my voice getting louder and louder, although I really didn’t say it loudly at all. I did laugh, though. I laughed because I’d never seen a naked man, never seen a live penis, never touched a man under his underwear or anything like that. All of a sudden that seemed to be very desirable. The last man I kissed was my father, and that was when I was in the seventh grade. Daddy wouldn’t kiss me after that. He said something about my growing up was getting to be too much for him. Gina says it’s disgusting that I’ve never kissed anybody romantically. She said I didn’t know what I was missing, and I said if I was missing it I’d know wouldn’t I?

I brought a wet dishrag to the table to wash it off. I was facing the window. I glanced up and there was a man outside who looked like he was frozen in place. His eyes were wide open and he was staring at me. I thought he was about to have a stroke or something. He was staring at my chest. My tits (oooooh!) were dangling a little. It looked like he was looking at them. I had a sudden urge to shake my shoulders a little, and I did. The man looked like he was going to pass out. His hand went to his crotch and he covered himself. I wondered why.

“Fuck my cunt,” I said out loud and I smiled at him, but of course he couldn’t hear me. I didn’t say it very loud, and even though the window was open he couldn’t know what I was saying. I wanted him to come inside. Just then he turned away and seemed to stagger off, reeling as he walked. He was shaking his head, too.

I spent the next two hours vacuuming, doing laundry, changing my bed, doing dishes, and I sat at the kitchen table and paid some bills. All the time I was naked. I’d never done any of those things naked before. I never had been naked this long before, either. I liked the feeling. I told myself that maybe I would be naked in the future as much as possible. This was a lot of fun.

All the time I was repeating to myself some of the naughty words I’d never liked before and never used before but which now seemed to be delicious to say and hear. “Fuck.” “Cunt.” Tits.” Boobs.” “Twat.” “Piss.” The words rolled around in my mouth, over my tongue, and emerged into the air around me as if hanging for me to see them and acknowledge them.

Just then my door bell sounded. I had just finished writing checks and was putting the checkbook away. I glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. 9:57. I wondered who it might be. Without thinking I went to the door quickly and pulled it open. A young man was standing there, my paper boy. He’s not really a boy, of course, he’s a full grown man maybe twenty-two or twenty-three years old.

“Oh, yes, time for collection, isn’t it, Mike?” I asked, smiling. I never even noticed the glaze in the Mike’s eyes. I went to get the check book out again and as I turned back I realized I was naked. For the briefest moment I had a pang of embarrassment, then I quickly told myself, silently, to get over it. I even smiled.

‘You like being naked, so what’s the big deal,” I told myself. I returned to the door and leaned over the little table in the entryway to write the check. I wanted Mike to see my hanging boobs. It felt very good for me to know I was making him feel good.

“Uh, Sibyl, uh, I don’t know what to say, but do you know you’re . . . uh, well . . . do you know you’re . . . not dressed?” I could tell he was trembling.

“Yes, Mike, I know that. I just didn’t want to get dressed today. Do you mind me this way?” I couldn’t believe I was talking to him so calmly. I stood up straight to hand him the finished check. I knew he could see everything about me that was different from him. I wanted to step to him, wrap my arms around him, press my tits against his chest. I felt a sudden urge between my thighs.

“Mike, do you want to come inside for a little while and visit?” I asked brightly. I didn’t know exactly what I was going to do, but all of a sudden I wanted him to take off his clothes, too and be naked with me. Mike looked very nice and clean and I knew from other times when he came to collect that he was a bright young man who was working his way through college. I knew he lived with his mother and that he didn’t date very much.

I felt very much alive, more alive than I ever remembered feeling. I was very conscious of my body. All of a sudden I was aware in a different way that I was completely naked bağcılar escort and I liked it a lot. I liked that there was a boy there with me, even though he wasn’t naked. Yet. I could feel my breasts. I giggled and told myself I could feel my tits. I looked down and saw that my nipples were hard and sticking out a little. I could feel my cunt. I was wet. It felt as if it was very eager to be touched by the boy’s cock.

Oh! There’s another word! “Cock!” “Cock.” “Dick.” These were all words I’d heard at different times in my life, and now they seemed like just the right words to use. Just thinking them made me feel hungry to have one. I was glad they were there, that they were available to me.

Mike looked warily at me, but he came in as I held the door wide for him. He did his best to avoid touching me, but I managed to keep the space small enough that he had to brush across my nipples. It felt wonderful! Carefully I closed the door behind him.

“Want a cup of coffee?” I asked, facing him directly and standing about three feet away from him. His face was flushed a bright red.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he said nervously. “Uh, did you want me to do something?” he asked. He really was very nervous.

“Would you like to take off your clothes, too?” I asked with a big grin. I felt very bold.

“Oh, wow!” he said as if he was breathing the words. His voice was very low. “Really? You want me to get, uh . . . like you are?”

“I’d like that very much!” I said, my voice steady and as if it was the most natural thing in the world to say. Inside I was trembling so hard I wondered how I could be so calm on the outside. “I want to see what you look like naked.”

“It’s embarrassing,” Mike said. He stood there for a moment, stock still, and I didn’t say anything, I just looked into his eyes. His hand slipped to the buttons of his shirt and he began to open them up. He was wearing shorts and sandals, too. I saw right away he didn’t have an undershirt on. He looked very nice. I liked the way his chest looked, very fit and square and strong. He was maybe six feet tall. His waist was narrow, and so were his hips. He pulled his shirt off and laid it carefully over the back of my stuffed chair.

“Is this all right here?” he asked politely as he turned. I liked the way the muscles in his back rippled. I wanted to touch him. He turned back to me and stood there.

“Go on,” I urged quietly. “Keep going,” I added.

“Really?” he asked, obviously feeling very self-conscious. His hand went to the waist of his shorts and he slipped them down over his hips. He had on a pair of briefs, and his pecker was making it jut straight out. I giggled.

“What’s funny?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing, I’m impressed,” I said. “I never saw a boy naked, never. Not even when I was little. I didn’t do any babysitting, and my mother watched over me very closely. Remember, I told you before I hardly ever dated?”

“Oh, yeah,” Mike said, but he was still embarrassed. “I suppose you want me to take these off to,” He said, hooking his thumbs into the sides of his briefs. Then he was naked, as his briefs slid down his legs. He stepped out of his sandals and pushed the shorts and briefs over his feet. He carefully folded everything and put them with his shirt, then nudged the sandals under the edge of the chair. His pecker was jutting straight up as if it was aiming at his chin. It looked as if it was very hard. I guessed it was probably six inches long, at least. It looked like it was the thickness of a Polish sausage.

“Does that hurt, being like that?” I asked, pointing to his cock.

“No, not really,” he said.

“May I touch you?” I asked, looking into his eyes and my arm stretched toward his crotch.

“You really want to?” he asked, disbelieving, but he nodded his permission.

I reached out and put my finger tip on the end of his cock. It felt a little bit like rubber, but it also felt warm-make that ‘hot’-and I grasped it with my fingers. It felt wonderful, alive and strong and hard and suddenly I wanted to kiss it. I found myself kneeling in front of him and kissing the end of his dick. He gasped and his cock twitched and kind of slapped me in the cheek lightly. I giggled and chased it down, kissing it again on the tip and then up and down the shaft and then it was in my mouth. I don’t remember how it got there, but it was there and I liked it there. I liked the way it filled my mouth. It seemed to be made just for my mouth. I moved my head back and forth on it. I felt it quiver. After a few minutes I felt something happening and it excited me.

“I’m coming!” he growled softly. I almost inhaled him. I didn’t want him to leave me. I wanted to keep his cock in my mouth. If I’d thought I could have eaten it, I would have. All of a sudden I felt something surging and then my mouth was getting filled rapidly with a thick fluid, more than I could handle, and I liked the taste and I choked on it and I swallowed some of it and I tried to swallow everything but I couldn’t and it came out around my mouth and kind of ran down my chin and got some on my cheek and some on his dick and he shot more of it into me and on my face and some of it dripped on my tits and ran down a little to my belly and even a few drops on my thighs.