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Exploring The Emptiness pt1


Exploring The Emptiness

The last 24 hours have been pretty intense, and I'm not sure that I
fully grasp the implications yet. After reading this, you might ask if I
would do it again? At this point, I don't know. Yes, parts I definitely
will, and other parts with another person, as I think I've learned as much
as I can about me in this without help.

We're in the middle of a tremendous snowstorm, 22" of snow predicted in
the next 36 hours, well 12 now. I'm stranded at my apartment, and the
entire city is shut down, not that I could get my car out if I needed too.
The news was reporting that the snowplows were getting stuck last night,
but I haven't heard anything recently since I've been busy.

I called my boyfriend at 7 last night to chat. Normally we would be
together right now, at my apartment, since he has roommates, but he stopped
home after work and couldn't get out again. We've been having some
problems lately. Nothing serious, I'm pretty sure we'll end up married. I
love him with heart and soul, and I believe he does too. But we both need
to finish some things before we take that step. I need to get through
finals in my psychology masters, and he needs to get out of his apartment.

Our problems are mostly me, as I've discovered. He has his faults, but
it's those quirks that I hate that endear him to me. No, most of our
problems are mine, in the bedroom.

On the phone, we talked about our days, work, upcoming plans and the
usual day to day stuff that makes a healthy relationship. I don't mean to
go on, but those conversations are what I love the most about him. He
really listens to me, and offers advice only when I ask. The problem
reared its ugly head near the end of our conversation, when he told me he
missed me, then went into a increasingly graphic description of what he
missed about me. My hair, my breathing, my skin and on until he covered
every square inch of my body. I loved it, inside, and felt warm and
glowing, but for some reason, pushed that feelings as they grew inside my
head deep, not letting them expand, instead just muttering gibberish when I
felt a lull in his monologue. He asked me what's wrong, and I as usual
replied nothing, and he pushed gently, to elicit some response from me,
which I wouldn't/couldn't give him. The more he pried, the more I dragged,
until in a quiet voice, filled with disappointment and frustration, he said
to me "Sarah, you know I love you, and you know I want you, but you have to
let me in. I want to be with you, to do what you want, but our sex life is
getting bad. You won't tell me anything, and everything I try you just
sits there. I need some feedback." I couldn't reply. My mind was blank.
Thoughts raced around in my head, wanting to tell him all the things I
thought, but my terror was too great. I had never allowed myself to think
consciously some of the things I was pushing deeper into my mind, let alone
speak them out loud. With a sigh, he changed the topic and we ended the
call shortly there after.

Sitting on the couch, staring out the window, I couldn't shake the
feeling that I was losing him. Sadness seemed to creep in from under the
door, around the windows, brought by the storm raging outside. The sadness
began to transform into frustration, and I began to turn that frustration
towards John. In a huff, I got up and went to the kitchen to get a beer,
and returned to the couch.

My apartment is in the older district of town, converted mansions. One
of the fringe benefits was a working fireplace. For I paid in rent it had
better work! Before sitting back down, I grabbed some firewood that John
and I had gotten on a trip to his families cabin in NY, and soon had a fire
glowing across from me. Still fuming, pointing my anger at John, I sat
down and took a swig of Fosters.

As I sat there, growing tenser by the minute, my mind grappling with why
John was so frustrated with me, a new thought suddenly reared up like a
flashing neon sign. I mentioned that I'm a psyche major? Well, I occurred
to me that I needed to take perhaps a clinical approach to the situation.
What kind of help could I give a patient if I couldn't even figure out my
own dilemmas? So I took a deep breath and went back to the beginning. All
John was asking for was a little input from me. Why? I never said no to
sex, I gave him blowjobs, and for the most part wen along with his ideas.
Maybe that was the problem, I went along. Why? Why didn't I more actively
participate? No answers leaped out at me. So again, I went back to the
beginning. The very beginning this time.

My first sexual memory was about 9, sliding down the banister and a
weird feeling in-between my legs. I didn't put much thought into it, just
kept sliding when it seemed like fun until I got too big and my parents made me stop. After that, I remember staring in the mirror at various
times, checking the growth of chest, which never got very big, 34b's if you
must know, and eventually the hairs covering my crotch.

At fifteen, my friends were always talking about boys and who had done
what with them, and everyone was always ahead of me. I dated, as high
schoolers do, for a few months with a few guys, and eventually let one of
them put his hand in my panties. That's was a realization, I let him. I
didn't really think one way or another about it. I don't recall being
overly excited about it, not to say I wasn't excited, as I can remember his
fingers sliding easily between my folds from my wetness. I just didn't
really think about it. It wasn't unpleasant, in fact I enjoyed it, but I
didn't need it. This went on through high school, and I went to college. I
became apparent after my roommate started her bringing her boyfriend over
for the night that actual sex was what was expected now. Again, very
passive. My first time was with a guy I was with for about 3 weeks. He
tried hard to make it special, but I was scarred and aloof about it, so it
didn't go well. I remember him pushing, pushing against me, until he hit
the mark and I suddenly felt very full, down there, and could feel his
heat. After that I had a succession of about 3 guys who I dated, all of
whom I slept with to varying degrees. I enjoyed sex, I thought, willing to
try new positions, even learning to give a blowjob. Like I said, I enjoyed
it, but I wasn't desperate if it wasn't around. And that brings us to
john. We met senior year, and he swept me off my feet. He did all the
little things that mean so much to me. He never forgot anything like
dates, was always on time or called to tell me was late. He listened and
he cared. He also probed, until I found myself realizing that I wanted him
to know everything about me. And so here we are today. I love him, and I
want him to be happy, but I can also see his frustration. I let myself be
penetrated. I don't initiate it. I wondered how I would feel if everytime
I wanted to be held, I had to go "talk him into it"? He instinctively
reaches out to me, putts his arms around me and holds me. Why couldn't I
return the favor? Sex wasn't just about him, I realized, it was a joint
activity. I had read and read and seen hundreds of counseling sessions
where the woman needed to learn to enjoy herself, and sex would no longer
be an issue. My god, I'm one of those women! I sat stunned. It had never
occurred to me that I didn't like sex. No, not that I don't like sex, its
just not important to me. I had orgasms when John went down on me, again
an activity initiated by him, but they didn't seem all that necessary. I
went to the kitchen to get another beer, pondering this latest development
and how to remedy the situation. Why wasn't I interested? I threw some
more logs on the fire and curled my legs under me on the couch as I stared
at the white wall cascading past the window outside. Not knowing where
else to start, I decided to make a list of what I liked about sex in my
head. I liked the closeness, I liked to watch my partners face as he came,
I liked the feeling of having given someone pleasure. And that was it.
That was I could think of. I couldn't think of any positions I liked, none
really seemed to even come to mind. When I thought about it, my mind
wandered from lack of information. I didn't know what I liked. That's it!
I almost spilled my drink as I realized it. I don't know what I like. I
had only masturbated a few times, and that was for a boyfriend. He gave
directions, and I followed. I never pleasured myself alone, in fact I
never thought about it. No wonder I wasn't able to give back with John,
hell with any of my boyfriends. I didn't have anything to give back.
Well, I guess I need to find out what I like. So I thought about what
turns me on.

That's it. Nothing came to mind. I thought about movies, hot sex
scenes. I was always analyzing them. Same with books. guys just were
attractive or not. Women are beautiful, but not something that turned my
engine over. Great. I could feel the frustration setting back in as I
wondered what turned me on. I couldn't think of a single thing. For 10
minutes, I sat, trying to turn myself on, my mind blank. Well, I guess
I'll have to start somewhere else. What turns John on? John's a guy, and
guys like to look at things. Good a place as any. I grabbed my beer, half
full, and headed to my room. Standing in front of my mirror, I looked at
myself, and tried to see what John saw. Staring back at me, I saw a pretty
woman. Not a model by any means, but a pretty face, framed by longish
brunet hair, lightly curling as fell behind my shoulders. My eyes were
green with long lashes, and my cheekbones accentuated them nicely. My nose
wasn't too big, but perhaps a little full for my face, and turned upwards
at the tip. My mouth was small, but the lips were full. My neck was thin,
almost delicate looking, and the PJ top I was wearing opened in the front
enough to see my collarbones and the crevices they created. I couldn't see
much more than that, I only stand 5'4", so a lot of me was not reflected in
the mirror. I took in the view and found it not unpleasant. Almost
unconsciously, I reached to my waist and pulled the PJ top up over my head
and dropped it on the floor next to me. My breasts now stared back at me
as I tried to see what John saw. The certainly didn't look huge, but full.
They were high on me, not sagging at all, and hung slightly off to the
sides, blurring the view of the cut of my torso in front of my arms. My
nipples were pink; the areola's slightly bigger than a quarter, the actual
nipple thick in the center. As I stood thee staring at my breasts, a chill
blew through the room and I watched, in some amazement, as the nipples
seemed to contract, and grow, until they stood out, hard, like overgrown
pencil erasers. Still watching in the mirror, I moved each of hands up
until they cupped one of my breasts, and pushed them together, making
cleavage. I reminded me of looking at an ass crack. Spreading my fingers,
nipple popped out per tit, and I pinched them lightly between my splayed
fingers. A small shiver went up my spine as I concentrated on the
sensations. My nipples felt good hard like this. I could feel the heat of
my fingers surrounding them. Releasing my hands from cupping my breasts together, I moved an opposing hand across my chest and pinched the nipple
between my index finger and thumb, gradually applying more pressure. The
more I squeezed, the better it felt, and warmth seemed to bloom inside my
tit. Relaxing my grip, I began pinching and releasing the hard point
sticking out from me, reveling in its manipulations. I remembered John
twisting them as he played with them, so I tried it, pinching down and
twisting a little. It felt wonderful. After a minute, I seemed to have
grown accustomed to the pressure and plateaued, or bored with it, so I let
go and dropped my hand. I stared as I saw my nipple that I had been
fondling was hard and big, noticeably bigger than the other, which was
still hard, but hadn't received any attention. I figured I was this far, I
might as well keep going, so I took a breath and dropped my pants, stepping
out of them and kicking them on top of the top. In the mirror, I could see
my full figure to my hips. For the first time I noticed the cut of my
waist, or rather the swell of my hips. My waist was very defined, and I
put my hands to it, trying to touch my fingers around my stomach. When I
squeezed my middle, my fingers were a half-inch shy of touching. Not too
bad f I say so myself. Peeking just above the top of my dresser in the
reflection, I could see a few wisps of my hair. Placing my hands on top of
the dresser, I stood on my toes, to get a better look, but was distracted
as my breasts swayed forward. I marveled at they hung from me, my nipples
still hard and pointing at the bottom section of mirror. I rocked back and
forward once, watching them sway, almost independent of me, but still
feeling their fullness, their weight as the moved. Standing back
flatfooted, I sighed and thought. Turning, I opened the door to my closet
and faced the full length mirror hung on the back of the door. I stared at
my crotch, the hair covering it. I shaved my legs as all girls do, and in
the summer trimmed the bikini line farther in for swimsuits, and kept the
rest of it trimmed down to a manageable length when needed, but never spent
anymore time than that on it. Staring, I could just see the split between
my outer folds through the hair. I spread my legs to shoulder width and
still didn't really see what John was so fascinated with. I grabbed the
mirror and pulled it off the hook it hung on and put it on the floor and
straddled it, looking down. Still all I saw a tangle of hair. Bending
over, I put the mirror on the floor, leaning against the bed, and lay on my
back in front of it, my feet on the floor and knees up. Spreading my legs,
I propped up on my elbows and looked at the reflection. Still a tangled
mess looked back at me. In all honesty, it wasn't much to look at. So,
with a sigh, I got up and went to the bathroom. I turned the water in the
sink on hot, and put the toilet lid down. Reaching in the shower, I
grabbed my razor and gel and sat down on the toilet. COLD! I leaped up
and grabbed the hand towel by the door and spread it across the seat and
sat back down. By now the water was steaming in the sink, so pulled the
stopper and threw the razor in. Having never done this before, I felt
awkward as I sprayed gel on my hand tried to apply it to the fur covering
my pussy. I can't believe I just said pussy. Gave me goosebumps. But
anyway, I finally found that propping on foot up on the edge of the bath
tub worked best, and put a full lather all over my mound. I almost burned
myself when I stuck my hand in the sink to get the razor, but it was nice
and warm. Carefully I but the blade to my skin and pulled it across the
top of my mound, taking an inch swath of hair with it. Well, no turning
back now that I have a mohawk through my pubes. So began scraping away the
lathered hair. It was quite nice actually, but shaving the two outer folds
was a pain. My fingers were all slippery and it was hard to get enough of
a grip to hold the lip taught enough to shave. Once I had gotten it all
off, a 10 minute project, I threw the razor in the trash and grabbed a
fresh one. I re-latherd my crotch and went over the whole thing again with
the fresh razor, hoping to be able to avoid a rash. Done. I drained the
sink, and ran my wash cloth under some warm water and wiped away the
remaining lather. The hot fabric felt new and exciting as it moved across
my freshly bared skin. Finished, I stood, grabbed the hand towel and dried
my now bare pussy. Leaving the mess to clean later, I went back to my room
and assumed my position on the floor on my back in front of the mirror.
The reflection now was amazing. I couldn't believe the intricacies being
played out between my legs. Propped on my elbows, staring at my pussy in
the mirror, I marveled at how complex it was. The inner lips, seemingly
squeezed out from me by the outers, folded and bent together like a jigsaw
puzzle. The outer edges of those delicate little parts of me were dark,
but since the protruded and fell to the side, I could see how pink they
were. I sat staring at myself for a good 5 minutes. It was less a turn on
than an appreciation. I had seen naked women before, Playboy mostly, but
never paid any attention. Now I could see the beauty, aesthetically to
what lay between our legs. I thought of John, and how shocked he would be
if he saw me like this, staring at my pussy in a mirror, BALD none the
less. I got a wicked little thought in my head and rolled over. He liked
to do me doggy style, so got on my hands and knees, thrusting my ass as
high as I could and peered back over my shoulder. The first thing that got
my attention was my wide spread ass. I had never realized how open I was
in this position. The second thing I noticed was how ugly my ass was, or
rather the crack. While my pussy was clean and pink, my ass crack was full
of little dark hairs. In less than a second, I was heading back to the
bathroom and razor. You cannot believe how hard it is to shave your ass.
Well, maybe you can if you other girls do. It took 10 minutes just to find
a way to bend over, have access to the sink and a view in the mirror to
avoid and BAD cuts. After toweling off, I got down on all fours again in
front of my mirror in the bedroom. Now staring back at me was a pinkish
brown puckered little area. It wasn't disgusting as I had feared, but
colored the same as my inner folds. I couldn't believe how little distance
there was between my asshole and the end of my pussy. My pussy itself was
now splayed open slightly, the folds having come "unglued" if you will and
hanging slightly parted. Turning away from the mirror but leaving my ass
stuck up; I folded my arms and rested my chin upon them. I felt my nipples
just brush the carpeting as I closed my eyes and tried to just feel the
newness. I opened my eyes when I realized I was rocking back and forth,
brushing my nips across the carpet. Standing, I went to the bed and lay
down. My mind seemed to have closed down a bit, I wasn't really thinking
about anything, I just lay there. My hands began drifting over my stomach,
feeling the muscles beneath. I wasn't a work out kind of girl, but I tried
to stay fit and active. I cupped my breasts again and pinched my nipples,
watching them grow as I looked down at myself. I became aware of my pussy,
exposed between my comfortably spread legs as it moistened. It felt like
my mouth, salivating, but between my legs. I'd never paid any attention to
the sensations of getting wet before, I just was when needed. Now I just
let it happen, my pussy slowly lubing as my nipples began to softly ache as
they hardened further. My hands drew steadily nearer the v of my legs,
until they rested just at the junction of each leg to waist, my fingertips
just resting on my outer lips. I felt myself lick my lips, and how ever
nerve seemed to be heightend. I felt the smooth comforter on my back and
butt, the air on my thighs. Concentrating, I breathed steadily and moved
one hand down, between my legs, the other over so that it rested right on
my mound. The hand between my legs moved lower, just touching. My pussy felt smooth and dry. I could feel my inner lips distended from in-between
my outers. I felt so soft. At that exact moment, I became aware of a new
sensation. My eyes popped open as I felt movement. Startled, I took a
minute to collect myself. There it was again! On my asshole! The hand
between my legs moved lower, to the skin between my pussy and the start of
my ass. It was wet! I giggled to myself, realizing I was actually
dripping! I let my middle finger rub the wetness around there, the no-mans
land, while I pushed my other hand on top of my mound down, pressuring just
above my pussy. The feeling was amazing. Slowly, with just my middle
finger, I drew my hand upwards, pressing the finger against myself. It
slid easily from the moisture leaking out of me, until it dipped inbetween
my folds, right at the actual hole the covered. I gasped a little and
continuing to draw my hand up, my finger running between the two delicate
lips that so carefully guarded me. They separated easily, my finger
gliding through as if no resistance. I couldn't believe how wet I was.
Then the second shock hit, as my finger made direct contact with my clit. I
shuddered and involuntarily pressed my other hand harder against my mound.
Gently, I probed the little button poking out from me. It was hard, and so
tender. I ran my finger around it, then over it, feeling how it pointed at
the top. I have never experienced anything like it. Even when John licks
me, it felt good, but nothing like this. The hard little bud sent shocks
up my spine and down to me feet whenever my finger made contact. I started
to rub it, up and down, until I felt the moisture wearing off. I dipped my
finger back down to collect more. When I did, I found the entrance to my
tunnel, without thinking pushing the probing finger in, and in until the
rest of my hand prevented any more. There were so many sensations I was
reeling from input overload. Between my clit which seemed to still be
sending input despite be left alone, to the heat I felt inside from my
finger, to the wetness in my ass as more continued to leak out from within
me. My breathing was coming in ragged, short breaths, and back had arched,
my head twisted to the side. After a moment of stillness, I curled the
finger deep inside my pussy, feeling it scrape the sidewalls until it hit
the top. There I curled more, dragging across a rough patch as I pushed
down with my other hand atop my mons. A deep heat emanated from within and
spread throughout my body, causing every muscle to contract, my toes
curling and eyes screwing shut. I straightened my finger inside and curled
again, and repeated, as if beckoning someone to come from across the way.
This caused shaking from the pleasure, and I felt a steady stream of
wetness pouring out around my finger and down over my tightened little
asshole. I wish I could think of a better word for it, but that's what it
is. The heat throughout my body intensified as I beckoned within myself,
but my clit began to send signals of own, of neglect. I moved my other
hand, which had been pressing against the out side of pussy down, and
slowly withdrew the finger from inside.

This gave me a momentary sense of relief, and I opened my eyes. Turning
my head to center again, I gazed down between my spread legs and pulled my
hand which had been inside up and clear, my middle finger still pointing
straight out. In the light of the room, I could see it gleam from the
moisture covering it, a single drop, like a raindrop dangling off the
fingertip pad. Groaning, I fell back, moving my hands together to their
destinations. My coated finger plunged back between my folds and drew up,
zeroing in my clit, while I plunged my other hand's middle finger into my
hole, sliding easily in the copious wet.

In unison, I rubbed alternating circles and flicks across the hardened,
erect bud at the top of my sex, while my other finger beckoned inside,
drawing me on. The sensations built, and unrelenting pressure building,
like the weight of the ocean when you dive for shells, constricting me, my
breathing difficult at best, heat shimmering off my skinI convulsed;
spasm'd twitching across the bed as every muscle in my body began to flex.
I couldn't have remained still if I'd wanted, my body had turned off
control from my mind. Feelings I had never had before cascade my mind, my
heart pounding faster with each breath as a cry/groan pushed its way out of
my mouth, heedless of the clamping jaw that tried to keep inside. Still I
bucked my fingers still at their respective targets, until my legs clamped
together in unison, driving my finger from my clit. That seemed to slow
the seizure, the finger inside me still beckoning the smooth hard spot deep
inside me seemingly of its own valition as I had no control over it,
trapped inside by my clamped legs. Slowly I became aware of myself as the
pressure relented, aware of the almost cry escaping my clenched mouth.
Sense came back with a rush, and I felt me feet on the verge of cramping,
my toes curled almost to my heel, my stomach taught and straining against
some invisible force upon it, and finger inside, still calling to its spot.
And I felt the contractions, which started at my shoulders, traveled down
my chest and stomach and culminated inside me, contractions against my
invading finger that awed me with their strength. The walls of my tunnel
clamped around my finger like a chinese finger trap, and still it continued
its stroke, rubbing the small irregular spot on the tunnel wall. Finally as
small aftershocks trembled within parts of me, I regained control of my
finger imbedded in my sex and willed it to stop, my legs collapsing to my
sides as it did, and my eyes closed and there was nothing but darkness.


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