Archive-name: Solo/nacls.txt

Archive-author: 

Archive-title: Young NaCl's Story





[ This little story is influenced by alt.sex.* regular ELF (in that

it involves plausible fantastic  elements  such  as  a  partially

split  personality),  and  by a.s.b regular ctan (whose very word

choice gets me all radiated and bothered).  And, of course,  most

of  all by JR, whom we all love greatly.  This is an old literary

trick, JR, and it's dedicated to you...]





As usual, I'm thinking of me.



I'm thinking of what a delightful evening I spent last Friday.  I

remember  every delicious detail.  But then my memory has a habit

of gripping the particulars of such events and keeping them safe.

Shall I relive my memory?



I believe I shall.



I had been deliberately without sex for a few weeks, not a  great

length  of  time,  but long enough to make my hunger sharp.  Long

enough to make the warmth of my  hand,  casually  resting  on  my

thigh as I drove, more stirring than usual.



As I recall, I arrived at the parking lot,  pulled  into  a  spot

that  was,  as  I  playfully thought, "right under a light!", and

turned off the motor. I remained seated behind the wheel.



A few weeks seemed like such a long time.  Though  I  began  with

friendly   thoughts,  very  soon  those  friendly  thoughts  were

supplanted by a few exploratory caresses.  How it excites  me  to

feel  my own warm, soft hand, trailing slowly down along my neck,

followed leisurely by the a touch of the very tip of my tongue to

a fingertip and a nibble every now and then on the sensitive pads

of my fingers.  The way  I  draw  my  teeth  lightly  across  the

delicate skin--well, I must know.  I remember it.



And then to my mouth, my lips soft and  gentle  at  first,  mouth

open.   I remember lifting my other hand to brush back my hair,

getting caught up in the silky feel of its length.  I remember my

excitement  as  my  tongue  began to stroke the roof of my mouth,

lightly, playing along the tender skin there.



And then the feel of my mouth changed as I  moved,  and  my  arms

came up, hands resting on my chest, occasionally meandering up or

down, agonizingly slowly.  My heat became more  demanding  as  my

hands  and  my breasts came into contact.  The way I started when

my fingers brushed down across my nipple was enough to straighten

me up in the seat.



I had enjoyed my reaction, so I continued,  concentrating  on  my

left  nipple,  the  more  sensitive  one.  I could feel it harden

through the fabric of my blouse as I  rubbed  it  lightly,  could

hear the small sounds of pleasure I made as I squeezed it between

my fingers.  Now under my blouse, stroking my smooth skin with my

palms,  up  my sides until my fingers had found myself once more.

Gently rubbing with my thumbs in a definite rhythm, one that  was

echoed  by  the  way I began to move my hips as I touched myself.

Very soon both of my nipples were stiff and my breath was  coming

hard  and  deep.   Now--drawing my fingernails across such tender

skin, hearing the soft cry I  gave,  feeling  the  effect  I  was

having on myself--lovely.



I pushed back against the seat then,  smiling  in  a  wonderfully

wanton  way.   I  pushed my skirt up, and I placed my hands on my

thighs.  I traced down with my palms, I remember,  then  up  with

the  tips  of  my  fingers, but slowly now.  Further up--mmm--and

what ridiculous disappointment when I withdrew my hands!



I brought my hands up again to cup  my  breasts,  caressing  them

slowly through my blouse.  As exciting as my touch was, it wasn't

enough.  When I unbuttoned my blouse and slipped my hand inside--

well,  that  was enough.  As soon as I felt my fingertip brush my

nipple through the lace of my bra, I felt a rush of heat  through

my  entire  body.   I teased myself just as I had teased earlier.

Just as I had wanted to lick my  nipples,  to  take  them  in  my

mouth,  to hear my sharp intake of breath-- I wanted to but could

not.



I had no complaints about what happened next. I reached under  my

skirt  once  more,  this  time  removing the lace panties I wore.

"They're in the way," I thought.



So then my hands were on my thighs again,  caressing  the  tender

skin  on  the  insides,  but  also  massaging  the muscles there.

Somewhere along the line I also pulled my skirt up  further,  far

enough  so  that any casual passerby could, with a single glance,

have become well-acquainted with my body.  But I  wanted  to  see

myself, and if they could, too--well, all right.



I make myself do shameless things.



I remember the exquisite sensation of my fingers twining  in  the

soft  triangle  of  hair  there,  gently and suggestively.  And I

remember my moan as I traced down with a fingertip over my  outer

lips;  I remember the surge of warmth that was now centered under

my hands.  Then very lightly, I drew my fingertip from bottom  to

top,  increasing  the  pressure  as  I stroked my clit, then down

again to slide  my  finger  inside  me,  gathering  some  of  the

moisture that had been there for most of the evening, awaiting my

kind attention.  I soon became slick with  my  caresses,  and  my

touch  was so very exciting, feeling my fingertip slide down over

me, then up again, finding a rhythm  and  a  pressure  that  made

other concerns much less urgent all of a sudden.



Other concerns like passing pedestrians, walking by on their  way

into the theater.



I clearly remember what happened next.  My warm breath came fast,

and  the  knowledge  that  I  had excited myself so was almost as

delicious as the feel of my finger  as  it  traced  my  sensitive

lips.   I  moved  along  the  outside, as I had done before, then

stroked myself teasingly with my fingers before devoting my thumb

to flicking my clit back and forth, slowly at first, then faster.



And my finger was inside me again, increasing the pleasure I  was

feeling.   As  I rubbed myself and then, for a few heart-stopping

seconds, gently tugged on my clit, I could feel myself moving  my

other  fingers  in  and  out of me.  I don't know how I've always

known just how I want to be touched; I haven't ever thought about

it.   I  haven't  needed  to.   And  this was no exception.  As I

continued more deliberately, I felt  my  whole  body  begin  to

tremble, felt a hard surge of some darkly wonderful heat.



I knew then that I was almost there, because,  although  I'm  not

sure,  I think I was being rather vocal.  I seem to remember that

I spoke my own name, and I am almost certain that I cried out  as

I  felt  first  the  few  seconds  of  utter  rigidity,  then the

fluttering pleasure that made my body convulse again and again as

I  came.   And  I  caressed my thigh once I was still, brought my

juicy hand to my mouth as I rested there, completely relaxed  and

absolutely alive.



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



My hands found my nipples again.  I was hoping  to  bring  myself

back  to  the state of arousal I had felt before.  But on further

inspection, namely moving down to touch my thighs, I found that I

was  still as ready as I had been before, if not more so. Because

I could feel my warmth as I continued up until  my  hand  brushed

against  the  stiffness  of  my clit and I moaned, one of my soft

small sounds that I  love  to  hear.   More  sounds  then,  as  I

continued to stroke myself, a slight bit of pressure now--



Not close enough.  I couldn't get close enough to myself. I loved

the way my lips felt, the smooth, taut skin there-- I held myself

for a moment, just to recall the shape of myself, just to hear my

sigh as I moved my thumb over the sensitive ridges.



Still not close enough.



I gazed down, then, I lay there enjoying the sight  of  myself--I

love  the way I look--and breathing in the warm scent of my body.

Then, not wanting to wait any longer, I ran my  finger  down  the

length  of my labia, just the tip of my finger at first, but then

covering as much of myself with my hand as I could.   I  imagined

how  I  must  look,  eyes closed, with the helpless, almost dazed

expression that I take on when I make love to myself like this.



I decided now to pretend that I still felt a bit uncertain  about

what   kind   of   touching  will  excite  myself  most.  Feeling

experimental, I first lightly stroked the tip of my clit with  my

fingers,  skirting around the small hood that sets it apart, and,

my God, enjoying the feel of that immensely.  I pressed my thighs

tightly  together,  closing my lips around my hand and hearing my

small gasp of response.  I began to  stroke,  first  letting  the

tips  of  my  fingers  rotate  on  my  clit,  then traveling down

further, plunging the fingers into my vulva.



I continued my motions, first plunging in and  then  withdrawing,

until  I  found a rhythm to follow, thrusting my hips up and back

to guide my fingers in  and  out  of  my  now-swollen  lips.   My

excitement  grew  as  I  moved;  I  can't describe the agonizing,

wonderful heat that I felt, hearing myself whisper  my  name  and

feeling my hands in my pussy.



And I wanted myself to come  once  more.  I  wanted  to  feel  my

growing  excitement,  then my sounds of surprise, then the way my

entire body begins to shake when I'm there.  I  wanted  to  taste

myself.



But I stopped.  I was feeling disoriented, and  for  a  moment  I

couldn't  understand why I hadn't let myself finish, until I once

again remembered that I was in the middle of a parking  lot  that

was  as  bright  as  day, and noticed several passersby who could

easily have turned such intimacy into a spectator sport.



"I'm sure the  car  was  rocking,"  I  laughed  to  myself  as  I

rearranged  myself  and  prepared to follow the audience into the

theater.  And I noticed a police car which had pulled up at  some

point,  unremarked  by  me.  Perhaps I was right to stop--can you

imagine the mortification of being caught in such a position by a

duly-appointed officer of the law?



But my excitement hadn't abated at all by the time I  had  seated

myself  at  the very back of the theater, in the uppermost row of

seats that formed a stairstep configuration; from where I  sat  I

overlooked  the  entire  theater.  No, if anything I was now more

excited, feeling my bare thighs pressed together under my  skirt,

no  underwear still, knowing how easy it would be for me to touch

my secrets and feel the warmth and the wetness  that  my  earlier

attentions had caused.



At some point during the movie, I moved my hand to my thigh  once

more,   stroking  myself  casually,  almost  absent-mindedly,  it

seemed. But then I was slowly pushing my skirt up again, inch  by

inch, until my fingers rested on my bare skin.



Now, I felt a moment of panic, but  looking  around,  I  realized

that  no  one  could  see  me, and, as long as I was able to stay

quiet, no one need know what  was  going  on.   So  I  continued,

moving my troublesome skirt out of the way.



Once again my fingers met first the extra-sensitive skin  of  the

insides  of  my thighs, and I remember that I willingly spread my

legs apart for myself, wanting to feel my excitement.



And as before, my touch soon had me shaking with the need to make

love  to myself.  Even as I thrust my fingers inside me, my other

hand moved to my jacket pocket, feeling for the long, hard object

I carried there.



And I stroked myself as I  had  before,  hearing  my  soft  moans

again.   I  recall what I murmered to myself then; "I can't wait.

I want it inside me now."



Never mind the presence of a respectable  crowd  not  fifty  feet

below  me.  I had wanted it inside me all evening, wanted to feel

myself being entered directly and deeply.



Moving very slowly, I placed the dildo on its broad,  flat  base,

so that it stood up proudly in the theatre seat.  As I positioned

myself above it and lifted my skirt, facing the screen as I  was,

I  could  feel  the head of my surrogate cock brushing against my

moistened lips and my swollen clit, and it felt so achingly  good

that I was almost ready to come before I lowered myself down onto

it and felt it pushing into me.



I unbuttoned the first few buttons of my blouse again, and then I

moved  one  hand  inside  to stroke my breasts.  I love the way I

touch my nipples, and, though I really would have liked  to  feel

my lips there, the gently insistent stroking of my fingertips was

enough.



I began to move within myself then, as I thrust the dildo  inside

me from behind.  First in, deep, then out, almost all the way, so

that the head of my plastic lover was entering me over and  over.

I  had  lost  all touch with such details as time or place, but I

remember that I was honestly trying to be quiet, doing  a  pretty

good  job, too, until my thumb came around and began to stroke my

clit, stiff and slick with my wetness.  Then I think I made  some

sounds.  Do I remember?  I don't.



And I came then--the sensation of that hardness so deep inside me

combined  with my deliberate caresses brought me off almost right

away.  I felt my hand moving  harder  then,  and  faster,  and  I

stiffened,  gasped,  and  started  to  tremble.  Then I felt more

heat, more wetness, as I  came  deep  inside  with  a  few  final

thrusts.   I  felt  the  violence of my heartbeat, felt my breath

coming ragged and warm.



For the duration of the evening, I felt my wetness on my  thighs,

and I felt so desirable, so feminine then--



I look forward to my next parking-in-the-dark adventure.



--