Breanne Erickson is deep into her next novel "Memoirs of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut: A Coming of Age Story" which takes us back to the very beginning of her sexual life. I'm told the book is already at 40k words and she hasn't made it through her junior year in college. I can't help but wish I had that much sex. In any case, here is an excerpt from Chapter One. Enjoy.
A lot of people ask me about how old I was when I first started experimenting with sex. That’s a complicated question, especially for a girl like me. I remember quite clearly when I first discovered sex, or at least my sexual parts. I was twelve and had just started puberty. I wasn’t interested in boys yet at that point, and I was still just getting over the ick factor of the whole menstruation process. My parents, my mother in particular, were not overtly sexual people, preferring to leave the matters of sexual reproduction and pleasure to the privacy of the bedroom.
Sure, my mom had pulled me aside and explained the birds and the bees, but it was like getting a lesson in plumbing, not love making. I had been horrified to learn that a man sticks his penis in a women’s vagina and then SQUIRTS little wiggling things inside her that fertilize the egg. I had come away from that talk with the solemn vow NEVER to have sex with a man. No offense to my mom, but I also came away believing that every time a woman and a man had sex, a baby would be produced. We didn’t talk about sexually transmitted diseases, ovulation, birth control, condoms, or anything of any practical use at all. And thus I started my sexual life uninformed, a little frightened, and unwilling to embarrass myself by asking.
The first time I was ever aroused happened quite by accident. I had been out watching one of our new foals cavorting around the yard by the barn and I was leaning on the gate. I was in my typical attire; blue jeans, a tee shirt, panties, socks and boots, and of course the cowboy hat I wore religiously back then. My hair was a mousy brown that I had put up in a low ponytail to keep it out of my eyes. As I stood there, I shifted to rest a muscle in my leg, and the hasp of the gate brushed me between the legs.
I’m not sure why it happened, but that single touch was electrifying. I felt a strange pleasurable sensation that I’d never experienced before. My eyes narrowed in confusion and with a slight tilt of my hips, I did it again. The hasp of the gate was a small metal bar with a rounded tip and fate or maybe just plain dumb luck had positioned that hasp at the exact height of my clitoris. I didn’t understand what was happening of course. I just knew that rubbing myself back and forth, up and down across that strange little metal knob was sending shivers through me that I loved. It took me forty minutes that first time, but I humped the fence gate until I finally experienced my very first clitoral orgasm. I cried out, doubling over in ecstasy, holding on to the gate with both hands. My face was flushed, my body tense, but I felt incredible. I felt a thick wetness between my legs and my feelings of exquisite pleasure were suddenly buried in horrified terror and I ran back to my house to see if I was bleeding.
I wasn’t of course and after a few swipes with a damp towel I was able to change out my panties and put my jeans back on. I knew I couldn’t talk to my mom about it, so I kept quiet, trying to understand what had happened to me. A self examination in the shower revealed nothing, and so the next day, when I was alone, I went back to the fence. With swinging hips I did it again, rubbing myself up and down on the metal barb, the feelings of pleasure washing through me like a hose cleaning off the barn floor.
Once again I practically swooned, uncomprehending of the whys, and only understanding of the how, feeling the rush of wetness between my legs,. It became a daily routine to go out to the paddock, step up to the gate, and hump that metal stub until I shook violently in orgasmic release. A week or two passed and once a day became twice a day and my father began to notice the time I was spending out there. I always made sure one of the horses were in the enclosure so I didn’t have to explain why I was looking at nothing, but I realized in short order that I was going to have to find something else to rub against in order to find that same pleasure.
Kari was still a major facet of my life and we frequently visited each other during the summer. I was over at her pool all the time and frequently was invited to spend the night. Her parents weren’t very nice, but they treated me with cool respect. Her father ignored me completely and I was pretty sure that Kari’s mother couldn’t remember my name. I think her mother thought I was an unwholesome influence on her daughter. Me. Unwholesome. Ahh… if only she KNEW! But thanks to my mother’s frightening sex education, I kept what I was doing from Kari and when she broached the subject, I reacted exactly like my mother, with eyes open in alarm, shock on my face, and a total unwillingness to talk about it.
It’s too bad too, really. Kari was going through her own sexual awakening at that time, except her mother had done a bit better job. My best friend had found her mother’s vibrator and not only had Mrs. Anders explained what it was, but talked about masturbation, sex, men, GIRLS, STD’s, condoms, blowjobs, anal sex, contraception, and had even gone and taken Kari to the doctor and gotten her started on birth control. She even got Kari her very own vibrator, a toy I didn’t realize Kari even owned for years!
I had moved my activities from the fence gate into the semi-privacy of the barn. It hadn’t taken much imagination for me to start humping other things and I found that one of the cross beams of our harrow plough was just as good to rub myself against as the fence post. I started making excuses to be out in the barn and since the barn door creaked horribly, and since I was always fully dressed, it was easy to just straighten up and walk away if my dad or one of the ranch hands came in.
It was a time of revelation for me and I went two or three months masturbating “hands free” merely by rubbing my crotch against some protruding knob. The prohibition my mother had instilled in me against “touching” myself was still strong and it took maybe three or four months, and the start of school before I made the next step. Without my twice daily session in either the barn or at the fence post, I felt tense and needy. My vagina, (that’s what I called it then) was constantly damp and I was always on edge. Finally one night in the shower, I grabbed the shampoo bottle and turned it upside down. I realized suddenly that I could do with the bottle what I did with the fence gate spur or the farrow cross beam. I turned the bottle around, pressed the rounded bottom edge against my clit and rubbed.
Suddenly I was the cleanest twelve year old child on the planet. I showered twice daily, something my parents clearly did not understand. I wasn’t about to explain to them that the moment I had the hot water cascading down my back, I grabbed the closest plastic bottle and frigged myself with it. Besides, twelve year old girls aren’t supposed to do things like that. But for me, the ability to do in private what I had been doing out in public changed things dramatically. I got to see what was going on down there and my interest in my own body peaked. I found myself starting to touch, rationalizing in my head that I was “cleaning” myself, and found that little nodule that did so much for me. I had no idea it was called a clitoris, or what any other “parts” were down there. All I knew was that if I rubbed that little nodule with a bottle, or against a fence post, I felt good. Sometimes that’s all you need to know.
But by touching myself, I had opened another door. When my parents started complaining about all the water I was using, that burning itch between my legs had to be scratched and I took the bottle out of the bathroom to my bedroom. Wearing my nightgown and panties, I rubbed myself to frantic release, coming to understand that I didn’t need the shower in order to experience that pleasure. A week or two later, I came to the realization that I didn’t even need the shower bottle. With my fingers stuffed into my panties, lying on my bed, legs spread wide and my nightgown up around my waist, I rubbed at my clit with slow circles, increasing the speed and pressure gradually until my entire body tensed and then released. I felt the building wetness in my vagina, and in the throes of sexual climax, I slipped a single finger into my pussy and felt something totally different.
There are a lot of women who can’t experience a vaginal orgasm. There is something in either their genetic or psychological makeup that makes it impossible, and I feel sorry for them. I, on the other hand, can practically cum from just having a steady breeze blowing across my bare slit. That first night I discovered vaginal orgasms however was a major milestone in my sexual awakening. Before that, every climax I had experienced was clitoral and the difference was dramatic. Clitoral orgasms are like spurring your horse from a standstill into a thundering gallop, feeling the adrenaline and wind whip through you. Vaginal orgasms are like moving from a walk, to a trot, to a canter, and then building the speed up to a gallop and because you allowed the horse to get there over time, the speed is greater and you can go farther. I know it’s not a perfect analogy, but it works for the time being.
Vaginal orgasms instantly became my new thing. I’d work my clit until I was trembling in excitement and then I’d drive my fingers through my soaked slit, working one or two in and out of myself with quiet whimpers and moans. I became addicted to masturbation and I would find moments even at school, disappearing into the girl’s restroom, to push down my jeans and panties and finger myself to release. I did it in the shower. I did it in my bedroom. I did it at school. I did it in the barn. Hell, I did it while spending the night over at Kari’s house, snuggled in my sleeping bag, frigging myself into quiet bliss, thinking that Kari was asleep.
She wasn’t of course. She knew exactly what I was doing, but she kept quiet about it and never showed me her vibrator or anything. Perhaps she felt her own sexual activities were private too. I’ve never asked. But I know now that she took a sort of perverse pleasure in listening to her best friend’s quiet moans as I orgasmed nearby in the darkness.
I was lying on my bed, totally naked when I discovered that other parts of my body were almost as sensitive as my clitoris or vagina. My nipples were instantly a source of interest and I experimented playing with them in a variety of ways as I masturbated. Of course, as a twelve year old girl who was almost thirteen, I didn’t really have to sophistication to think “gosh, I should put some clothespins on my nipples.” That’s just not something a twelve year old girl is going to think, even one who would someday be an admitted nympho humiliation pain slut. They say that experience is everything and frankly I think I agree with them.
The other thing I realized was that my fingers weren’t really designed to do my pussy justice. Sure, I could get one or two of them in, or if I was willing to bend like a pretzel, I could do even more, but I didn’t think that was very practical. I was sitting in my desk chair, brushing my hair, thinking about the problem. I wanted something thicker than my finger. I wanted something longer, that would go deeper. I suppose I could have considered finding a boy, but the idea was still just a tad bit anathema to me. Then in a flash of inspiration, I realized I had the solution in hand. Literally. I jumped up in excitement and despite the fact that I had just masturbated in the shower not ten minutes before, I tore off my nightgown, pushed my panties to the floor, and climbed up on the bed.
With my hairbrush still in hand, I turned it around. The handle was rubber coated plastic, firm but soft and I found that I was already soaked just from the idea of what was about to happen. With my left hand I worked my clit, bringing myself up through the levels of sexual wantoness in a way that perhaps most would find disturbing in a twelve year old. Then I began working the handle inward. It was easy. I was lubricated to the point where I think a two by four would have made it. I gasped as I felt the thickness of the handle, the depth of the plastic, move inside me. I rocked my hips and pulled it toward myself, impaling my pussy even deeper. There was twinge of pain, but it was lost in the need, no… not lost… swallowed. The pain of the penetration merged with the pleasure and I exploded in this fiery eruption of total chaos. My hips jerked wildly. My lips opened in a mournful cry of extreme bliss, and I felt as if every pore of my body was being flushed with a thousand gallons of water. My eyes rolled up into the back of my head and I wrenched at the hairbrush, sending ripples of ecstasy through my pussy.