Carrie Minberg, Female, 16-17

	- Narrator, high school sophomore

	- Beige, freckled skin, 5'5, 135lbs, curly back-length dyed-blue hair

Michael, Male, 16-17

	- High school sophomore

	- Dark brown skin, 6'0, 155lbs, short very curly black hair

On the bus ride home, Michael was a bit quiet. Not cold, just thoughtful, not terribly unusual for him. His voice a whisper, he said quietly, “that was fun, last night. I love you, Carrie.”

“Yeah, that was great. Thank you... hope you want to come back for seconds.” I dodged him again on returning the phrase. “Lot of fun...”

“I'm glad I could be your first.”

I froze, unsure what to say. He thought he'd been my first! Oh, Jesus, I thought. What now? I didn't want to hurt his feelings, maybe make him angry with me, didn't want him to know I'd had other lovers before. I had no hymen anymore, it had been painfully ripped away all those months ago by Brown. I thought that would have made it obvious. But it didn't and I raced to respond in some way that protected him from my past. That protected me from him rejecting me because of it.

I did what I always did when I was trapped. I lied. “Yeah... loved it... you were... uh... you were a great first... uh... you're first?”

“Yeah... was it obvious? I... was a bit nervous, but two virgins, eh? What do you expect?”

I chuckled, tried to stop sweating, tried not to show my discomfort, tried to cover my deception. “Y-yeah... Yeah. Exactly. Guess we'll get better if we do it more.”

“I'd like that.”

And better we did get. Michael was a passionate lover that just needed some direction. I helped him find how to touch me, how to penetrate me, and after three times together, how to lick my puss. Once he had his first taste, he was hooked, and I had many wonderful orgasms on his tongue, and on his small, throbbing black cock.

My junior year fired up, Michael and I had both turned seventeen that summer, and everything was rolling as high as it had ever been for me. I had a fun, romantic sex life with a boy I loved. Yes, I finally said it to him a week before school started. I think I loved him. I think I'd finally let Camila go. I even told my mom and she liked Michael immediately, and he was regularly invited to join us for dinners and outings.

Mom had even been the one to suggest birth control, and so I went on the pill. Michael and I continued to use condoms, though. He was terrified at the thought of getting me pregnant.

It was a bit disappointing, but not a big thing. Michael was a fun lover and cared about me, and my urge to let him cum inside me was kept isolated during the many times I masturbated between our intimate moments.

Four weeks into my junior year, my world started to fall apart again. It started with the transfer of one of my previous classmates at my old school. Someone I didn't know well, a boy named 'Travis.' I never believed my Loose Girl harassers could possibly continue their shaming at Natural Law, but I couldn't have been more wrong.

A note in my locker spelled out clearly, Loose Girl 2: Carrie Now Live and Loose at Natural. I felt sick and sat in the bathroom, devastated. I didn't want to face that shit again. How was I supposed to tell Michael? What would he think if he knew I'd had sex before, that he wasn't my first. Would he still love me? Hate me? I'd lied to him. I felt the crushing weight of what happens when a lie turns around and destroys what you used it to build. It was a lesson I should have learned early in my life, but even now, I admit I still fall into old habits.

At first, I tried to ignore Travis and his rumors. Michael drove me home from school one day, quiet, not unlike him. Out of nowhere, he blindsided me with what I'd been expecting but was never ready for. “'Loose Girl?' There any truth in that, Carrie? Any truth to what they're saying about you?”

I wanted to cry. My throat became thick, I almost lied again, tried to assure them it wasn't true. Instead, what I said was, “it's not what you think. It's not like that.”

I didn't deny that I'd had sex before him, but I tried to deny that I deserved the nickname.

He said nothing and I couldn't say more.

Michael dropped me off at home, said coldly, “I think we should take a break for a while. I need to think about things, maybe you'll finally tell me what all this is about. I thought you would just now... but you had nothing to say to me, Carrie. Nothing? Don't I deserve something?”

I cried. I lost it. I felt so bad for lying to him, felt shame all over for being a sexual person before Michael. I hated myself as he drove off, my reply stuck in my throat. I stood outside my house for a very long time, just crying.

My mom was home, and for the first time in many years, I broke down and told her everything. I'd never told her about 'Loose Girl' but I came clean about everything. Everything but Henri, I still protected that secret. But she learned the rest. About Brown, about my horrible nickname, about my relationships with Camila, and with Michael.

She was very accepting of what I told her. I think a lot of it surprised her and some of it upset her, but she held strong for me and let me wail and cry until I was exhausted and went to bed.

- - -

Travis and his 'news' from 'out there' broke whatever it was I had with Michael. After the day he asked to 'take a break,' he never again showed warmth to me. He was nice enough, especially when others were around, but he never again held my hand. I tried to talk to him, but he wasn't very good at talking things out. I wanted to tell him everything, let him know why I'd lied, but he wasn't interested.

I felt like shit again. Like shit and a worthless cunt and a horrible, lying bitch. And I sank quickly into emotional depression.

Because the counselors at Natural Law were serious professionals, they recognized the symptoms I quickly showed after the breakup. I was invited in to talk to one of them, and over a couple of weeks, I told her about everything but Henri. Not detailed, not like I describe things here, but enough. The school psychologist suggested I try an anti-depressant to bouy me. They felt I swallowed and held in too much self-blame, and I couldn't control it without help, they told Mom.

I resisted, at first. I didn't want some chemical solution. I wanted Michael back in my life. I wanted Camila back. I would have run a thousand miles to be with Henri.

But Mom convinced me and I tried it. And... I got better at handling things. I still had emotional swings, still felt depression, but it felt manageable. I didn't feel like drowning even as I drug myself through the mud in my life. That buffer, that edge removed, made the rest of that school year better all around.

At first, I didn't masturbate on it. Didn't feel the urge. My doctor, who saw me after about six weeks on the drug, said that was normal in the beginning and it would get better over time. And it did, and at some point I was back to masturbating every day.

My friends were pretty cool about things, really, despite a few people continuing to bully me with 'Loose Girl' from time to time. They didn't abandon me, and although I never really connected with anyone the way I had with Michael, they were pretty cool people sometimes.

Michael and I eventually became school-friends again, though it never became the relationship we had before. He never asked me to clarify 'Loose Girl' or gave me a chance to explain my lies. I've always felt a raw burn in my emotions over that. I wish I could have given him the words that would have changed how he felt for me.

- - -

The end of my junior year and the summer that followed seems like a good place to tell you about masturbation. Mine, specifically. Although, I'm sure your masturbating experiences would interest me if only you'd write them. Anyway, I masturbated daily, sometimes more often, over that period. Some days, I spent the day in bed or at my desk, fantasizing about classmates, men I saw while shopping, and even a few of their wives.

I turned eighteen that July, Mom bought me a crappy car. I was horny all the time, and I rubbed one out just about whenever I needed to cum. Bathrooms, in my house or out in public, parks, long drives. I masturbated and came all over Killeen that summer.

I wasn't in a relationship, and for a while, I like it that way. I let the pressures of being emotionally and intimately tied to someone fall away after Michael. I wanted sex, to be sure, but I never let myself start a relationship to get one.

In high school, friends-with-benefits was hard to manage, I thought. Both from my experience, and from seeing my friends try to hold those relationships. It usually took only a few times before one of them wanted a commitment, and that usually ended things quickly.

I avoided that, though occasionally fantasized about making a move on Hugh, a tall white boy a year younger than me, or Kona, the seventeen-year old whose parents were native Hawaiians. They were both attractive to me, and I was friends with them both. There was interest on my end, but I was never sure about either of them.

So, like I said, I avoided those complications in my life and spent weeks learning new ways to play with myself.

I'd started masturbating when I was eleven or twelve. At first, I don't know if I came, or if it had any specific sexual connotations. I knew that it felt good, and that it was something you do when no one's around. I'd never been caught, that I knew of, despite the fact that I had my hands in my pants all the time.

My first year or two, it was usually sitting on the toilet, diddling myself for a few minutes. At some point, I know I started to have orgasms. I was probably still twelve, though I can't be sure.

I began diddling in the bath, on my bed at nights and in the morning before school, on the bus when I was the last one on except the driver. Bathrooms at school, in the trees at the park, in our yard when it was dark. I drooled pussy juice in a lot of places from May through September of that year, and it felt great each time.

I remember the first time I was aware of fingering myself, not just playing with my clit. You'd think those two things would come quickly together, but in the beginning, I didn't associate touching my puss with pleasure, that was focused clearly in my nub. So I stroked it raw, sometimes, never knowing there were other ways to build my arousal.

When I was probably thirteen, my labia began to change, thin, pink puffy mounds before, growing into full, richer pink lips. They began to push out a bit, opening slightly, and my clit grew as well.

I was awash in my recent orgasm, just running my fingers through my genitals, when I noticed it felt really good when I almost slid a finger inside. I tested myself, pushed it a little deeper, my clit pounded. I worked slowly, in and out, touching the inside of my vagina for the first time. I slid deeper until I hit my barrier, though I didn't know much about it then. I just knew I didn't want to go deeper.

I quickly found a rhythm, pushing up against the top of my hole, felt a burning explode from my crotch, and I orgasmed around my fingers. Cream slowly coated my fingers and I licked them clean that night.

I'd developed three main ways I liked to get comfortable. On my back, knees up but legs not off the ground, was my favorite. It gave me easy access to anything, and I loved to rock my hips up and down as I came. The second way was standing, knees bent, usually a quickie in a stall, my panties pulled down to my lower thighs, one hand between my legs, the other used to hold myself against the wall. I often orgasmed very hard in public, barely hidden places while trying to stifle my moans as I came.

The third way was the newest, one I learned when I was probably sixteen, after Camila. I found I liked to hump the side of the bed, as if I were a boy. Something about that feeling of slamming my hips back and forth as if I was penetrating a beautiful puss. I'd found I could do that and play with myself while humping the mattress. I often had my strongest orgasms that way, and those always involved an active fantasy where I was dominating another girl, much as I had at times with Camila.

The first time I squirted, I thought I was peeing. I may have been, I don't really know. I've been with women who claimed to squirt who were clearly squirting piss instead. Not that I minded, I found a love of watersports at a specific point in my life which I'll get to later. I have been with women, too, who I was certain were not pissing. Myself, I know I do both, sometimes its squirt, sometimes urine. No one really seems to care, everyone loves a squirter! Well... not everyone, I'll get to that soon enough.

Anyway, I was hanging out by our stream as the sun went down, my senior year about to start in a few days. Mom worked late and wasn't home, and I felt horny. Our property bordered a big empty lot on one side, and two tree-lined double lots on the other side, and on the rear. The stream ran through not far from the back of our property, and I'd taken to sitting down on a soft moss bed to think, and often, to masturbate.

I'd lost myself, already an orgasm behind me, the pure bliss of cumming outside was somewhat new to me, and I loved it. Loved being outside, touching myself. I had my legs in front of me, on my ass, my torso leaned back, using one hand to hold myself up. The moss was soft on my skirt-covered butt, and I loved to writhe against it in that position.

I was creamy and licked my fingers before returning them to my hole. I slipped two in deep, started to move rapidly against the rough patch on the top. I felt a pressure build in my groin and felt the urge to piss. I stopped a moment, caught my breath, felt the sensation pass.

I started again, my palm bumping my clit with each stroke of my fingers, wet, squishing sounds sloshing out. Once more, I felt the urge to piss and halted a moment.

I considered squatting over the stream to pee first, not quite sure why the urge seemed to retreat. I started in again, got myself incredibly close to orgasm quickly. I fingered myself, felt the urge burning again. I let go, needed to cum, couldn't stop my release.

It was the splashing in the water below my feet as I crashed in waves of climax that led me to look up quickly. I spasmed intensely, cumming around my fingers, a stream of fluid shot out, followed by another spasm, another squirt. I let myself go, didn't try to stop my moans as they echoed in the trees around me.

I squirted one more time that I saw, just missing my hand which rapidly circled my clit, covered and soaking with my juices. I spasmed uncontrollably, almost thought I was having a seizure. A pleasure seizure, maybe. Whatever it was, it was powerful, and it left me catching my breath and laying back on the moss to recover.

I smelled my hand, the one that dripped. I sniffed it. When I say I think it was piss it is because I caught a faint urine odor. It wasn't strong, nor the strongest scent there. My pussy was a bit ripe and raw, and the meaty, salty smell was one I knew well. I tried to be sure, but the scents seemed to combine and I didn't have reservations about licking the wetness from my fingers. The taste was my pussy alone, pungent and wonderful, so it solved nothing about what I'd shot out of my body as I grinned and giggled at my pleasure.