Lesbian First-Time Erotica
"Poked" a sex story by Red
It was when Frosta kept telling my husband and I that she needed to be poked that my mind started getting graphic. Frosta was cute, with her short blond hair, sturdy body and irreverent grin. She was a poet, as we all were, in my husband's poetry class, and her tanned figure, youth and irreverence won us over. She wrote love poems to me that she turned in for my husband's workshop.
I hadn't really had any chances to touch another woman before, except for a little playing around with my succulent friend Marney's intoxicating breasts and a few kisses on her lips. Marna and I would linger in spare rooms at the University before or after my husband's class, and I would kiss her nipples, hold her breasts and we would tell each other we loved each other. She was twenty years older than me, and that just made it even better.
I hadn't let my mind wander towards that direction too often, but it was starting to, as I got to know those two women better. We were developing a kind of emotional intimacy, and they let me know they both were feeling more and romantic towards me. Their eyes shone in the most lyrical way.
"Poked." I'd never heard that phrase before. How sexy. No other word conjured up the sense of something soft but stable, closed, but penetrable. Like dough. The vagina suddenly became enhanced in my mind, beyond the actual shape, with all its little rivulets and striations. It became something almost abstract, and immensely pokable. I could imagine the poking, the way the soft layer of fat at the vulva would be pushed, the way the closure would open and the whole area would be pushed inward. Then, the way it would rise back out again each time, boldly, making its stand, feeling so fascinating to my fingers when it did that. I could picture the wanting of it, the poking of it, the pleasure of being entered. No other word set up my imagination of the satisfaction of it, and it made me take note.
"You know I just need to be poked, now that Kevin and I aren't together."
I cared for her, and wanted to help put her out of her misery.
"I'd be glad to do that for you, Frosta," I told her. She and my husband and Marney were riding in the car one day after poetry class.
"I'd love it," Frost said. "If you were a guy, I'd marry you. But you just don't have the equipment I need to be poked."
My heart went out to her. I was getting poked regularly by Peter, my husband, and so I was taken care of, though still wanting, needing, something more. Some new adventure, as he had been my only lover all my life. In my dreams, my lovers were women.
"Well, what about Peter?" I knew she was attracted to him, as was Marney. "Would that work? I bet he'd oblige." I looked over at him as he was driving.
We'd just stopped off at a fast food restaurant not long before, and I had been feeling frisky. I'd taken my Home Fries, and started placing them on my body as we sat at the table. I wasn't hungry for food as much as for touch, and exploring sensuality in a way I hadn't before. I had just started quietly putting them on my arms, legs, breast, every exposed and horizontal place.
"Oooh, that looks like it feels great," Marney had commented.
"It does. They're really warm," I answered. It was like human touch almost. It was playful. It got their minds going. "Here, see?" I placed a warm Home Fry on Marney's full-sized thigh, as it was a warm night and we were all wearing shorts. I put another one on her thigh, but very high up near where it began. She started squirming and laughing with pleasure, making purring sounds, and gave me a kiss and a snuggle.
I put one on Frosta's collar bone, so very tan, while she was in the middle of a conversation. At first, it seemed like she didn't notice. But as she kept talking, she reached over, and put one on my breast (my shirt was very low cut and my breasts somewhat shelflike). She didn't take her eyes off Peter, or acknowledge she was doing that, which made it sexier. Peter grinned with a perverse smirk, but took it all in stride.
I tilted my head sideways, and she put one on my cheek, and then looked over, and grabbed my face and looked at my eyes, to acknowledge, almost savagely, our first touch, however indirect it was. She didn't say anything, but went back to her conversation. I started feeling my vulva swell. It wanted to be poked.
We all began playing with the fries, especially me, putting them on each other, feeling the warmth.
So, as we all were riding in the car afterwards, there was a sense of anticipation, wondering where it was all going to lead.
Frosta repeated, "I do need to be poked. I can't get anything done. I just need it." I'd never thought that way, or knew it was OK to say it was a necessity to have the penis push apart the vagina walls. I was so naïve at that age, I thought everyone would say they needed to have a relationship, or make love, needed romance. The actual physical act of the poking, the entering into the soft spot that gave way, by something hard and just made for poking -- that was something I wasn't used to people discussing. I wanted to help her.
"I think I could help you out with that," I said. "What about Peter? Would that work for you two?" I had told him when we got married that I didn't want to restrict him from doing anything he wanted. I had told him I'd find him lovers. And it was really happening, after only a few months of being together. I felt a twinge of jealousy that the women liked him, and he liked them, but I also felt a strong desire to make everyone happy and not hold on to my acquisition. I felt an outward surge of generosity that made me feel like I had something to offer. I was offering up monogamy for a good cause. It made me even warmer and softer.
When we made it home, we all ended up in bed, naked and talking. No one was making the first move towards touch. It was time to move beyond shyness. I reached out to Frosta as she lay on the bed and tentatively touched her thigh. I let a sense of self confidence wash over me as much as possible. A sense that nothing I was doing was to be judged. That I was in the flow.
I did my best to overcome the awkwardness of being twenty one. Her dark thigh felt so warm and muscular beneath my hand. I grasped it and felt its weight, the texture of the skin, appreciating it. I moved my hand beneath to the lower side of it, and started moving it closer to her vulva, and back down, and a little closer with each pass. I was getting very close to my first touch ever on female genitalia, fascinated by the little mounds of soft flesh of the outer lips, wanting to feel them spring back when I pushed on them. My fingers were just barely starting to touch them when her cell phone rang. Oh no.
"Oh, Hi, Mom. Yeah, I'm at a friend's house. How are you doing?" I hesitated. Her voice had a little pant to it. Was whispery and soft. Subtley urgent in a repressed sort of way. I didn't want to quit, but I didn't want to screw up her relationship with her mother forever. I became more aware than ever of the unusual situation and reveled in the kink of it. I'd always wanted to be sexual with someone while he (or she) was on the phone. The idea that it was a mother was even better. I didn't stop pushing down on her vulva, and feeling it leap back up into my hands.
I pushed down on the outer lips, that spongy flesh which did indeed spring back to its original shape. Marney and Peter were kissing. I was enchanted by the potential. I softly moved my fingers along Frosta's clitoris, barely grazing it, as if it just happened to occur in my caress of the whole bushy area. I squeezed the two outer lips together and let them spring back apart. I tapped on them, fast, slow, hard, soft, and then let my finger slip down in between them into the wetness.
Frosta kept up a great show for her mother. She covered the phone in case Marney and Peter started to moan, just in time. She acted like nothing was going on, not looking at me, or changing her voice with her mother. But I could feel her growing more open, more slippery. "I know, I heard they were thinking of getting married. That's great. When's the wedding?" And she thrust her hips forward, seemingly casually, as an accent to the conversation. Her face never changed expression.
I put my face closer and breathed wetly on her wet spot, and let my tongue flick her clitoris. I grasped her outer lips with my mouth and moved my lips back and forth, rolling them. I reached down farther and rolled again. Her next words began more hoarsely than before, deeper, louder. "Yes. Do you have any plans for a present?" I pushed my face harder into her, suddenly, forcefully, poking her with my tongue.
"Oh, Mom! That's a great idea. I should get her a matching one." I curled a finger inside her and my tongue licked back and forth between my finger and her hood, and then I sucked both at the same time. Her laugh responding to her mother sounded more like a sob, or a moan. She worked on the ending of it to make it sound more correct. "Tell me all about that," she said, and let her head fall back, her pelvis arch, and she pushed my face into her, my nose going down into her, poking her for all it was worth.
Originally published May 2007