Megan Hart - Switch

peeks from his jeans. Beneath the denim his cock had

throbbed, hard and hot, moments before.

I know him now, though not as wel as I wil eventualy. He

doesn't know me very wel at al and never wil. Yet this is

different, this coyness as he scrubs his hand over the brush

of his hair and grins.

"Wel. Yeah."

"Do you?" I pul down the bottom of my sweater and

cross my arms over my stomach.

He laughs low. I've known him for years, since elementary

school. I've watched him become a man. He sounds like a

man when he laughs, al low and growly deep. Rough-

edged.

"Wel, yeah," he says. "Al guys do."

"But you don't think al girls do, too?"

"I'm not asking what al girls do. Just you," he points out.

He knows how to work me. And, because I want to

believe I'm the only girl in his thoughts, I answer his

question honestly. Later we'l both lie.

"Yeah. I do it."

He clears his throat. "Realy? I mean, you realy—"

"Wank? Masturbate? Pet my pussy?" I guess I'm trying to

shock him. Make him blush. He's not the blushing sort.

"Is that what you cal it?"

"What do you call it?"

We're whispering, though his parents sleep a ful two floors

above us and we haven't bothered to keep our voices

down about anything before. He leans forward and so do

I. He smels faintly of cologne and more like fabric

softener. His mother does his laundry. Mine doesn't.

"Jerking off, I guess."

"I don't cal it anything," I admit. "I just do it."

"How often?"

I laugh, then, and look to the movie for strength. The

couple in the film are fucking in what looks like a clock

tower. Their hands scrabble at each other as they pul off

their clothes.

"Whenever I feel like it!"

He laughs. "How often do you feel like it?"

I don't want to tel him about the nights I've spent with

other boys' hands on me, revving me up without finishing

me off. Or the blank-fronted books I sneak from the

shelves of the family down the street who pay me to watch

their kids while they go bowling. I've learned a lot more

about sex from those books than I've ever learned from a

boy. Until him, anyway.

"Do you feel like it now?" he asks when it becomes clear

I'm not going to answer.

"Do I feel like coming now?"

He's used his hands on me, put his cock inside me, put his

mouth on my mouth and on my body. I've come with him

more than a few times. But not every time.

more than a few times. But not every time.

"Wil you?" he asks. "While I watch?"

I don't know what answer to give. I only know I want to

give him everything he asks for and some things he hasn't. I

nod.

He sits back against the couch's opposite arm. I'm not sure

he'l even be able to see me, painted in shafts of white and

dark from the TV's glow. I'm not sure I want him to see

me do this without a shield of shadows.

I've never done this in front of anyone, and at first I'm not

sure how to start. In the privacy of my bedroom I'd have

the door locked and soft music playing in the dark. I'd be

naked, or wearing only panties and a T-shirt. Now I have

to navigate the barriers of my jeans and sweater,

underpants and bra. So I start by touching my breasts

through the wool, not because I usualy feel my boobs

when I'm masturbating but because I think that's what he

expects me to do, and doing it wil buy me time to find the

nerve to folow through with the rest of it.

The smal noise that eeps out of his throat convinces me I

made the right choice. My hands feel smal on my breasts,

which are fuler in my palms than in his. I can't remember

which are fuler in my palms than in his. I can't remember

the last time I touched them this way, cupping and rubbing,

trying to tweak my nipples to points. The sweater is too

thick for this, so I shift until I can pul it off over my head.

Another smal noise from him, and I bite my lower lip. My

fingers tiptoe over the slopes of my now-naked chest, over

the lace and satin of my best bra. The one I bought from

Victoria's Secret with my babysitting cash. The one I wear

on every date. Beneath its expensive material and breast-

lifting bands of metal, my nipples have gone tight and

aching.

My palms slide on the smooth fabric. When my thumbs

pass over those hard points, I bite harder. Soft flesh dents

under my teeth. It doesn't hurt yet, but if I don't ease up I

wil soon taste blood.

I close my eyes because it's easier to be what I think he

wants me to be when I'm not watching him watch me. And

it gives me darkness, which I'm used to and prefer for this

sort of thing. I feel my skin, softer than the bra that has

been through lots of washings and, despite its cost, wasn't

made to last.

I go away.

I go away.

From this basement, which always smels a little of wet

dog though his dog died years ago. From him, the boy-

man watching me. Even from the TV and the movie in the

corner that started al of this in the first place.

I go away to the place where everything feels good, and I

don't have to think about anything but the whisper of my

fingertips along my sides. Down across my bely, which

wil never be flat enough no matter how many crunches I

do or lunches I skip. The metal button on my jeans isn't

cold or warm, it's the same temperature as my skin. My

fingers miss it in their first walk across, though the belt

loops snag my touch.

I don't open the button at first. I slide my hand down the

front of my jeans. My panties are already damp from the

hour we've been on the couch. Sometimes, though I'd

never dare tel him this, no matter what I'm about to share,

my pussy gets wet even before we start kissing.

Sometimes, when I'm in the shower getting ready to meet

him, I do what I'm doing now with my hands, which is rub

them al over my body and pretend they're his. Sometimes

I spend the entire date—the movie, the dinner, bowling,

whatever it is, waiting for it al to be over so we can get to

whatever it is, waiting for it al to be over so we can get to

this part. The couch, the backseat. His hands and mouth

on mine. His cock inside me.

I gasp aloud when my finger finds the smal bump at the

front of my panties. I don't have room to stroke, so I

satisfy myself with pushing gently. I use my middle finger.

The fuck finger, he cals it. It's the one he uses inside me to

get me ready before he uses his dick, but when he touches

my clit he uses his first finger. Or his thumb, if I'm on top. I

didn't come to his bed or his backseat or his couch as

anything close to a virgin, but I don't want to think about

who taught him how to do that.

I can always get off faster by myself than with someone

else. I'm already close. Another gentle press of my finger

pushes a shudder through me. My toes curl against the

cushions. My hips lift a little.

I don't have room to do this right, so now I unbutton my

jeans. My zipper ratchets apart, tooth by metal tooth. My

jeans open. I hook my thumbs into the sides and push

them down, over my hips and thighs. They get hung up at

my knees, and he reaches forward to grab a handful of

denim and help me.

In my bra and also-best panties I lean back and give

myself over to his scrutiny. I push my hands over my body,

al the curves that scared and annoyed me when they

started forming but I'm grateful for now. Boys like boobs