I pulled my knees up a little higher, rocking in rhythm now, and I got my other hand into action. I reached from beneath my lifted thigh, fingertip tickling its way through my crack and onto my pussy from the underside. The index finger was pointing straight out, and it scratched the base of my middle finger as it too fought its way into me. There was a momentary resistance from my cuntal muscles, but it was only momentary. The fingertip prodded, the muscles relaxed, and sucked up that second finger as wetly as they had the first.
Now I had two hands in action or at least, the active fingers of two hands and I could get into some kinky and delightful experimentation. Poke with one finger pull back with the other. Then vice versa. Middle finger stabbing into my depths then jerking out and making room for the index finger to do the same thing but from a different angle. My hips kept twitching, and my knees lifted higher and higher, till they were pulled right against the long, hot stiff nipples or my lust-swollen tits, and my index finger hid that much more room to get in there and do its thing.
To be honest, I'd rather do it this way than go to the bother of meeting a guy and observing whatever social amenities he wanted to get out of the way before asking me for a fuck. I had fucked three different guys and none of them left me satisfied or even very much impressed. They were in a hurry to get their cock in me and their cum squirted up my snatch, as if the insertion and the squirting were all that really mattered. With my fingers, I could take things at my own speed, arouse myself, really enjoy it. So, I hadn't fucked anything except my fingers since the Valentine dance at the last school I went to. And hadn't really wanted to, either.
Of course, I made up for it by masturbating a lot. And I mean a lot. I spent most of the summer just ended at a riding school in Virginia, and what with bouncing around in the saddle all day and finger fucking myself all night, there were days I thought I'd be bowlegged the rest of my life. Oh, well, I'd been on the wagon for the last couple of weeks, and it seemed an appropriate way to break in my new dorm room. I punched again, sliding both fingers up my cooze in one swift, hard pass, and I felt the walls of my cunt beginning to respond the way they ought to.
"Better, baby," I told myself, in a hoarse whisper, and I was just pulling back to do it again, my thumb swirling around the exposed, glistening nub of my clit, when I heard knocking on my door. "Oh, shit," I growled softly, fingers popping out of my cooze with reluctance. I sat up on the bed, coughed as I tried to regain normal speech and breath patterns, and asked, "Yes, who is it?"
"Just me Dierdre can I come in?"
"A minute, huh?" Dierdre was the dorm proctor, a senior helping us new girls get oriented to the school. As I hopped off the bed and wrapped myself up in the bathrobe I'd already set out for later, I found myself wondering if she'd heard me talking to my cunt as I played with it. "Come in," I said, walking around the bed. Maybe she'd smelled the marijuana. Christ, the room smelled like Mexico was on fire!
The door opened and Dierdre came inside. She was wearing her school uniform-jumper, blue, with the school insignia on its front, in gold-white blouse knee socks. Her long, almost black hair was tied off in pink ribbons on either side of her attractive, tanned, healthy-looking face. She closed the door behind her, then turned to me, nose curling up. She sniffed. I prepared myself for a lecture, at the very least.
"Colombian?" she asked. I nodded. "Do you believe in sharing, by any lucky chance?" I grinned, then nodded. Dierdre strolled further into the room, stopping beside the bed on which I'd just been diddling myself. And what, I wondered, might she be sniffing at there?
The buzz from the first joint was starting to wear off so I took a good sized take myself before handing the fresh one to Dierdre. "Mind if I sit down?" she asked, indicating the bed. I didn't, so she planted her bottom on the edge of the mattress, facing me, and she put the joint to her lips, savoring it as she inhaled. Her eyes closed dreamily, and I felt pretty good too, because I had a fair idea of the way management here felt about students and dope.
She finished her hit and passed the joint back to me. I took it, leaning toward her, and I felt the front of my bathrobe come open, baring me from neck to knees. As I straightened up, I made to close it, but Dierdre caught my hand. "Hey," I said.
She looked up at me, and our eyes locked in. Hers were large, heavy-lidded as if she'd just awakened from a deep sleep but the green eyes themselves were fully alive, staring at me intently, almost hypnotically. Her fingers were still on my wrist and there was a subtle rhythm to the way they squeezed and relaxed, squeezed and relaxed. I tried not to look, concentrating instead on the joint. I hit it hard, sucking smoke all the way down to my belly, but when I looked down, she was still staring up at my face. Abruptly, then, she let go of my hand and I pulled my robe shut, far too late for any illusions of modesty.
"Here," I said, offering her the joint. She took it.
I pulled the chair out from the desk and sat down carefully, making sure my robe didn't open up again.
This wasn't the first girls' school I'd ever gone to remember. I'd been around, enough to recognize the look in Dierdre's eyes when she got a flash of my nubile little body. It was nothing new. There's an active dyke on every floor of every dorm in every girls' school in the country. At least one. It's not unusual for them to be proctors, either.
Dierdre didn't look quite like a girl-queer, though. There was a tangible femininity about her, in the soft flutter of her green eyes, in the moisture of her lips, in the way she held herself as she sat loose limbed, like a cat in relaxation. No, I thought, she can't be a lesbian. Even if she did all but have her tongue hanging out while she was eyeing my tits.
We passed the joint back and forth, smoking in silent appreciation, making the room foggy with the sweet smoke of burning Colombian. Even when I wasn't taking, I had only to breathe if I wanted a fresh hit, and I felt the delightful old buzz taking hold of me.
"How do you like it here?" Dierdre asked, attacking the silence with her soft, low-pitched voice. "It's okay," I coughed put between puffs. "Last school I was at, you got expelled automatically for doing this. That is, if they caught you. I was always lucky."
She nodded. "When I was a freshman here, it was the same way. So we had a smoke-in one day. Half the girls in the school toked up at headmistress' office. We all lit up, and presented our demands, and a day or two later, they dropped possession to a misdemeanor. There are some places on campus where you don't smoke, though. Your roomie can tell you where. Mmm, this is really good stuff. Where'd you get it?"
"Cleveland."
"Is that where you're from?" I nodded. "Me, I'm local. I don't sound it, but I'm from just across the river. Good old Kentucky girl. You have a family?" she asked.
"Just my father. My mother…" She'd been gone for three years but I still found it hard to talk about her.
Dierdre seemed to realize that. "What does your father do?"
"He makes money," I said. "That's all he cares about. Making money, then using it to make more money. I think that's his picture on the makeup table. Haven't seen him in so long I kinda forget."
"Don't sweat it," she said. "I didn't mean to pry. Just thought I'd stop in and see how you were adjusting, be friendly, you know? This is a friendly school. Really it is. And I saw you today at orientation, and I thought she is such a pretty thing, but her eyes look so awfully sad and lonely. Are you really? Sad and lonely? You still kinda look that way."