The Tippy Top

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The Tip

Mimi Bailey

This is a story of discovery, and of the power of pussy.

Today, Cleo and I are still friends, and she’s the first one I told of my move abroad, of my engagement to Charlie. We have moved onto, over, and under the bucking, unceasing waves of life without any interference from these moments we spent so intimately together. But I had to put in writing what Cleo showed me that day. Eighteen years old, and Cleo finally brought me to and over that fateful tip.

***

Do you ever lay back on the bed with the pads of your feet resting on the wall, head hanging upside down over the side of the bed? This was my self-proclaimed “sleepover position”, and of course I adopted it for my latest one with Cleo. While I stretched out and leafed through a magazine, Cleo sat with her back against the bed frame, her head kissing the edge of my upside-down one.

“I can’t believe you’ve saved up all this extra paint. What for? I’ve never seen you do art in my entire life,” Cleo scoffed.

She had found the stash of five or six huge bottles of paint my Mom had left in the kitchen pantry. When browsing for a snack, this unsubtle display of weirdness brought Cleo to prime sarcasm mode.

I roll my eyes. “Again, why are you asking me? My mom, the mothership, is the one who bought them.”

I was faux-miffed as I flipped through a Brylan Home catalog over the top of my head. “She still has the canvas she bought out for them out on the porch. It’s almost as big as the entire wall,” I laughed.

Cleo turned her head towards mine so fast I jumped.

“She still has it?” she whispered mischievously to my upside down eyeballs.

“Yeah. Ain’t that what I said? We can go look at it if you want. I’m sure staring at a wall would be a step up from this catalog.”

Cleo gawked. “Don’t you see the genius of this situation? We have large, large bottles of paint and a huge canvas all to our disposal at an unsupervised sleepover. Check it, girl. We are set.”

I stare at her. “For what?”

She grinned. “Let me show you.”

***

“Okay, the balloons are all filled, right? And you hung them up with duct tape? Great! Now all we have to do is find the darts…”

What am I doing here. Only in a sleepover with Cleo would I be searching for leftover Nerf darts to hurl at a canvas smeared with old duct tape and dirty balloons. One of us really needs to get our driver’s permit.

I collected the Nerf darts onto a creased paper dinner plate. “And how, may I ask, do we proceed?”

“Nose goes!” She exclaimed, flattening her finger onto said nose. If that meant I had to go second out of a whopping two people, so be it.

I finally let forth a grin.

“Show me what you’re made of, babe.”

***

We both lay with our legs splayed on the garage room floor, admiring our abstract melee of mismatched neon paint splatters on the canvas.

“Seriously, that was a good idea.” I intone, quite satisfied and languorous.

Cleo smirked and glanced over at me, then burst out laughing.

“I really think you actually got more paint on your clothes than the canvas, hon.”

I glanced down. “Whatever, B! Only ’cause you took too many damn turns with the paint!” I feigned indignation.

Cleo giggled and dipped an errant cloth rag in the remaining puddle of water in our paint jug. It rested just by my thigh and she quickly squeezed the rag and started rubbing my ratty white T-shirt.

“I personally think I did you a favor! This is now, by my doing, a much more interesting-looking T-shirt.” She flashed her cheshire grin up at me and rubbed harder.

“Ah! Ah ha!” I exclaimed, knowing that Cleo wouldn’t relent now that she’d found my ticklish ribcage.

She tucked herself closer to me. “Serves you right, wearing a white T-shirt. Hold still!” She dragged the soaking rag across the dips and creases of my T-shirt and actually excelled in removing most of the darker stains.

Suddenly, I heard a rumbling, chesty laughter start trickling out of her.

“What?” I ask, alarmed.

“Girl, you have a huge splat on your crotch. Oops, I mean, ‘crotchal area’,” referring to our more politically correct term.

“Well, get it off!” denizli escort My elbows started to chafe from leaning back. “Might as well tickle any spot you can. I know you want to.”

Cleo shrugged casually and, leaning on one knuckle while lifting the rag with another, she was the picture of nonchalance. At this point, I was leaning back on my elbows with my legs fully spread, Cleo on her stomach between them and leaning in with the rag.

She swiped once, hard.

“Oh!”

Cleo glanced upwards. “What? Are you that ticklish?”

I’d neglected to think about how thin my shorts were in the “crotchal area”, to the point of almost translucence. That one swipe had awakened a sensation I had never before felt, even imagined.

I looked at her wet lips, her straggled head straining to look up at me. “It wasn’t exactly ticklish, Cleo, it was like…it felt weird. But keep going, I can’t wash these shorts anytime soon.” And oh so subtly, I thrust my waist very gently up into her rag-held hand.

With one hand, she grabbed the side of my shorts and tugged gently so the stain was easier to access. I felt so clearly the heat of her hands, the warmth of her breath through that thin cotton.

She lowered her other hand and resumed dragging the cloth right over me. Pressing hard. Rub, rub, rub. I let my head fall back slightly to disguise my quickening breath. What is this? What is this pull in my groin, growing heavier and more delicious with each rub? Why do I want to spread my legs wider? I had no idea what was happening.

I almost whisper, “How does the… How’s the stain?”

Cleo doesn’t answer. She keeps rubbing.

The sensation was reminiscent of a very intense itch finally being scratched. Each rub was inviting something new to awaken and birth itself in my body, introducing something deep. Delicious. Grinding. Hot. More. Each. Thought. Fragmented.

I let out a little mew, almost like a gasp of disbelief.

“Max? Are you okay?”

I no longer heard her. I tilted myself slightly into her hand. I notice she does not stop, doesn’t even slow down.

I hear her voice again.

“Max? Are you okay…?”

The naughty heaviness starts to drip out of my shorts. There’s some warm yolk oozing out of me, I can feel it. I can’t think. I just feel. Don’t make it stop.

“Yeah. Don’t. Stop.” I gasp.

She sighs and lets her non rag-hand fingers dance across my inner thigh. “OK…what’s happening, though? It sounds like it’s wet… Like, it’s making this squish sound.”

I groan, groan. I don’t know what’s happening, but it’s so yummy and primal. There’s a new heartbeat between my legs, a leaking faucet that wants to be tapped, tapped, tapped. I don’t know what will come of it but I know it mustn’t. Stop.

“Cleo….I don’t know. But can you take my shorts off? Please?”

She stops, if just for a moment. The sound of my panting bursts into our consciousness.

“Why, Max?” she almost purrs.

I glance back down at her for the first time since it started. Her mouth is slightly open and her eyes are heavy with the realization of something she doesn’t quite understand yet.

I match her eyes, and tell her: “I want you to check something.”

She puts down the rag and hooks her fingers tentatively into the top of my shorts and, I notice, the rim of my panties. So gently she slides her hands down my outer thighs and ankles, cuffing them to slip the clothing off. I shiver at the delicious tickle of her touch.

She picks the rag up again. She is panting a bit too now.

She speaks. “What did you want me to see, hon?”

I lean my head back so I can let the words out.

“I want you to see what it looks like. My…pussy.”

She says nothing for a moment. My head is still arched back and I give a quick jolt as I feel her rest her hands reverently on either side of my pussy. That’s what is: pussy. I want to call it that now just like I want to scream it out. I want to stretch my neck out and watch that warm yolk slide out of it and onto her hand.

I’m called back to Cleo when she whispers, “It looks really…like, wet. Like it has juice oozing out of it. It’s kind of trickling out onto the adana escort floor now, ” she whimpers, her exhalations matching mine now.

She pauses, and asks:

“Want me to show you?”

I groan again, like an incredulous sigh of wanting so badly to be satisfied, but enjoying too much this tantalizing heaviness.

“Yes, C. Show me.”

I hear and feel her hand move slowly to put the rag down.

I think we’re done with it now.

Because, though I’ve never felt it before, I recognize immediately the feel of her warm, tentative finger on the slippery outline of my pussy. My breath halts.

“Look,” she asks me. I look.

I slowly bend my head towards my spread legs and watch her. She is comfortably stretched out between my legs on her stomach, one elbow supporting her on the garage floor and the other hand hovering over my puddly middle. She lifts the finger up from me, from a wetness so immense that I could barely even feel the pressing of her finger onto me, and watch a thick trail of pussy juice stretch from the tip of her finger down its tail and back home into my wetness.

I am stunned. “Oh my god, oh my god…” I whimper, panting as I look her in the eye. “What is that?! Why is it so wet there, Cleo?”

She ceases the motion of her hand mid-air. “I’m not totally sure about this stuff, Maxie, but…I think, well, you’re getting wet. Your, uhm…pussy. Because I’m touching it.”

I roll my hips slightly towards her outstretched hand. “Oh yeah? And what’ll happen then?” I croon.

She slowly lowers her eyes until they’re starting right at my pussy. “I don’t know, but…I wanna see. I wanna keep going. Is that OK?”

I can barely reply because she seems to be moving on her own accord, as she oh so slowly swipes just the tip of her finger from the bottom of my hole up, up, up, to the tippy top, and that tippy top seems to hold the crown of all promised shivers and trembling.

I realize she’s awaiting a response.

“Yes. Please.” I let my head fall back again. “But… I think I may get your hand all wet. You don’t want to use the rag?”

She gives me a smile much different than the one I’m used to. A slight upturn hinting at the roiling naughtiness of what we’re doing.

“Oh yeah. I like it.”

Much like the motion of rubbing out a stain with one’s fingers, she gently places two fingers on me and rubs them back and forth. There’s that yummy unfurling itch rolling back out of me. It only thickens when I hear the sound of my wetness in her fingers: slooch, slooch, slooch.

“Uhhhhh…” I gasp.

Cleo tightens her grip on my thigh and slides it roughly back and forth across my ass. Through the dripping wetness of my pussy, she invites herself in. Opening a new door of pleasure consciousness, she dips a finger all the way inside. I undulate at the glory of this deliciously full and wet weight pushing inside of me. She seems to intuitively follow the curves of my pussy doorway and gently curls her fingers upwards and towards her.

“Oh! Oh!…Cleo…that’s so good!” I whimper, beginning to push and grind myself towards her face, despite my best intentions.

“Yeah? Is it? Mmm…” She is fully concentrating now, studying my wet plum while her tongue straddles her upper lip, hooking her finger and pushing it in and in and in and in.

I am almost alarmed to hear the sounds of pure wetness from my pussy. It sounds like stirring macaroni and cheese in the pot. It is utterly erotic. I have abandoned my senses to a world of erotica. Still, I whimper:

“Cleo…what’s that sound? What’s the wet sound?” Sloosh, sloosh, sloosh. It’s quite unbelievably loud now. I run my own fingers down my ribcage.

She grunts. “It’s your wet pussy, Max. It’s streaming a little bit over my fingers. I think more might come out, but I’m not sure. Just relax into me. Open your legs a little bit wider….? There you go. Good girl. Good girl,” she is panting.

I can feel the concrete underneath my ass start to get wet.

Cleo continues. “You’re dripping onto my hand, honey. Can I….ah, can I lick you a little?”

I look down at her once again. Her finger is buried to the hilt in my pussy and the juice has manisa escort made her whole hand and, God, a little of her arm wet. I watch the stain forming on the concrete under her hand, drip, drip, drip. Uhn.

“Yeah, C. Lick me, honey. Oh, lick me…”

Without ever stopping her finger, I feel the heat of her mouth closer and closer to my sweet dripping yolk. So sweetly, so tenderly, she drops an almost childish good-night kiss at the tippy top.

I immediately buck into her face, the kiss tickling the tightest bundle of yumminess I can imagine, the best of all sensation huddled right there at the top. But I can’t help it, I must declare my favorite sensation as her finger pumping into the tight knots inside of me.

The squishing noise becomes even louder. She continues her kisses there, kiss, kiss, kiss, so light and so tender. I become a little louder.

“Uh, uh, uh, yeah, uh…oooh! Thank you, honey, it’s so wet…uh! Yes!”

They’re words, just words, just my pussy talking as it tries to tell her how good it all is. I can feel that I am climbing towards something seemingly insurmountable, yet I hurtle towards it with such unwavering and primal longing. I welcome it, from Cleo’s now pruny finger and dimpled mouth.

“Cleo! It’s coming! Something’s coming! Uunf!”

So much squishing and moaning and dripping, I am bucking myself into her face and hands with my legs stretched wide. I smell myself and my wet arousal and love it. I’m so proud of it.

Cleo catches her breath. “I know you are, hon. My chin is dripping with it. I wanna see what’ll happen. Just push out and I think it’s gonna get even wetter!” she whines and, I notice, grinds her own pussy into the flat, unyielding concrete floor.

A new sensation floats up as a slight need to piss, a pressure pulling up inside of me into a tight, narrow tip.

I warn her, “I think something might come out of me, Cleo!” I’m pushing my pussy up into her finger and tongue to the rhythm of my heartbeat.

“Yeah, let it go, Maxie! I can feel it. Some of it is already starting to, I feel some flecks of your juice hitting my face. Mm… you have a little gush, don’t be shy. I wanna feel it all.”

And with that. How do I describe it to you? I’ll go through my five senses. I feel my pussy tightening around her finger and the little bands of yumminess bursting out from my tippy top and all around, pulling me up and up and uh, uh, uh, uh, I just want her finger and tongue on me and in me forever. I taste sweat running down from my upper lip. I smell my pussy fever breaking all around and under me, sweet and musky. I see, through the slits of my straining eyelids, Cleo grabbing onto my upper thigh and pulling her hooked finger in, in, in me, her mouth planted in an open, sucking kiss right at the tippy top. And I hear my pussy juice splashing out of me, onto her hands, her face, and the floor, like a faucet suddenly squirting out. That’s what I’m doing. I’m squirting, all over Cleo’s pretty face and chest, soaking her clothes.

Cleo pants, “Holy shit, good girl, good girl, there’s a good girl, squirt on me, that’s it, that’s it honey,” flicking her tongue out to catch the squirt as it splashes naughtily in her face.

I’m bucking and convulsing endlessly. “Unff! Unff! Uhh! Yus! Uh, huh! Uhnf! Oooh! Uh! Yuhhh!”

I slow my horse bucking and gradually pause. I’m panting like I’ve just run the whole way home from school.

I look down with drowsy eyes at our mess. My naked pussy is still resting in Cleo’s palm, my core shimmering and the juices on Cleo’s hand still dripping onto the floor. Her face is shiny like she just got hit with a water balloon, her hair matted and tangled. Her shirt is soaked. We both look down at the same time, under her chest, at the large puddle from my squirt. It’s even a bit frothy and thick in some places. I groan, groan, groan.

We don’t speak.

Her hand is still resting on my pussy.

And here, a moment I will always remember. Even after our awkward, giggly reconciliation the following morning over microwaved leftover pizza, after Cleo came out to me in high school, after we traded off a busted red Volkswagen to drive each other to school every other day, after my engagement to Charlie in grad school. Even after everything, there is a moment of such erotic tenderness that I will never forget.

Cleo smiled up at me, brandishing her new sex grin, gently lowered her head to the ground, and tenderly, lovingly, began to lap up my puddle of squirt.

***