#fancest

Mirabel flopped onto her bed with a sigh, staring up at the ceiling.

The night had been a disaster, even though Antonio had gotten his gift. Abuela had dismissed her in front of the whole community, and Mirabel was left wondering if she’d really seen the cracks in the wall. Her hand was still stinging, a red slash across her palm. So the falling tiles must have been real. But no one had believed her, and she should feel happy for Antonio, but instead she just felt hopeless. And confused.

Without bothering to get up from bed, Mirabel wriggled out of her clothes and tossed them on the floor. The floor-tiles tossed them into the wash basket with a disapproving shiver, and moved the basket closer to the bed. Mirabel ignored Casita’s scolding, stretching her arms and legs out to the edges of the bed. She lay on top of the sheets, naked except for her underwear, and relished the feeling of cold air on her skin. It was like coming home to herself, after an evening of nerves and conflicted guilt.

Maybe there was something good about having the nursery to herself again.

After all, Mirabel would never have relaxed on her bed in such a compromising position while she shared a room with Antonio. But now the space was hers alone.

Oh. Mirabel hadn’t considered what having a room of her own might mean. It wasn’t her room, not the same way her family members had their own rooms, but… she was alone here for the first time in years.

When they shared a room, Mirabel had always come to bed after Antonio. Younger people went to bed first in the Madrigal household. So Mirabel had limited privacy, enough to change into her nightgown without being worried. Enough privacy to make some small explorations under the blankets, always nervous about the sleeping family all around her.

When Mirabel was young, she hadn’t understood why Delores always announced that she would be putting in her night earplugs at “nine pm sharp!” before she went up to bed. But when Mirabel was old enough to understand that enhanced hearing might come with way too much information about your own family, she began to be grateful for her cousin’s reminders that their privacy began and ended with her earplug schedule.

But now it was late at night, and Mirabel was alone in the room, and the door was locked. Mirabel shivered, the air on her bare skin suddenly feeling more suggestive. Hesitantly, she brought a hand down to stroke the inside of her thighs. She was always entranced by how the soft the skin was, running up to the edges of her underwear, where a few escaping curls of hair interfered with the movement of her fingers.

It felt nice to know that she could take her time with this. Mirabel felt less guilty about her exploration, less anxiety and shame. Already, her brain was beginning to seize on the feeling of her fingers on her skin, and the rising warmth in her lower stomach.

With new determination, Mirabel traced the lines of herself through the cotton underwear: pressing at the outline of her lips, teasing at the top where it felt so good, and then returning to the soft skin of her thighs. She didn’t want to push too far, too fast: she had learned the hard way that she could become oversensitive before she knew it, and lose all of her progress towards pleasure.

Mirabel hesitated, then pulled off her underwear. She tossed them into the basket beside her bed and then laid back down, completely exposed. It felt daring, and terrifying, and wonderful. She spread her legs and repeated the same path with her fingers, without the barrier of cotton. Gentle caress of the thighs, slow exploration of the lips, and then a brief circle around that little section at the top that made her jerk against her own hand. The center of her pleasure.

Mirabel pushed her fingers into the curls that guarded between her thighs, separating them from the wetness that was already gathering on the folds. She found the wetness a bit uncomfortable, honestly: it made her thighs sticky if she experimented too much, and she always had to rush off to shower in the morning. But it did make things more slippery, less likely to become painful if she got carried away. She ventured a finger between her lips, sliding it down towards the space where she was wet and open. As her finger tugged at the edge, she stifled a gasp. This was why it was dangerous to experiment when she shared a room: it got so overwhelming, she forgot to be very quiet.

Mirabel couldn’t fit more than a single finger inside of her, but that was enough to gather some of that wetness and drag it up to where she really wanted it. With the extra lubrication, she could circle her fingers around the top where the pleasure was sharpest. She did it again and again, swiping her fingers against herself, a burst of sensation each time, coming together into something less overwhelming, something that demanded more with every nerve in her body.

She heard herself gasp and make an unfamiliar sound, like a whine. She could try to keep quiet, but the walls were thick between their rooms, and the whole pleasure was that she was alone and free. Mirabel brought her second hand down to join the other, with one finger sliding back into herself and the other continuing its endless circles where she needed it most.

Mirabel never knew quite what to do with the finger inside of herself, but sometimes it was nice. She didn’t like thrusting it in and out, although she had gathered that was the usual motion of sex. Sometimes, if she pressed in just right, it could make things a lot better. But most of the time she just left it there, feeling her inner muscles flex around it. Her body was so complicated and so warm inside: she enjoyed the shivers and twitches around her finger, completely involuntary as she continued to chase her pleasure.

The sensations rose higher, pulling her body into an arch as her hips pushed down against her own hands, her heels pushing at the mattress. Everything was pulling tighter, winding around the fingers that circled her center, her shoulders tense. She was making small noises, no matter how hard she tried to stop them, and she couldn’t stop touching herself faster.

There was a small sound beside her, like the bed had knocked against the wall, but Mirabel ignored it. She was too close now, and she was almost…

Her whole body shivered as climax reached her, a starburst from her core, pleasure radiating out to her fingers and her toes. Mirabel could feel herself clamp down on the finger inside herself, pulling it deeper, and she rode out the feeling with the aftershocks.

Finally, her body relaxed, and she tugged her finger free. Making a face at the slimy feeling on her hands and thighs, Mirabel half-heartedly wiped her fingers on the side of the bed and then crawled under the covers, their warmth a welcome embrace.

Such activities always left her trembling and tired, and today was no exception.

Mirabel was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, unaware of the eyes that watched her sleep.