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Mary-Catherine, addressed variously as Mary-Cath, M-Cath, M.C., McCat, and other nicknames, was known by her peers as someone who would answer questions that could not safely be posed to adults. Sex questions. About boys and men: How big does it get? Do they really put it in your… you know? About pregnancy and what could be done without risking it. About mysteries: What does an orgasm feel like? Does the first time hurt a lot? Does swallowing semen make your face grow hair? About sinfulness: Am I still a virgin if we just do oral? Will I go to Hell if I touch myself?

Despite her reputation as especially well-informed, Mary-Catherine was not called a slag, or a slut, or a “ho.” A cynic might have said that she was not sufficiently smart, athletic, pretty, or fashionable to inspire spite, and was thus shielded from the usual intramural back-stabbing. A kinder interpreter would say that she was simply well-liked, and had good friends, and perhaps that she was too valuable a resource to offend.

Mary-Cath drove home after school one day, at the wheel of her Senior-year present. She arrived, as on every school day, at an empty house, with two hours to herself before her parents might arrive. She dropped her backpack on her bedroom floor, then kicked off her shoes before flopping onto her bed. She lay there for a few minutes, just relaxing, then grabbed her laptop from the floor, opened it, and quickly navigated to her well-hidden, private folder of photos.

She started the viewer in a familiar place: at a series of pictures taken at a recent overnight party. There had been ten girls there, all with cell-phone cameras, and all had shared their pictures around the group; Mary-Catherine had an abundance of images to browse through.

She used one hand on the keyboard: next… next… next. The other crept under her brief school skirt, into her plain white bikini panties, and down over her waiting, already moist pussy. She stroked her cleft with practiced ease.

Next… next. She frigged her quim, touching inside her lips, growing wetter as she viewed each picture. The series was a familiar one, and she knew where the climax of images would come; knew how to time her own arousal to peak at the same point.

There had been a point at the party when the girls were changing into nightwear — PJ pants and tank tops, most of them — and a pillow fight had broken out, distracting them in various states of undress, and propelling them into tangles of laughing, squealing, squirming bodies. There was Dianna in that skimpy pink tank, with her nipples bursting against the ribbed fabric. Mary-Cath's fingers probed and stroked, her pussy making slick, sticky sounds in the quiet bedroom. There was Lexi in bra and panties, bent almost double. The panties were taut over her ass and outlined her pussy from behind. There was a pile of four: Isabel, Kim, Maggie, and M.C. herself, bare legs entwined, heads on tummies and chests and thighs, hands wandering oh so innocently every which way. Tendrils of Kim's long hair were draped across Mary-Catherine's leg. She remembered how that felt.

With a moan she yanked her panties down her thighs. Then her hand was back, busy, stroking, rubbing, wet and slippery and urgent and effective, faster and faster as her breathing grew coarse and her face flushed.

Next.

Mary-Catherine, Lexi, Amanda. Maggie, Grace, and Emma. Piled together, in and out of clothes, an abundance of bare soft skin. Grace's pajama shorts loose at the leg, riding up, so high and open that her precious pussy was almost visible — oh, with just the slightest effort of imagination it could be made so — and Emma's top gaping, showing one little breast with its proud nipple, and… and… Lexi's hand right on Mary-Catherine's bottom, half on panties and half on skin… it had been so warm, felt so good, felt so —

Her orgasm shook her, and she cried out as the pleasure overwhelmed her modesty and restraint and… everything.

Much later, uniform replaced with sweats, books open for studying, Mary-Catherine took a minute to browse some favorite sex sites on the Internet. It was good to be informed about what boys did, and what boys thought about, and how boys felt. It was so important to keep up appearances with her girlfriends.

— Frenulum