(author’s note: this is just a little fictional diddle. With some truths though. I’ll leave you to figure out what they are. Enjoy.)
I don’t like my cunt today.
It’s just… hair and flesh and curls. Bit dry. My inner lips seem to be playing hide and seek. I emit a deep sigh. It’s always something, isn’t it?
Like yesterday, when I didn’t like my hair. Or Monday, when my eyes looked a bit duff.
I don’t like things. I don’t like me, I guess.
I stretch in front of the mirror. I’m sitting wide-legged and bleary-eyed in front of the squiggly mirror in the bedroom. This has become a morning routine. A very, very sad and ridiculous one, granted. But one I need.
“Inspecting yourself again?” he asks, walking into the room. I sigh again, but this time out of happiness. He’s wearing two white towels. One across his shoulders and one around his gorgeous waist. Why him? Why, out of all men in the world, did I happen to land him?
He’s gorgeous. Thirty-one glorious years old and blessed with the genetic make-up of the illegitimate love child of… well, of any two perfect men in the world. And he’s just come out of my shower. His moist chest glistens in the sunlight. There’s little I can do to keep myself from literally frothing at the mouth.
“Yeah. I didn’t mean to. I just… yeah.” I mutter, as he wraps his arms around me.
“And what’s wrong this morning? Wonky tooth? Wayward freckle?” he chuckles.
“My cunt. It’s not right.”
“What? Woman, you are some kind of crazy.”
“I’m not though! It’s not right, I tell you! Look at it!” I say, pointing frantically at my cunting cunt.
“Oh, I am.” he says, lowering his hand to rest on my mound. “I look at it every day. Shall I show you why it’s right?”
He leans over me and entangles his fingers through my pubic hair. “I like how it curls. It feels soft and tickles and I just… I like it.”
“Right, so you like my fuzz. Why? Doesn’t it feel disgusting when you… when you go down on me?”
“Not at all. I quite like it. And I don’t mind the odd hair between the teeth.”
“You freak!” I say, nearly putting my arm out to swat him on the shoulder.
“Mm. Call me a freak, but I like it. I also like…” he says, his voice low and nearly growly as his hand slips down and sidles between my puffed-up lips. “How this feels. So soft and moist. It’s the perfect sensation.”
I’m enjoying the sight of his exploration. His fingers feel good and – although I’m not keen to admit it – I’m slowly getting over my disgust. And as he spreads me further open with those perfectly dexterous fingers of his, I can feel myself tingling.
Even more as he flicks over my clit. God, what is that man doing to me? Even the slightest touch from him can set me on fire. Fuck, why him? Why is he standing here, in my bedroom, hunched over me… practically frigging me?
Because he is. And it’s wildly distracting me from my own self-disgust. I watch his movements in the mirror, fascinated by the way his fingers twist and turn. Wetness slowly drips between my legs and I writhe in delight.
“See how you’re becoming more rosy? How your sweet moist is spreading, making you so, so deliciously wet? I fucking love that.”
He hasn’t even finished the sentence before he slides two fingers inside me. I gasp, as he finds the right spot, the spot that needs those greedy fingers the most. The pressure of his fingers is driving me insane. It feels weird and hot and wonderful and I want to come right then and there.
“Now, you can’t say your cunt isn’t right. Cos this feels right, doesn’t it? The pleasure feels like just the thing you need. Think of the pleasure she gives you. Think of how beautiful she looks when she’s aroused. Now… that’s alright, isn’t it?”
“Oh dear Jesus!” I cry out. I can’t help pushing out and I watch, shuddering as I gush wildly over his hand, straight onto the carpet. He holds me down as my orgasm makes me flail. But still, he keeps fingering my g-spot, and before long, I come again. And again.
After three times, I cry out. “Enough! Enough! You’ve proved your point!”
He chuckles and grins. Fuck him. Fuck that dirty, gorgeous, muscular, shitting perfect bastard. I think I love him.
“I love you.” I whisper, completely exhausted. He picks me up from the chair and carries me to the bed. “I love you too. And you, my dear…” he says, before kissing me passionately… “You need to love yourself.”
And I think I’ll do just that.