1 comments/ 27470 views/ 1 favorites The Mirror By: inkspot72 "Show me how you fuck yourself." That again, I thought. Why is it they always want to see that? All of them, every lover I'd ever had, eventually (or not so eventually) got around to asking to watch me get myself off. Rob was no exception. In fact, he was probably more fascinated with looking at my fingers slide in and out of my cunt than any of them. Thinking back on it, I try to remember just why it was I went along. I think I liked to watch him watching-see him get that inexplicable gaze, see his eyes get all steamy and face get closer and closer until I could feel his breath between my thighs. It was always quick after that. He'd bury his face between my legs and lap at my cunt, slipping his tongue in right along with my fingers, and then roughly pushing my hand away when he couldn't wait to fuck me anymore. THEN I'd get what I liked-or at least what I thought I liked-a good, hard fuck. Of course, the whole time I'd be talking dirty to him, moaning...whatever he liked...whatever any of them liked with the floorshow. I was all over it. In fact, I thought I was having a great time-can't tell you how many orgasms I didn't know I was faking. Don't get me wrong, it did feel really good to play around, get laid...all of it. But every time, I wanted more when it was over. Well, the next morning, after Rob left, my roommate's boyfriend had this look on his face, like he knew...something. Karen had already left for work, so it was just Chris and I in the kitchen. "What are you doing here?" I half-joked. "Told Karen I'd fix that shelf in her closet while she's at work," he said. I must've looked at him like he was crazy (he never did that kind of stuff, just said, "Why don't y'all call the landlord?" if anything came up around the house). "Truth is, though, I wanna see what it is you're doin' to yourself in that bedroom that makes you moan so damn loud. You kept me up all night." I could feel myself flush all over in a wave of hot shame coupled with ... wetness. A sense of embarrassment mixed with exhilaration at the thought of Chris lying awake, listening to me in bed with Rob. I wondered how many times he'd heard me and never said. "Don't just sit there. Say somethin'! Or do somethin'! Hell, you can slap me if you want to-you prob'ly should!" His southern accent was as charming as ever, if you can call it charming. I laughed a little, uncomfortable laugh and tried to play off the real temptation I was feeling. "Guess the walls are pretty thin in this old place," I said softly, not meeting his eyes. "Guess so," he said, staring straight at my face until I met his gaze across the kitchen table. "So? How 'bout it?" "What about Karen?" I asked. I already knew they had an open relationship. They had even invited me to bed with them one night after we'd all been out drinking, but that's a different story. Likewise, he already knew that Rob was about to get his walking papers. We both knew I was just stalling. "Why do men like that so much?" I asked, really thinking the question would surprise him. It didn't though. I think he was waiting on me to ask. "I knew you didn't have a clue what you were doin'!!" "You arrogant son of a bitch! What are you talking about?" I'd always hated guys like Chris! Well, maybe not "hated".... "Whoa-wait! I'm sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded. It's just, well-I've heard a lot of things through that wall, and it all ends up with old Rob snoring and you trying to wake him back up so you can really get off. Just wanted to help, that's all." "I bet. What d' you know? I get off all the time. EVERY time! Sometimes two or three times!! I don't need you to be some kind of sexual missionary! I'm doing just fucking fine." "Prove it," was all he said. Hmmm.... I guess I knew deep down that he was right, or I couldn't take the mixture of anger and embarrassment and arousal that was swimming around in my body about then. "How?" I asked. "Like I said, just show me how you masturbate." I started to walk off, and he laughed a little and said, "Don't worry about it. Happens to a lot of girls your age." "I thought we were going to the bedroom, Chris." For once, I had caught him off-guard. "Oh. All right, then, but not in the bedroom. Right here." "Don't you think the kitchen is a little overdone?" "Not one damn bit," he said. "Now take off your robe." I was wearing a t-shirt and panties underneath. I started to take my top off, too, but he said, "No. I just said the robe," in this way that made me want to do exactly what he said, no matter what it was. "Slide your fingers along the edge of your panties. That's it...all between your legs. Not cold, are ya? Your nipples look as hard as little rocks right now." When he said that, it made them feel all tight. "Roll 'em around real soft between your fingertips. That's it. You like it a little harder, don't you? You'll have to make yourself wait for that." No one had ever talked to me like that, instructed me like that, gotten me to learn how to tease myself. He lifted me onto the countertop, right at the corner, opened two cabinet doors, and put my feet against the tops, my legs spread wide. "Now slip your fingers under your panties from the side, there...see if that pussy's wet yet." I didn't have to put my fingers there to know. I was drenched. I could feel how slippery my cunt lips were getting against the silky panties I was wearing. I could feel, too, how hard my clit was, aching to be touched or even for my legs to squeeze together, enclose it in that pressure-anything! "Can't wait, can ya?" I shook my head, pleading almost, but still waiting for the go-ahead. "See, now? When we get done here, you won't be beggin' for any more. I bet you start fuckin' yourself all the time after this, even when nobody's watchin'." I knew he was right already. He helped me slide my panties off and put my feet back on the open cabinet doors, a mile apart. "Now, you wait right here ... and you can squeeze those big tits as hard as you want while I'm gone, but keep your legs open...that clit's gonna have to wait a little longer." I almost had time to wonder why I was doing this when Chris emerged from the bathroom with my make-up mirror. He pulled a barstool over and put it right between my legs. He reached around my waist to plug in the mirror, set it on the barstool, and angled it perfectly. He took pains to make sure I could see both my face and my cunt in its reflection. He rummaged around in the pantry for a few minutes, but managed to hide the items he had procured behind his back, and then behind the mirror. The mirror reflected the glistening folds of my cunt. I looked at it for the first time as Chris looked on. It was deeply red, shining...open. Thin I caught a glimpse of my face in that mirror. I was wearing the same fascinated expression, the same glazed look I'd seen on Rob's face a dozen times! Chris didn't have that look, though. Just me. He was more like a scientist about the whole thing, or maybe a director. He took something from behind the mirror, but I couldn't see what it was. His arm was in the way. "Lean back a little," he instructed me, "but keep where you can see your pussy real good." I leaned back on my elbows and watched. It was olive oil, and he poured what felt like a cup of it straight onto my clit. I started to moan, but he touched my lips and shook his head-"Just take it." And I did. I watched the clear oil flow over my entire cunt, felt and watched it drip down millimeter by millimeter until it was dripping past my asshole, tickling it. As much of a scientist as Chris had been up to this point, a glimpse in his direction was all it took to see the hard-on he was sporting right then. "Aren't you ready to fuck me yet?" I asked him. "Oh, no. No fucking. It's all you right now. Sit back up and get your fingers all in it." I watched as my own well-manicured fingers slid down my slit, back and forth across my clit, slow and soft at first, but then quicker, in small, gentle circles around and over the little knob. I could see my cunt lips getting redder, fuller. My pussy felt both empty and ready to explode at the same time. Almost reading my mind, Chris handed me his other surprise from the pantry: an emergency candle. "This," I thought, "is and emergency if I've ever seen one!". I rubbed the candle first against the outer folds of my throbbing pussy, letting it press against my clit for just long enough to realize I couldn't wait any more. I slid the candle in against the pulsing resistance of my hole and was grinding it, letting it glide in and out, almost of its own free will. I watched in the mirror as my fingers worked my hard little clit for just a few more strokes while I plunged the thick candle inside me.... Then I felt it: my first real orgasm. It started in hot waves that encircled the candle and spread through my whole body. I went limp, and Chris was right there, half-holding me up. I kissed him deeply, wildly. As the moment passed, I was afraid to move my hands or the candle. It was so tender now. I'd never felt this way before. Chris, ever the scientist, knew exactly what was going on. He tried to experiment a little by running his fingers down my slit and into me, taking the candle gently out before I could close my thighs around his surprisingly well-intentioned hand. I swallowed a couple of times, still riding the waves of the orgasm. When I could speak again, I managed to say, "Guess you were right. I didn't know what I was doing before." He half-smiled, the smug bastard. "Now you're ready for the bedroom," was all he said. We went. The Mirror "I'm here now." A voice full of passion and full of sympathy filled Simone's bedroom as she looked in the mirror above her chest of drawers. She continued trying to fix her long, plain hair hoping the voice was just a product of her imagination. "I'm speaking to you, Simone! I'm here now. Don't you want me here?" "Who's there? What do you want from me?" Simone's eyes widened with fear. Her hands shook out of control while her heart was pounding against her chest so hard and quick she had to use one of her shaky hands to clutch her chest to regain a sense of calm. The voice seemed familiar, yet frightening. Simone felt her way to a chair in her bedroom never taking her eyes off the mirror. She looked around the room quickly. All the furniture, clothing, cosmetics, perfumes, jewelry, and knick-knacks were still in their rightful places. Nothing moved except Simone's thoughts. Her memories. Her ability to analyze the situation. All of which moved swiftly while the room stood still. Simone tried to get up from the chair, but she felt a pair of hands holding her down. This force with the touch of a human being turned her chair to face the mirror. An earthquake sound filled the bedroom as well as the shakiness that accompanied such a destructive energy. Simone was positive that no other human being, house, or city could feel the powerful vibrations that rattled her body to the point where Simone worried if some of the joints in her body would loosen. Simone's hairbrush floated slowly towards her. It began gently brushing her hair. She could feel a hand directing her head either left, right, up, or down depending on which side of her hair it wanted to brush. "What do you want from me? It doesn't seem like you want to hurt me. Just tell me what you want from me." Simone tried to turn around toward the force that brushed her hair. The hands straightened her head towards the mirror and began brushing her hair again. Simone realized at that moment the force that entered her home seemed familiar and gentle. She wondered what would happen if she tried to get up from the chair. Suddenly, she heard a repulsive sound that resembled someone's fingernails dragging across a blackboard. She looked towards the mirror and noticed that words were being written on the glass. She was stunned by the two simple words. It was like the force could read her mind. DON'T MOVE. Without question, she relaxed her body not knowing what to expect from moment to moment. The force continued brushing her hair. It styled her hair into a French twist carefully securing it with bobby pins. "I don't understand. Whoever you are, you spoke to me a few minutes ago. Now, you're writing messages on my mirror. What do you want from me? I appreciate the hairstyle, but damn, why won't you show me who you are? I can't take this…" The force interrupted Simone abruptly. The house shook out of control. Simone fell on the floor crawling backwards towards the bedroom door. The house continued shaking wildly. Simone reached for the doorknob. Although, the shaking of the house seemed to be over-powering she held onto the doorknob without letting go. Instantly, the house stood still. No movement. No sound. The stillness was nerve wrecking. Holding onto the doorknob, Simone pulled herself up. She stood quietly. The silence gnawed at her mind like a dog protecting its territory from strangers. Only her eyes moved searching the bedroom. She settled her sight on the canopy bed she slept on for over five years. The light blue satin sheets helped ease her mind. They were familiar. Calming. Enchanting. Simone sighed with relief hoping the mysterious force had left her home. She leaned back against the door in a relaxed manner. All of a sudden, she heard a voice say, "You know who I am. And you know what I want from you. I miss you." The voice had a more smooth tone to it. Very human. Very real. Not full of vibration and thunder that had frightened her only moments ago. "Ever since my death, you've been calling for me. Your mind, heart, and spirit have been beckoning me back into your life. That's why I'm here, Simone. I didn't mean to frighten you, but I just had to see you again. Look at me, little girl." Simone was startled by the request, but she threw caution to the wind and slowly brought her eyes upward to meet the eyes of her lovely mother, Camille. The smile on Camille's face draped her in a warmth and peace she hadn't felt in years. At the age of fifty, Camille died of a gunshot wound to the head when she and her younger sister were having an argument about money that was stolen from Camille's home. Her sister, Dora Lee was a drug addict and died soon after Camille from an overdose of heroin. Simone was twenty years old. "Mama, why did you scare me like that? I thought I was losing my mind. I guess, I am in some ways. I've missed you so much." "You don't know how sorry I am." "Sorry? For what, Mama? You didn't do anything wrong. You were only trying to help Aunt Dora." "That's not what I mean. I'm sorry that I didn't come over to your house the night you called me. Remember what you told me that night?" "No, I don't remember." "You told me that you wanted me to come over to your house immediately. You had a feeling something bad was going to happen to me. I laughed at you and told you I was doing fine. Five minutes after we hung up the phone, I had that argument with Dora Lee. Now, here I am…dead. I should've listened to you, Simone." "Forgive yourself, mama. I never held that against you. I just miss being with you." Camille held Simone in her arms. The smell of her Liz Clairborne perfume brought back so many memories of their relationship. Camille kissed her slowly on the cheek trying to savor the feel of her daughter's skin. Camille longed for the day she would be able to see her little girl again. "It's time for me to go, Simone. You know I love you, little girl." "I love you too, mama. Good-bye," she hated speaking those words. Good-bye. "I'll watch over you. I promise." Simone smiled while her eyes filled with tears. Perhaps now she would be able to find peace in her sleep at night. Noticing a sound, she turned towards the mirror. The words were written with Simone's mahogany lipstick. I'M ALWAYS HERE. The Mirror They were naked and alone in the bedroom with the lights dim; Lily and Liam had just come from the shower, he was tenderly drying her ivory white shoulders and back, leaving a trail of kisses along her neck. Together they were standing before the mirror. Lily had looked up and caught Liam's eye, she smiled her sultry grin at him, and said to him, "I love you." Liam looked at her reflection and told her to look in the mirror, to see what had captured his heart. Playfully, Lily reached behind her back and clasped her hand around Liam's swollen shaft and said, " I have caught you. Now you are mine!" With a most serious look on his face, Liam looked at Lily in the mirror. His hands closed around her exposed bosom, his nimble fingers, teasing Lily's nipples to attention. He leaned into her from behind and she felt his hard body pressed to hers; Lily moaned softly as she felt Liam's engorged cock nestled in the crack of her ass. Lily was transfixed watching Liam as he kissed the top of her head. She tilted her head back and then he kissed her nose and moved his lips to her ear. Lily felt as though Liam was inhaling her. She pressed back into his strong welcome arms and in his soft, deep, clear voice he whispered to Lily, "I love you darling." Lily shivered and he pinched her rosy nipples hard. Lily was getting turned on and could feel her pussy getting wet. Liam's cock throbbed he held her tight against his chest and groin. She wanted to close her eyes, to lose herself in the moment, but couldn't. Her every thought was on Liam. Lily watched him, absorbed all of him. Her breasts were full and aroused yearning for more of his attention. Liam knew this and attended to them with vigor. She swallowed hard, whispering to him, " I need you.... now!" Liam pushed Lily against the dressing table, placed her hands on the edge, and pulled her hips back to him. In the mirror, Lily watched Liam's every touch, she felt his cock hot and hard between her legs, it brushed against Lily's wet pussy lips and the tip of his hard cock teased her clit as he eased back and forth. Liam flashed a smile as he looked down and saw his cock was slick with her juices. In a fluid motion he started kissing down the length of Lily's back, down her spine, one vertebrae at a time. Soft, wet kiss after soft wet kiss, Liam's fingers, strummed her clit. Lily was not sure what melody he was playing, but knew he was strumming the notes from a song. His fingers teasing, flicking, dipping and strumming Lily's chest heaving with desire. Lily could no longer see Liam in the mirror, only her own reflection and the effect he was having on her. Lily felt his tongue, wet and wide, lick down from the top of her ass. His fingers continued to play, she felt one strong hand grab an ass cheek, and pull it to one side. Liam moved over her body like a soft blanket; touching her, warming her. Liam's tongue in tiny circles wound around Lily's pink ring, ever increasing in pressure and depth as she pushed back and watched; her face turned from lustful to wanton. Lily nearly melted as she heard him growl, and his tongue pressed in deeper. Her mouth open and breathing hard, Lily pushed back, and griped the edge of the table. She ground hard back against his open hungry mouth as his fingers persistent and timed strummed at her cunt and engorged clit. Suddenly, a low animal-like cry gurgled up from her throat, Lily felt heady and weak, her body grew rigid. At once, Lily began to cum. She looked up and saw Liam's smiling eyes over her shoulder, felt his cock poised at her ass, she leaned back against him, willfully surrendering to his need. His arms wrapped around her and she moaned in pleasure as his hardness eased into her. Lily's anus accepted him, her body wracked with orgasm as he buried himself deeply inside her, embracing her. Liam fucked her now, steady and hard, the string of orgasms continuous and rapid-fire, coursed through her being. Lily's gaze locked on Liam, he held her as he fucked her. "Oh darling, it is transcendent and we are one." He held Lily so tightly she could hardly breathe, his cock buried deep within her. Liam's cock throbs; then erupts. She shudders from the intense heat of his gushing cum, her ass gripping him. Lily is breathless and spent. "Oh, my darling," he whispered into her ear, "how you make me feel so alive." He blankets her shoulder with soft sweet kisses, then slowly they move to the edge of the bed and he pulls her into the bed with him. They cuddle, locked together in an unbelievable embrace of tenderness and love. The Mirror You may wonder just what it is that I get from this rather lonely and some might say somewhat pathetic composing of erotic stories. Some would also query the sanity of a respectable, well within the society I mix, mother of 37, actually 38 but I'm not up to admitting to that yet, submitting them to Literotica. Many might consider that spending time dredging one's memory and giving flight to one's imagination in the ways that I do to, not only be a waste of time but also, be slightly deviant, maybe. I know that, certainly for me, it has brought something to my life and, probably sounding a little pompous and self-justifying, it has enriched me as a person. I am a fairly introverted type that finds being the centre of attraction rather difficult and talking about personal matters with people I don't know very well even more so. I never was really very outward, promiscuity had little appeal and I didn't used to get close to others very readily. I would never have said that I was a particularly erotic sort of woman for I had never really read such material, porn movies leave me cold and I had never really spoken much of such matters. That was until I found the web! Now on here and, to an extent, in my real life as well things are different. I can now write about practically any topic, and I'm sure that you have probably come across as many weirdoes as I have to now realize the many, many facets of sex and sexuality!! I can open up, be forward, initiate things and get involved quite quickly with people in my writing. I can compose the most graphically intimate accounts and feel totally able to describe my experiences in the minutest detail I feel, in a way, that I can tell the world anything about me via this media and the Literotica website. But there is more than that involved in this. Composing seems to have freed me from the social conditioning that influences most people and, particularly, women of my age. Until recently the idea of thinking, acting, speaking and writing in an erotic way would never have occurred to me. In fact I most likely would have totally rejected it as a stupid notion fit only for girls with a rather perverted way of looking at things. You see my conditioning was such that "nice girls don't think that way." Boy have I got news for them!!! I actually enjoy it. I like talking and writing about sex. I get a kick from thinking of things from an erotic viewpoint. Well on here I do, I'm not sure that real life is ready for me yet. But even there I have recently taken to dressing more overtly sexily. Tighter clothes, more buttons undone, lower tops, sexier underwear and so on. And, particularly when visiting ad agencies to get briefs or to deliver work I have found myself responding more to the overtly politically incorrect attitudes of the, mainly male, creative directors that I deal with. A little flash of slightly too much leg, forgetting to adjust my top when I have been leaning forward taking a brief and holding their gazes when previously I would have dropped my eyes. Not I hasten to add because I want to pull them for I do live by the ad industry maxim of never fuck a client. No, I think it is just a need now to find some expression of the emerging erotic side of my nature. So you can see some of the effects that this involvement has helped bring about but I need to come back to the original point that I posed, what do I get out of it? And now I am going to be totally honest, brutally frank, extremely open and, later, highly descriptive. Before I do, though, some background is probably necessary to provide you with a more intimate knowledge of me. Thirty eight in chronological years but still a teenager with some attitudes I am a naturally trusting and probably rather gullible type of person. I am attracted to people quite easily and can passionately form a like or dislike of someone based upon the slimmest of associations. A gesture, a phrase, an act of kindness, some witty remark or a flash of brilliant thought and I can adore them. Signs of arrogance or conceit, being a pseud, taking themselves too seriously or being hurtful towards others and they become my pet hate. And I rarely change that initial impression. Wrong and silly maybe but that's me, intuitive, spontaneous and impulsive. Quick to reach decisions, hasty with views and often far too outspoken with what I think are clever remarks that I have been called a smartarse so many times that I think it's probably true. So add that to the debit side of the Mandy balance sheet. I absolutely love intelligence and brightness but only when accompanied by wit and a down to earth attitude. Someone that can solve problems, get beneath the surface of issues and see situations from unexpected angles but do not do this with pomposity do things to me. A truly insightful remark and I begin to melt. Link this with an analytical mind and a brightness of thought and I feel my resistance waning and their attraction growing. When wit and style and a sense of irony are also present my knickers are ready to come off at no more than a raising of an eyebrow, if he is that much energy! Emotionally that's the summation of me. Yes a little unstable, yes a bit of a thrill seeker, yes turned on by unexpected things but no I don't have many relationships. An absence of that sort of man maybe? No an absence of the ability to any more commit myself to a man. The hurt of a sham of a 13 year marriage leaves scars. Scars that are so deep that I feel totally unable to place any trust in a man, make any form of emotional commitment to him for fear that I will become dependant on him. " Ok," you may, "say, so what?" Well the problem is that without some form of emotional involvement I find sex depressing, disappointing and generally unfulfilling. I've tried. Boy how I've tried. Both within my marriage and since it. But for me the remorse and the feelings of guilt and self-demeaning are so powerful that they massively outweigh any joy and pleasure I may have received. Yes my mornings after are something to witness. It's the classic Catch 22 isn't it? I want sex but I want it without strings. And without strings I can't enjoy it. What a bitch eh? Something had to give. And that something is the sex. So I've given it up. Along with that has gone dating and any from of intimacy or closeness with men. I'm a six month celibate now. That doesn't mean I don't need sex. Not at all. I actually crave it. Not a day for sure and rarely an hour passes without some sexual thought coming, (oh shit that word!) into my mind. Imagining be held, kissed, touched and caressed. Having feelings of being cuddled by a man. Lying with him in bed. Feeling his hands and mouth on me. Feeling him, his roughness, his hairy body and his hardness. Holding that hardness, having it pressed against me. Yes I get such thoughts so frequently. Not a day goes by without me being fucked in my mind. Ok that's a bit about the emotional mess called Mandy. So physically? Five feet six from the balls of my size five feet to the flattened crown of my naturally, but now helped a little, chestnut, coloured hair. I am ample in proportions. Good word that, ample, when used to describe a woman's figure. Ample = sufficient but not too much. It means there's enough but not a surplus. See what I mean? Get it? Agree with it? Seen my pic on my profile? Certainly not sticklike and by no means having a boyish figure I could easily in years to come be mother earth in appearance. The weight is increasing, the thickening on the hips and the bot is starting and, of course the sag has begun with those appendages on my chest. Fortunately no signs of cellulite, yet, but I keep looking with the dread we women approaching forty live with every day! So let's start at the top, review the features and work our way down shall we? Hair? Now this is probably more than ample. Some say my crowning glory but others are honest and award that plaudit to my tits. Thick and quite lustrous, there is a lot of it, hair that is not tits, although looking down I'm not so sure about those either when we talk ample. I like it long and thick, no funny interpretations here. So it's down to my shoulders and is usually worn that way. Loose and tumbling, a cascade of chestnut tresses, a mass of deep brown locks, so much nicer I think when falling onto a man's stomach and it hides what one is doing with one's mouth. Shit, what am I saying, strike that, get out the censors blue pencil as I wash my mouth and purify my thoughts. And enough of it to be worn up when stylish and elegant is required, yes I can do those but mostly I don't. Relaxed and informal is my preference. Moving on. Brown eyes to go with the hair. Now these aren't bad even if I say it myself. Quite large and sometimes a little staring, particularly when I run out of contacts, I've been accused of leering at men or looking too intently at them. Totally untrue. I probably just didn't even see them for I'd forgotten my lenses! When I was back in the game, that is in the game of dating as opposed to on the game for that has never really appealed to me, I would hate the unsocial hours, I have been trying recently to learn how to smoulder with my eyes. You know drive a man wild with desire for me with just one stare. Trouble is when I do it looks as I am half winking at him and half as though I've got something in my eye. Perhaps I should leave the bra off instead and wear see through tops, it doesn't work with smouldering. Nose? A bit nondescript and a physical object of mine about which I have little feelings or emotions. Hard to get worked up about a splodge on your face unless it's like Barry Manilow's isn't it so let's move on? Down or sideways? Let's do cheeks. A bit podgy is how I feel about them, a little Miss Piggy or Ruby Wax. Nothing especially endearing but then not an eyesore I consider. They do their job whatever that is? Ever wondered why we have them? I haven't so I won't bother your inquisitiveness now. Quite smooth though and pleasantly sensitive they do have nice, although quite subtle, curves so I imagine close up they could appeal to people that are into shapes and arcs, welders perhaps? Ok the mouth. Full of teeth with few fillings, if a vet looked at mine as they do a horse I would probably escape being put down. Despite the ravages of coffee, too much red wine and Marlboros they are still respectably white and not badly shaped. No Dracula fangs or overshoot there. So I'm not frightened to open my mouth although I often do find the strangest objects, like feet, in there. No I'm not a toe sucker, but then I won't knock it for I've rarely tried it. Its quite big I think and I know that size doesn't really matter but I guess if there only two sizes I'd opt for large as opposed to standard or economy. And around it are the lips. Here I am conceited for I think I have winners there. Full and nicely shaped with a neat little dip in the centre of the top one I hope they exude a passionate nature. They do say that thin ones signify being cold and hard. If that's the case then mine suggest hot and soft and that may well be true. Like the referral to hot? Is that blooded, is it a pseudonym for being sexy, available or horny? Some pondering there perhaps, for me as well as you I imagine. I like my lips. I like other lips on them and a finger or, especially a tongue, being gently drawn across them. They are sensitive and tactile, malleable and expressive, I think. They are responsive. Those that have kissed them fully and passionately will be testament to that but then you will never know who they are so you'll have to take my word for it. They fit round other's lips easily and other things as well in the right circumstances. You know swigging from a bottle, blowing up a balloon and that sort of thing. Hmmm a little suggestive there so quickly onwards and downwards. Neck's a little short but no tell tale age wrinkles there and nothing much more to add, for Christ's sake it's only a bloody neck. So let's get interesting shall we? Shoulders perhaps? Collar bones maybe? Ribcage, no way. Ok let's do the tits. It's probably what you've been waiting for, isn't it? Be truthful. You've seen the photo, the impressive (fair use of the word I hope) bulges and the hint of the nipples. The suggestion of ampleness and the curve from the waist outward into the flair of my bosom, what a word. Do I have a bosom or is that reserved to describe really big ones, udders, the sort that Italian mammas beget after the umpteenth child? No I might have a chest, boobs or tits or, as it was described to me quite illustratively I thought the other day "a nice rack," but please not a bosom OK? Here I am certain that ample is the correct description. In some ways I think they are more than that, you should try running with two big swinging lumps on your chest. It bloody well hurts! And trying to perfect a golf swing with them in the way is a nightmare, not that the coaches I've had seem to worry too much. "No you get your arms like this," they say standing behind me and holding them above my shoulders. Get the picture? Two boobs straining against a thin golf shirt his arms brushing the sides of the offending articles. Actually sounds quite inviting with the right coach!! Nice to the touch, well to mine at least and it's, me, who by far gets most touches nowadays, bugger it!! Nicely smooth, soft and warm, I like them and they also seem to like me. When I treat them well and look after them they give me the nicest feelings and we get on famously and, you know, it's funny, but the more I do look after them so the more intense are the feelings. But, and this is a big but and an important one, they do have this embarrassingly irritating habit of misbehaving by sticking their heads up when that's not needed but more of that later. Ok let's dispense with the technical bit. 35 to 36 between C and D. No that's not me being unable to make my mind up, it's them. They just don't seem to be able to make their mind up whether to be a meaty 36 D or a miniscule, by comparison, 35C. And boy does that play havoc with bra selection. With some there seems to be oodles of flesh spilling out of the tops, and sides and bottom as well come to that, yet with others they are demurely fully enclosed. This can cause me problems. You know you get to that bit with a man when the blouse comes undone or the top is taken off and the woman sees his enjoyably, lustful gaze at her bra encased cargo. When I'm in a 35 C bra and if they have decided to go into their 36 D mode then I'm everywhere and I wonder just what he thinks? Is she trying to exaggerate them, show them off or be a real come on? Maybe he thinks I've only got one bra? Daft of course for I've got at least two, one of each size! So size here, I believe and fervently hope the men I shall meet in the future, maybe, also agree, does matter even if it can cause me problems. Now should I provide further description, or will that just be blatant titillation? And if so, will that be for me, the writer or, you the reader? Maybe it will be tit for tat with the titillation about my tits. Clever eh? Oh sod it I like the titillation almost as much as the tits so lets have some tit and some tat. Let's go for it. Hold on as I get them out so I can look closely to gain descriptive inspirations. Mmmm that's quite nice, topless typing, a new craze maybe? Why not? Perhaps offices should promote the idea, liven them up wouldn't it but in this PC crazy world I don't think so do you? Slightly more than a decent handful, a man's size that is, in girth and width they are quite soft and spill out of hands, whether they be of male or female gender, when pressed or gently squashed. Nicely tanned at the moment there are no unsightly white bits just differing shades of light brown although, on close inspection, there is a thin strip on the underneath that is almost white. Obviously to see that I have to lift them up and my guess is that they weigh around a pound and half each. There is, and I have to be honest here, a little sag, and that probably accounts for that white strip. A combination of bearing a child, size, laziness with ante natal and age they are nowhere near the upright citizens they once were. That, together with their insistence on continuing to grow, I was 32 B before I had Sarah 14 years ago suggesting 38/9 inches and well into a E or even F by the time I'm 50! Fuck me that's frightening!! So, if you're into udders hang around, like they undoubtedly will be, but probably my waist. This means burning my bra is just not on any more. I used to go braless and I used to enjoy it but my nipples were often unkind for they would leap to attention at always the wrong moments. And they still do as I hinted at earlier. Meeting a client for the first time, chatting to the hostess at a dinner party or talking to one of Sarah's teachers is not the most appropriate moment to have two organ stopper like lumps leaping out from your dress is it? Why they do it I have no idea for it isn't always a sign of arousal? Shit they're doing it now. They must have heard me talking about them for surely the fact that I have been idly stroking my boobs and the tips of my nipples have been grazing on the desk wouldn't have done that, would it? So I have to be a covered up girl nowadays but with the gossamer like thinness of modern mammary support architecture that doesn't matter for they can still very obviously make their mark when they feel like it. Anyway back to the point, well the two actually, in question. They are nicely rounded, full and stuffed with wonderfully sensitive nerve ends that react so easily to most any form of stimulation. Other than as the provider of sustenance for babies perhaps that is their main purpose, the giving of pleasure. No other reason for them that I can think of, can you? And boy do they give pleasure! Both to me and to my partners, well theoretically to them for not many in recent times have been there. They do though create a nice shape that can relieve the boredom on the journey from shoulder to waist and make that area aesthetically appealing to the eye don't they? So what else can I tell you about them? Oh yes those bits on the end. Those rubbery-like protuberances, those things that leap up and down. Nipples I believe they are known as. Pink of course, not that unsightly dark brown and quite large without being enormous, they have a nice hillock in the middle even when not playing up. It's a very obvious hillock that, as I've mentioned, has the ability to change. A touch, the cold, a thought and many other things really can turn molehills into mountains quicker than a flash of a gnat's eye. And when in a mountain mode they seem to assume a degree of sensitivity out of all proportion to their size. So they adore attention and they do seem to attract it both visually and physically. Slipping down a little, if I can get them out of the way and look beneath them and, by the way, it's quite a nice view from here, even if I do say it myself. Get down you mountains go back to your molehill mode please, so we can see the waist. Not bad in inches but so much more of it than there once was. Probably 26", well and a half inch but I always lie about that, it does provide a nicely indented area between "them" and the hips that we'll come onto (oops, wishful thinking perhaps!) later. The problem is that, although that is still manageable, the bits below don't seem to be so easily containable. On this global tour of Mandy we'll combine a number of features here and cover those in one go. Waist, tummy, hips and bum. All together now, waist, tummy, hips and bum. Waist tummy, hips and bum. Like a mantra for doing aerobics isn't it? My most womanly features I've been told. But then I never believe a man when he has his hand up my skirt, old fashioned I know but that's just me. The tummy does bulge a little, let's face it, (and some do like to face it, and about that I seem to be powerless, the bulge that is not the facing it, even though, thinking back to the last time it was faced, I was pretty powerless to do much about that either). Not too much, nothing massive or overly unsightly, but enough to make me think that in years to come that might meet the udders coming from the other direction to create one mass of overblown flesh. Ugh what a thought! Still, back to the present. It's there, it does bulge a little but not too much and I can live with it. I can also live with the hips. Certainly overpadded and with the hint of love handles I claim a respectable 35 but when probed will admit to 36 and, if the probing is particularly skilful, I lose all of my inhibitions and open up completely to an outrageous 37. Ok, so we know they are not svelte and nobody in their right mind would describe me as being slender hipped and I doubt that I would want them to. So I'd better check them out now hadn't I? OK trousers undone and off let's look at these lumps and bumps. Nice little black thong, nothing sexy or silky just comfortable M & S cotton. It does, though, seem to get rather swamped by the two other lumps that are usually called, individually cheeks, and I have no idea why, for they are nothing like the other pair that we discussed earlier are they? And on that point neither are the other lips like the aforementioned so why call them that? I'm sure someone could think of a more appropriate name for them. Perhaps we should have a competition? Your starter for 10. Name the two things that surround that interesting crease to the rear of a person's body? Or come up with a more appropriate term for the flesh that surrounds a woman's most intimate place. Think it would work? Is it a goer? Anyway together they form the bum, the arse or, in Amercanese, the asse or butt and, when being demure, the bottom or when literal the anus. So many terms aren't there? Lucky thing to have such a variety of names. The Mirror Looking at them various descriptions come to mind. Rounded, voluptuous, rotund, curvy, I can take. Big, bloated, floppy and oversized I can't, so choose your words carefully. It and/or they does or do, though, wobble nicely when I move particularly nowadays when it has become de rigeur to wear thongs, especially under tight trousers, and I do like to be de rigeur, presumably that means wearing little? And that I'm doing right now for my garb is just that M & S cotton jobby. Bit sexy actually sitting here typing having undressed to my panties and talking about my womanly bits. Mmmm, nice! Just what is it with bums and thongs that has such an attraction? To men and women I have to admit. The bot is the thing I look for in my men. Forget the pecs, ignore the biceps, disregard the muscular chest, give me a nice firm bum anytime and I can play for hours. As it seems men can look and ogle and, when really lucky, play for hours with a bum, quite a toy really isn't it? And their attitude towards a thong is amazing. Is it that they are small and don't cover much? Is it the way that the slither of material is gobbled up by the cheeks and vanishes between them as it makes its journey to the place that all men want to visit and get into? Maybe it's that by a woman wearing such a miniscule garment she gives off a message to him? Whatever it is they seem to like them and so we wear them for our men, even though having that strip of material between your cheeks all day can be a bloody uncomfortable, a bit like having piles I imagine. But then to please our men and to look how fashion says we should, who cares about discomfort, or piles come to that? So the bit between waist and whatsit is, as most of me, ample. No argument there. Ample but proportionate. In tune with the rest of me. So let examine the front. We've looked at and worried over the bulge so let's follow that towards its inevitable conclusion. Tapering downward and sharpening into a V it plunges into that little triangle of such interest and intrigue behind which lies the area of, excitement and, some say, ultimate pleasure. "Shaved or trimmed," is the daft question oft asked in chat rooms? Oft, but not the most frequently asked I have to say. I have a little hit parade of those. "Shaved or ....?" slips in at number four. "What are you wearing and are you alone?" eases equally into three. "What colour panties are you wearing?" slides its annoying nature in at number two. And standing proudly upright and thrusting its undisputed way in at number one is "Are you feeling horny?" I rarely answer them in chat but as we are friends and I'm in a giving mood the answers in the above order are. Lightly trimmed, An M &S thong and yes, black and I might well be! What lies beneath is clearly something of an incredibly intimate nature and a topic that obviously nice girls don't discuss. So, buster, what do you want to know? Joke actually. Heavily underused of late, but always ready when needed, I find it hard to describe such a personal place largely because I have little comparative visual information upon which to base a description. After all It's not often that girls say "I'll show you mine if you show me yours," and they do not, as men's' do, stand out that obviously when naked, so shower peeping doesn't help too much does it? All right I have been up close and personal to couple of them but in those circumstances I was hardly likely to be thinking, "mine is different to that, was I?" So a reasonable description of how mine rates against others is difficult. Suffice it to say I've had no complaints. It does the job it was intended for competently and, at a stretch, it has always been accommodating to those that have visited it in all its dampish glory, it can take all that's offered to it. Well it has so far but it's never been really tested yet for it's never had to cope with a full ten incher. Mmmm the mind boggles at the thought. Careful Mandy, careful. So moving on. Let's deal with the problem area. The thighs. Now these do give me concern, particularly when a fingertip is run up them. Funny isn't it when it's your own fingertip it's never quite as nice is it? I can confirm that right now! OK the problem. A little too much of them is that. Too much flesh on the inside and a small surplus outside. Not to alarming amounts, of course. Not to the extent that they cause difficulty when opening and they don't rub together, well not much, when I walk. And certainly they never seem to have difficulty accommodating what they need to between them. And of course not to the extent that they reduce their suppleness, they can still wrap round anything that they want to! But that 14 inches of soft, smooth skin, between knee and groin, and yes I've just measured it, is not all I'd like it to be. Same goes really for the bit beneath my knees, and the knees as well!! Sod it I can't describe them, I hate them and want to have a double knee transplant, skin and all. Do they do that in the US? So overall the legs leave a lot to be desired. I always think they look better, though, when I am lying down than standing up for then the excess seems to merge into the bed and thus any onlookers, hopefully, misses it. Perhaps their attention might be taken up by something else for when lying on a bed I guess, normally, I would not have too much on in the way of clothing. I rarely sleep clothed and if with onlookers I tend not to be on the bed until a fair level of intimacy has been reached. Oh shit, here I go again, living in the past, I don't do that nowadays do I? Maybe I should get back into those games. The thought of it is quite, er, stimulating as I sit here in just that little thong. So there you go dear reader. Mandy in all her glory, well almost for I still have a little bit hidden by the pouchy front of the thong and modesty prevented me for giving descriptions of what lies beneath that. Suffice it to say that I do not have a designer job. I can't really believe that women have cosmetic surgery on THAT, but equally, I can't really understand why any man would want to look at it either. Touch it, stroke it, kiss it or lick it maybe but to gaze at pictures of those slimy petal-like creases of skin seems odd to me. Isn't it really a case of seen one seen 'em all? Not of course being an expert at gazing at other women lying with their legs open my opinion is not based on too much observation just gut feel I suppose. Have I rambled too much or is there more to come, and well there may be, more to come that is!!! Let me just have a quick check over this, nearly naked, ageing body spread out in the big leather chair in front of the PC. No from tip to toe I think I've covered it. All the bits in between, from the hillocks in the North to the valleys further South, the mounds and the openings, the curves and the bends its all been touched on and faithfully recorded. So that's a travelogue around Mandy, I hope you liked it. So, after what may well have been one of the longest diversions you've ever read, back to the point of this. Is there one? What the hell was it? Oh yes, "What do I get out of my erotic writings?" Not to put too fine a point on it, it's masturbation! And here you need to take my word for it that for women to masturbate to a successful climax is nowhere near as easy as it is for men. We seem to need a little more than a naked picture or just the desire to be able to do this to a pleasurable and satisfying ending. Odd and strange I know but it's just another of the many differences there are between the genders when it comes to sex!! I rarely, even as a teenager, played with myself much. Later with my husband I would do it in front of him but I don't really count that, as it was part of our lovemaking. Even when Kevin was away on trips I hardly ever indulged myself other than during phone conversations with him but again that does not count as a planned and calculated act of "self-abuse," using horrible and probably inappropriate words. Since my new erotic awakening, however, things have changed. I now have the facilities that I need to arouse me to the level where I wish to do it and can start with the confidence that I shall probably finish successfully. And I usually do, succeed that is! And of course with celibacy being my guiding light there's the need as well. I told you that not a day passes without me being fucked at least once in my mind. So that's the honest, frank and open bits out of the way, ready for the descriptive part? As you know I am an avid writer and you will now have had a taste of the style and descriptiveness of my composition. I'm usually at my most prolific when Sarah is out, particularly overnight, and that's what I consider to be my special times! I may have had an early dinner, showered, washed my hair and attended to all those age battling things that vain women indulge in. Usually dressed merely in a long, silk, turquoise robe that does up just with a tie around my waist, I may sit down at the PC. Possibly to continue with a story that's in production or maybe to create a new one. Maybe an account of one of my experiences, a description of a fantasy or the creation of a story that usually involves me and is based on something that's happened to me in the past. Sipping probably too much white wine I will lose myself in the story until I realise that not only the glass but probably the first bottle as well is empty. Walking, maybe a little unsteadily, to the kitchen for essential supplies I will on both the way there and returning pass the full-length mirror on the wall in the short hallway. Oh the vainness that I have about myself when alone. Seeing my reflection I will stop and let my gaze roam across the vision that could almost be another person. As I stand and stare at the reflection from different angles so it's as if my mind has left my body and what I see in the mirror is someone else. It's not me it's a reflection of a ghost of a past occupier of this apartment perhaps? I will see the tight fitting gown molded to the body accentuating the curves and mounds of the regrettably enlarging breasts and hips. The lapels that may have slipped apart a little so that most of each, slightly sagging I note with some anguish, breast can be clearly seen. The thrusting bumps of the two nipples pushing through the silk as they signal their explosion from sensations. And poking out like a long flash of vividly arousing flesh will be one of the, quite shapely I think, legs that has separated the skirt of the gown. Almost as with a mind of their own that remarkable life-like ghost's hands will probably fumble the tie undone and the gown will fall open. The nakedness staring me in the face is like a blazing beacon. I will see the swell of each breast with the glaring pinkness of the engorged nipples emphasising the arousal and demanding attention. The tummy plunging down from the, rather unfortunate, slight swell that is the constant reminder of being a mother to the triangle of light hair covering on the pubis mound beneath which the glistening pinkness of the most evident arousal will be obvious. Smiling to that person in the mirror I will see the hands touching the body. Cupping the breasts, stroking the smooth skin and weighing the fullness of each orb in the palms of the hands. The fingers will find the nipples. They will roll them between finger and thumb and they will squeeze, quite hard. Both she and I will react to this and I will see the mouth fall open and the head go back a little. I will feel the explosion of new feelings as my nipples respond to the pressure. I will feel my womanly juices go into free flow and a warmth, starting down near that little triangle of hair, will flood through my body just as they do to that woman in my mirror. How the fuck did she get in there I wonder as I watch her enjoying her large, soft tits just as I enjoy mine? Becoming more energetic I will see the hands, almost roughly, gripping the soft fullness of each breast as, in my mind the description of those mounds that have so much appeal to men and to women when in the condition that I will now be in, changes. Now I will not think of them with a delicacy of expression. They will cease being breasts and I will see those hands rolling the two tits together making them almost as one. Now on a roller coaster of sensations and with a certainty that there will be only one outcome to this, the hands of that intruder in my mirror will see become more adventurous. One still stimulating that most sensitive of parts, those deliciously squashy and pliable tits, the other will slip downward towards the place that now most needs them. Pressing, probing and sliding the fingers will seek and find with no hesitation that most sensitive little piece of gristle that snuggles so coyly between the folds of the silky smooth lips that I will note are reassuringly wet with my own excretions. The thighs clasped around the hand, the fingers working between them I will see the eyes in the mirror closing, the breasts starting to heave and the other hand squeezing as the fingernails combine a little pain with enormous pleasure by digging into the so sensitive flesh and pulling the nipples out to a length that's so unexpected. The gown will have fallen to the floor. Total nakedness is needed, it's essential. The body in the mirror will be writhing against the hands that are doing so much to it. Arousing it further, creating new and even more wonderful feelings, stimulating sensations and emotions that only a woman in the throes of a self-induced orgasm can know about. I might see that body, inflamed with feelings, slide slowly to the floor. I'll probably realize that the woman is moving towards the final stages of what she demands with every part of her being, a full and powerfully, satisfying sexual climax. The breasts, no they're tits now aren't they, will wobble enticingly accentuating their soft fullness as she lies on the floor her back resting against a wall. I will see the legs opening, the knees rising and the glaring scarlet slash of her glistening womanhood will stare at me with such an inviting stance. Beneath that there will be the, now squashed to the floor, two mounds of her bottom with the interestingly sensitive crease between them that will play no part in this lovemaking for that is reserved for others to explore. Oh yeah? When's that then? No, what she and I will do, will be vaginal based. It will be concentrated on that area. Not inside, well not very far, but around the lips, alongside each one and on, especially, around the clitoris. No penis substitute is needed. Penetration is not required to bring about what is now so urgently demanded. So the fingers in the mirror will trace their way around those lovely lips, on and around the labia and the vulva, arousing even more the clitoris. But again, my mind now racing with sexual anticipation, will dispense with subtle language. It will forget its use of ladylike words. Disregard the social conventions imposed on women and do away with trying to appear coy. The body writhing naked on the hallway floor is not that of a lady. The figure with heaving breasts and open thighs staring at the wanton reflection is not a prude. The hands between the, almost lewdly, spreaded thighs are stroking and probing parts of her that no female with any prudish aspirations would ever reveal in such an obvious way for only one purpose, sexual self-gratification. No that woman has now put herself outside social conventions. She's gone beyond discretion and now has no thoughts of "proper behaviour" or the use of "nice words." So she will still be playing with her tits but now her fingers will not be stroking her labia. No they will now be rubbing her pussy, probing and pressing on her cunt. Oh what a sexually evocative word that is when used at the appropriate times. She will not be masturbating but she will be wanking herself. This is not about simulating making love or having sex. That woman is fucking herself, she is having an intimate and very personal fuck with herself using her fingers on her pussy, her hands on her tits and both on her cunt. Oh yes the basic words will flow in my mind as that woman in my mirror and I enjoy our mutual wank. But then the final waves of feelings begin to build up in me. Those familiar but every time unexpectedly powerful sensations will start to move more quickly through me filling every part of my body. It's as though I have a very strong tingle, almost like pins and needles everywhere. My body bucks and writhes as part of me wants it to go on forever and the other demands a relief. A cessation of the feelings, an overcoming of the incredible tenseness that is pervading me yet, at the same time, a wish that I could ride on this roller coaster of sensations for evermore. The woman in the mirror has gone now. My mind does not have the sexual panorama to cope with her and me. My focus has to be more individual, more intense and more on what I'm doing. Yes my focus has to be on my fingers that are on my cunt not a fucking ghost's in a mirror During this period when everything comes together in a crescendo of sensations and emotions a woman is out of control. Her mind has lost all reason and thought. There is only one thing in the world that she needs and that is for the orgasm to flood her and to give her the sexual relief that both her body and mind so demand. And that I do in front of that mirror on the floor of my hallway. Naked and completely given over to sex I fuck myself as I think of what I've been composing. So there you have it. An explanatory, blunt and open and, I hope, enjoyable and maybe arousingly (?), graphic description of one of the things that I am after from my composing. Unladylike? Of course. Unusual? For sure. Self-centered? Naturally and why not? But honest and true I assure you. By the way where's that turquoise, silk gown and mirror right now?