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?