Furious Delight

The recent lockdown was tough. I work in theatre so I was out of work; my parents live in the highlands so it hasn’t been easy to see them. I live alone so I’ve been totally bored out of my brain. And I’m single so I spent every day of the lockdown incredibly and insatiably horny. And trust me when I tell you, when this wee lass is horny, she needs a *lot* of pleasing.

Before the lockdown started, I bought a full-length mirror for my bedroom. It’s been propped against the wardrobe, across from the foot of my bed, waiting for Da or my big brother to come over and hang it on the wall for me. I woke up on the first morning of the lockdown and I sat up in bed. There was the mirror, opposite me. My reflection had that sort of blurry still-half-asleep look, with big-bad-bed-hair and puffy eyes. But hey, she was sorta pretty, I thought. You know, I’d do her. And, knowing that I had nothing else to do, I thought I’d start the day on a high note. I wiggled down the length of the bed so I was sat on the edge, directly opposite the mirror. “Hello, pretty,” I said to myself.

You have to love yourself. I learned that early on. If you don’t love yourself, you can’t expect anyone else to love you. That’s not to say I think I’m perfect. Far from it. I’m really critical of my appearance; but working in theatre requires confidence, and you have to work with what you have. So I stared at my reflection in the mirror, checking out everything I had.

Wide brown eyes: check. Long (messy, tangled) dark brown hair: check. Nose that is slightly too big for my face (I scrunch my nose up and frown at my reflection): check. Small mouth, full lips, little chin: check, check, check. I look younger than my twenty years; I regularly get ID’d when buying alcohol.

Then my eyes wandered down. I sleep naked, so the girl in the mirror was naked too. Narrow shoulders. Slim arms: there are small, fine hairs on the back of my arms that I hate; I wax them off every few weeks. Tiny breasts with small, sensitive nipples: if I’m horny enough, and it’s the right time of the month, I can bring myself to orgasm from simply caressing my nipples. (I sometimes wish my breasts were bigger, but only sometimes: I like not needing to wear a bra.)

I was sat with my legs pressed modestly together. That was no fun, I thought. “Go on, pretty,” I said to the girl in the mirror, “give us a flash.” The girl grinned mischievously and obliged. Now, with my feet up on the edge of the bed and my knees against my shoulders, my pussy was proudly on display.

I’ve always found it strange that guys can see their own genitals so easily, yet girls cannot. Girls rarely see what the most intimate part of their bodies truly looks like; even your reflection doesn’t show it as it genuinely is, being but a mirror image. It is as though your vulva is designed to be seen only by other people. The idea of other people seeing my vulva was starting to turn me on. I stared at my pussy reflection. I tried to imagine it flipped the right way. How different did it really look, I wondered?

I’m not going to describe my pussy to you; it is not a ladylike thing for a nice girl to do. But I will describe how the girl in the mirror reached down with one hand and softly circled and gently tapped at her little hooded jewel. I have never been able to orgasm from penetration (be it boys or toys), but clitoral stimulation never fails. My fingers – and the fingers of the girl in the mirror – circled, circled, circled, then tapped, tapped, tapped. Warmth started to build, in my genitals and in my nipples and in my head, just behind my eyes. Warmth, and a whispering tingling sensation.

Writing this after the event, I’m finding it so difficult to explain what a building climax feels like. I’ve started to touch myself now, to remind me, in the hope that I can concentrate and note exactly the way I feel. But it’s difficult. The better it feels, the more difficult it is to describe; it’s as though every part of your brain but the pleasure sensors are switched off, one by one as the orgasm develops, until all that is left is a sort of furious delight, then joy, satisfaction, contentment.

The girl in the mirror hadn’t reached that moment yet, though. She was continuing to circle and tap. Watching her made me feel exhilarated, like she was not me, but another girl altogether. I was watching a girl play with herself. And what made it better was that I could feel everything she could feel. She was working her way to the top of a massive rollercoaster; click-clack, click-clack; higher and higher. Taking deep, slow breaths. Preparing herself. Click-clack.

And then we were at the pinnacle, on the precipice. Hanging there together. No more circling, just light, ghost-soft tapping, one, two, three. A deep breath. Our bodies swelled, our backs arched, our heads were thrown back – and then the rollercoaster suddenly tipped and we were plummeting down the other side at a million, million miles an hour, breathless, shaking and pulsating.

In furious delight.