The following story was submitted in our recent Sensual Story Writing contest
“Sensual Stories to Turn On To”
For your reading pleasure, we present the 1st runner up:
Today this mirror leaned up against the wall in my bedroom reveals me. Today I slow down. Today is for loving eyes and a tender gaze. Today I leave my inner critic, outside.
Seated on the edge of the bed, I cross my legs at the ankle and take in mirror me. Calf against calf, I run my hands along lean muscles and feel the strength of many steps. I watch my hands caress myself. Desire to brain to hands to skin. No mystery. I pass my hands along and up myself and come to a soft robe resting against soft thighs, just above my knees. Pulling it up slowly, I relish the feeling of the silken material’s movement so I slow down even more. I watch myself do this again, and again.
Robe now hiked up the winter paleness of the sensitive skin of my upper thighs is revealed. Grazing fingerprints morph into fingertips bent, and nails scratch at the surface. Pink lines of pleasure. Just the right amount of pressure. Mmmmmmmm. Audible murmurs of delight slip from my lips.
I feel the cool dampness of my hair and inhale the lavender oil scent of my skin. These are reminders of the very hot bath I came out of minutes before, and I recollect the many sensations of the experience. Fingers under Epsom salt heavy water, my labia feeling like a soft sea creature. Gently spreading myself open to reveal the inside of a seashell, a clitoris pearl perfectly pink, ready for plucking. Submerged strokes like seaweed waving in the tides, swaying back and forth, back and forth, rhythmic and soft. Rain sounds playing on the speaker. Pouring underwater from my touch, my honey flowing from me downward toward my bottom, with a texture unlike anything else, heavy yet light. Using the index and middle fingers of my right hand to scoop up my arousal and playing with it between their tips, creating arcs of viscosity by candlelight. Immersion always seems to bring me to my most sensual space, my most raw self.
Now I prop myself up with pillows on top of the bed, bring my knees up, and push my panties aside to reveal myself in the reflection in front of me.
Though I could have easily chosen to be naked under my robe after my bath, I have a fondness for playing with clothing on, and this is about my pleasure. Dark lips and black hair compliment navy blue satin and lace. Even though there is space between me and the mirror I easily spot my clitoris twinkling at me through that luxurious layer of slick wetness from my time in the tub. Though I was prepared with a jar of coconut oil to moisten myself, today I am able to indulge in my created fluid alone.
My fingers, my touch, opens and explores every surface of me, every fold and furrow. I can hardly remember the version of myself that did not know what her own sensual body looked or felt like. How powerful language is. Calling these parts of myself private, I learned to keep them private from even myself. Today a simple hand-held mirror displays every detail up close. Whatever you may call her, yoni, pussy, vulva, she just might be beyond words. This imagery seems to write ongoing poetry, an ode to my sex. A blooming between my thighs. A tight bud, a blossoming flower, an open rose, red and plump. I admire and take in the aspects of her beautiful individuality. Gradients of color leading to soft inner contours. No edges, all curves. Soft puffy yearning skin. Ruffled edges of inner labia like delicate lace. By combining all of my senses I am in a movie, I am in a play, I am playing. It is exhilarating and my cheeks are pink and flushed.
The panties come off and the robe comes off and I stand up. I have the lights on for this self-exploration but there is also candlelight and incense burning. The music is sultry and I sway my hips, side to side. I am seaweed again.
My body flows in this elevated state, not just from inside of me, but from outside of me too, and all those years I said I hated dancing disappear into yesterday. My breasts fill my hands up just right. I take myself in from all angles, and stop to take pictures whenever I am inspired. In between this, I sip on the best red wine. I eat an achingly sweet date stuffed with a hard salty almond.
Before I settle down to take of myself, I soften my skin with shea butter. Solid to liquid it melts in my hands and upon my warmed flesh. I am slippery and smooth and soft and wet.The main lights are now off and the muted glow of the candles creates dancing leaf shadows along the walls and ceiling from the many plants in the room.
I think I am a really good date. In both ways. As the dater and datee. The DOer and DOee.
I lay back on the bed and close my eyes and feel everything. I travel along waves of turn-on. Learning that female orgasm is akin to many rolling hills, rather than a mountain with a sharp peak is changing my pleasure experience. Orgasm used to leave me wanting for more. It had a defined lifeline, a beginning and an end, the end always leaving me yearning for another beginning. Now I am starting to realize the possibility of living life within an orgasmic state, a pleasured state. I glide along without tension, without question or any other purpose than being in that moment. It is a bliss state. A state of connection and contentment. Today I have no expectation of myself other than to feel good. And that I do.