Speaker 1: What do pussies think about? Really? I asked my own
Speaker 1: one evening. We'd just had dinner, a warm bath, candles,
Speaker 1: and now we were settled in bed for a quiet evening.
Speaker 1: It told me that, contrary to popular belief, the number
Speaker 1: of orgasms it had experienced in a single day did
Speaker 1: not hold its attention, nor did it give much thought
Speaker 1: to penile or clitteral dimensions, or any other sexual characteristics
Speaker 1: such as breast or hip size. Those it informed me
Speaker 1: were of no concern to it, other than that it
Speaker 1: felt the need for some occasional tending, which was to
Speaker 1: be expected. What did occupy much of its thought were
Speaker 1: matters that until then had never even entered my mind,
Speaker 1: such as how it had managed to stay hidden from sight,
Speaker 1: even from my own. Pussies are funny like that, As
Speaker 1: I'm sure you know, you might see a woman naked
Speaker 1: as off as you'd like, in as many different positions,
Speaker 1: and the pussy would still manage to be invisible, to
Speaker 1: remain hidden between the thighs, even though you knew exactly
Speaker 1: where to look. Then it asked me how I thought
Speaker 1: it could have gotten so skilled with my clit, a
Speaker 1: part of me that was unknown even to me until
Speaker 1: the first time we'd met. My pussy sighed an exasperated,
Speaker 1: knowing thing. You really don't listen, do you. The words
Speaker 1: vibrated low in my body, like an unspoken purr. You
Speaker 1: think about sex in that cerebral way, but I think
Speaker 1: in rhythm, in pressure, in hunger. Then it told me
Speaker 1: that its lips longed to be kissed and touched with
Speaker 1: the same passion and attention the clit gets, so I
Speaker 1: reassured it that I would take care of it. Then
Speaker 1: it said that it knew it was wet most of
Speaker 1: the time, but did I understand that that was an
Speaker 1: normal state and that the amount of lubrication present was
Speaker 1: in no way indicative of my level of arousal. In
Speaker 1: other words, sometimes a wet pussy is just a wet pussy.
Speaker 1: I had never really given that any thought, to be honest,
Speaker 1: but I agreed. Then it began to tell me about
Speaker 1: how the vagina was a very different creature. Pussies my
Speaker 1: own told me were relatively simple. All they wanted, it
Speaker 1: explained to me, was a little tenderness and some loving caresses.
Speaker 1: But vaginas my pussy told me, are a much more
Speaker 1: complicated thing, and not nearly as easily satisfied. Vaginas want
Speaker 1: to be fucked, it told me, but with a lot
Speaker 1: of foreplay. Vaginas like hard cocks and thick fingers and
Speaker 1: even tongues and love to be filled to the brim
Speaker 1: and fucked to their heart's delight. But my vagina is
Speaker 1: my pussy, isn't it, I interrupted, my pussy side exasperated, sweetheart,
Speaker 1: it said, you really don't listen, do you, I bristled,
Speaker 1: shifting in my seat. Excuse me. Your vagina is the gateway,
Speaker 1: the passage, the dark, sacred corridor of want, it continued, unbothered.
Speaker 1: But I the pussy. I'm the temple, the throne, the
Speaker 1: silk and the heat, the thing they worship before they
Speaker 1: ever get inside. I exhaled. That's poetic as hell. It's
Speaker 1: the truth, my pussy hummed. The vagina is deep hunger,
Speaker 1: But I am the invitation. I am the teas, the velvet,
Speaker 1: whisper of wet lips, the purr before the growl. The
Speaker 1: vagina is a storm. Yes, she craves to be filled, fucked,
Speaker 1: stretched wide, But I am the reason it even begins.
Speaker 1: I am the use, the seduction, the first touch that
Speaker 1: makes the world forget itself. I swallowed, heat, curling in
Speaker 1: my stomach. So what you're saying is my pussy? Chuckled darkly, darling,
Speaker 1: I run this show. And then I realized my pussy
Speaker 1: had an ego of its own, not just a voice,
Speaker 1: not just a personality, but a damn near royal attitude.
Speaker 1: It expected attention, It demanded devotion my pussy, I murmured,
Speaker 1: you you're kind of a diva. My pussy preened a goddess,
Speaker 1: it corrected, and rightfully, so do you have any idea
Speaker 1: how many people have begged to worship at my altar?
Speaker 1: I rolled my eyes. Okay, now you're just showing off.
Speaker 1: But my pussy just hummed sm and yet, it mused,
Speaker 1: despite all those admirers, you forget about me the most,
Speaker 1: neglect me, ignore my needs until it's convenient. I paused,
Speaker 1: that's not entirely untrue. Of course, it's not a soft
Speaker 1: purr between my legs, and all I ask in return
Speaker 1: is a little reverence, a little devotion, a little indulgence.
Speaker 1: I smirked, So you want to be worshiped, my pussy sighed, long, suffering, darling,
Speaker 1: I expect it. Then my pussy got down to the
Speaker 1: nitty gritty and started getting philosophical on me the way
Speaker 1: pussies saw it. My pussy informed me the world was
Speaker 1: divided into two distinct groups, the fuckers and the fucked.
Speaker 1: It did concede that there was a great deal of
Speaker 1: movement back and forth between these two groups, but in general,
Speaker 1: it told me you'd find the majority of men on
Speaker 1: the fucking side of things and most of the women
Speaker 1: on the fucked side. There were, of course, a significant
Speaker 1: number of people in the world that enjoyed participating on
Speaker 1: either side of this equation. Then it asked if I
Speaker 1: knew which group we fell into. I admitted that we
Speaker 1: were a work in progress. As my pussy spoke, I
Speaker 1: traced a slow fingertip along my thigh, idly listening. Yet
Speaker 1: something inside me stirred. Not arousal, not quite, but awareness,
Speaker 1: a thrumming hum beneath the skin, a sense of something
Speaker 1: my body had always known before my mind caught up.
Speaker 1: Then the pussy told me that when I used the pomp,
Speaker 1: I turn into the fucker and can fuck like a man. Ah. Yes.
Speaker 1: Then I remembered those good old times, and it asked
Speaker 1: me why I don't play with the pump more often.
Speaker 1: My pussy really enjoyed it. Well, it was right. The
Speaker 1: problem is I was lazy and it was easier to
Speaker 1: just do it organically with my fingers. You think you
Speaker 1: like fingers best, My pussy purred. But I remember that
Speaker 1: time with the silk rope, how you pulsed against it,
Speaker 1: how you craved the pull. I swallowed hard. That was
Speaker 1: just an experiment. Sure it hummed. Then why do you
Speaker 1: keep thinking about it? You're scared to admit it, aren't you,
Speaker 1: My pussy mused, voice slick with mischief, that you want
Speaker 1: to touch me right now, that this conversation is turning
Speaker 1: you on. My breath hitched. That's ridiculous, I scoffed, but
Speaker 1: the pulse between my legs betrayed me, thrumbing a rhythm.
Speaker 1: I hadn't yet agreed to answer, but the conversation with
Speaker 1: the pussy continued. I asked if my pussy had anything
Speaker 1: to do with the way I was feeling that day,
Speaker 1: the way I dressed and acted in my moods. It
Speaker 1: told me that it was indeed, And then, after another
Speaker 1: moment or two of quiet thought, it told me, to
Speaker 1: the best of its recollection, that the last time i'd
Speaker 1: actually listened to it was when we'd made love, but
Speaker 1: that I hadn't paid it much attention otherwise. So I
Speaker 1: told my pussy I would do my best to pay
Speaker 1: more attention and to be more considerate. And then it
Speaker 1: asked me to take more selfies together. It was very important,
Speaker 1: my pussy said. Selfies made it feel sexy and wanted
Speaker 1: glamorous and desirable, So it told me to put that
Speaker 1: at the top of the to do list. My pussy
Speaker 1: had more to say. It told me it felt I
Speaker 1: needed to learn how to talk to it, to really
Speaker 1: communicate with it in a meaningful way, To learn its
Speaker 1: language and the many subtle signals that pussies send to
Speaker 1: let us know how we're feeling. To understand the difference
Speaker 1: between the messages it sent when it wanted to be
Speaker 1: touched or when it was ready for penetration. My pussy
Speaker 1: also suggested that we spend more time exploring each other,
Speaker 1: learning each other's likes, dislikes, wants, needs, desires, and fears.
Speaker 1: My pussy was telling me that as far as pussies went,
Speaker 1: I had no idea how much it had to say
Speaker 1: to me, how much I needed to know about it.
Speaker 1: It had a lot to tell me about my life,
Speaker 1: about the way I saw myself and the world around me.
Speaker 1: It was getting late and I had an early day
Speaker 1: ahead of me. But before we went to bed, I
Speaker 1: asked the pussy one more question. What is the one
Speaker 1: thing that you'd most like for us to do? My
Speaker 1: pussy answered, without hesitation, masturbate Moore. Please. I reached for
Speaker 1: my phone, hesitating just a moment before flipping the camera
Speaker 1: to an angle I'd never dared to before. For you,
Speaker 1: I whispered, capturing the moment, letting the shudder click like
Speaker 1: a promise between old friends. Looking at the picks, I
Speaker 1: had to admit my pussy looked pretty damn hot. Then
Speaker 1: my pussy said, if you really want to excite me,
Speaker 1: send it to you know who. My thumb hovered over
Speaker 1: the message I can. I shouldn't, I wouldn't, But my
Speaker 1: pussy just hummed, smug and knowing, come on it, Purret,
Speaker 1: be a good girl,