I’m wholeheartedly pro-bush. I figure keeping hair on my pussy is a personality trait at this point with how proudly I boast about it on anti-bush online forums. It’s there for a reason, after all, so why are we giving in to the desires of men and getting ourselves waxed or shaved? I couldn’t care less if a man wanted me to be bald down there.
On the other hand, I can appreciate a woman who knows what she wants aesthetically and does it for herself. As long as it’s her choice and not to please the eye of the same men who expect us to go searching for their eggs in a sloppy nest of hair.
Not in this lifetime, baby.
Blinking at the hand poised between my legs, I remind myself that I’m not shaving. I’m designing, and there’s a verydistinct difference. While I’m pro-pubic hair, I do like to keep mine groomed neatly, and when I’m feeling like it, I’ll either create a landing stripe or, like today, something as ridiculous as a heart.
My stomach swirls when I remember that I’m doing this only because I’m taking a personalized video, not because I want to impress an online stranger.
I guide the electric razor down to create the peak of the heart before flicking the switch and turning it off. Lifting my head, I feel my limbs refill with blood and get dizzy for a beat. I toss the razor on the counter and rinse myself off before doing the same to the tub.
My new lingerie is already laid out on my vanity stool, and I eye it like I’m afraid it might jump off and pounce at me. But shit, it’s a really beautiful set.
The pearls decorating the sheer cups of the bra and dancing down the garter and front of the thong glimmer in the bathroom light. My eyes linger on the tiny black bows on the front of the panties that match the one on the back. A long, soft ribbon came with the set, and I can only imagine that’s supposed to be tied somewhere so it can be unwrapped. Unfortunately, I’m not in the mood to unwrap myself.
After sighing dramatically, I finish in the bath and dry off with a thick towel. My hair tumbles from the foam rod I’d looped it around earlier and creates soft waves around my face. Then . . . I finally reach for the lingerie.
It goes on easily, as if I were tugging on pyjamas rather than intimates that cost far too much. The black fabric makes my skin appear paler than usual, which is one of the reasons I tend to avoid it. Maybe I should have, regardless of this being his favourite colour.
I’m doing this for myself, not him.
Right. Or is it a mix of both?
I attempt to shut my mind up long enough to finish getting ready. My hands move on autopilot then, applying my makeup and shimmering lotion the way I like. The last few things I grab before setting up the camera, hitting Record, and sitting on the edge of my bed come from the nightstand drawer.
The pressure that comes with recording myself usually turns me on, not freaks me out. It doesn’t matter if I’m filming something for all of my subscribers or a rare personal video. The adrenaline that causes that telltale throb between my legs is why I do this when I don’t necessarily need the money from it. My genuine enjoyment keeps me in this business.
So why am I nervous? Surely, it isn’t just because we shared a few nonchalant messages?
The pressure to create something worthQuiethours’ time is an unwanted distraction as I crawl up the bed and sneak a few calming breaths. My tongue glides over my bottom lip while I spread my legs a bit and lean against the propped pillows.
He didn’t give me anything to go off here, so I’m winging it. I’ll be able to crop myself from the shoulders up when I edit the footage, so I don’t pay much attention to the fact that I’m not hiding right now. I need to relax, and not worrying about how to position myself helps with that.
Biting my lip, I reach for my phone and open up After Hours. It’s late, so maybe, just maybe, he’ll be online right now.
Our conversation remains the only one without an unread message as I click on it and blow out a slow breath.
Crushedvelvet
Do you ever feel nervous?
What kind of question is that? I squeeze my eyes shut for half a second, reeling myself back in. When I open them again, theylatch onto the typing bubble. My stomach swoops so low I have to press down on my belly to settle myself.
Quiethours
Yes. Why? Are you nervous?
Crushedvelvet
I don’t do requests often.
It’s both a truth and a lie.
Quiethours
Nothing you could do would disappoint me. You’re beautiful.
Crushedvelvet
