Mobile Pussy

I was tired of his musings. Your pussy this and your pussy that. What a prick! I was basically a mobile pussy for him. He wanted to fuck me all the time. What the fuck! What a prick! It was good and hard, and pretty. Nice balls, too. Two. Sorry, astronauts! What? Their balls shrink in space.

I’m the one typing this story, not the schmuck M appearing up there below the subtitle. I’m his double. It was a scandal. Let’s just say that we aren’t twins. M likes to think and type. I, the narrator, like to narrate and play. It’s a productive match but the brain reacts. Yes, yes, yes! thinks M. Fuck, no! narrates I. M versus I. M I. I M. Who M I? What a prick!

But a narrator can’t have a pussy or a prick. True! But only to a certain degree. A narrator can be all the story. Not here, of course, with M calling the shots. To submit or not to submit? M always submits to one publication or another. He views them as storage for his words. Of course, some storage may be better than another. Time is usually the key factor. M’s record is submitting a story and having it published about 15 minutes later. What a prick! It was even titled, The Prick With No Prick: What a Prick (linked at the bottom).

This so-called narrator is even a bigger prick than M since he doesn’t even have a clue that M is not typing this story. I am. His so-called mobile pussy. I mentioned it at the start but this fucking narrator took over. Here he goes again.

I wonder what M is planning to type. Probably another half-assed story about a prick disillusioned by his prick. But I sense a change in his typing. He’s typing from a woman’s point of view. He’s acting as if he had a pussy when we all know that he’s a prick.

What a prick! A narrator should be objective, but this one calls himself I. Can you believe it? So, this prick, M, that is, only wanted to fuck. Me, of course, but that’s beside the point. He actually asked me to walk naked around the house, and if I felt cold, to put the heating on, even on a cool spring day or night. Then, any time he noticed — he always looked — my ass or my pussy, sometimes just my tits, he wanted to fuck. Oh, he always told me that it was my face and then all the rest. It’s true that I have a nice face, and naked with my face, it’s normal for M to want to fuck me. He says that he only makes love to me. He makes a distinction between the two. It’s still fucking, if you ask me, if you ask most women. He may still be right on this one, but again, it’s not the fucking point. I’m basically a mobile pussy for him. Oh, he likes all the other parts that I offer and provide.

My face, as I alluded to before, is a monument to him. He looks at it with love in his eyes. I even perceive some tears sometimes. Maybe it’s the reason why I stay with him. He kisses my nose, breathing in some of my air. He nibbles on my ears, whispering I love you into each one. He sometimes loses himself in my hair. He even kisses my eyes. Lightly, asking them to always see him in the light. My mouth, he may love the most. He plays with my tongue, swallows my saliva, bites my lips, kisses it all the time, even in the shower, even in our peppermint baths. He loves peppermint. I love it too. Who wouldn’t? I agree with him on that.

My tits — he calls them breasts — are like lighthouses to him. He seems confused as to which one to look at and love first. Sometimes he proceeds from right to left, especially after reading “Thou shalt not steal” in Hebrew, knowing very well that he stole my heart. Don’t get me wrong! I love the prick. He seems to know it, but he never takes anything for granted. He knows that life is a bitch, and a bastard as he likes to add. I’m still his mobile pussy. Well, that’s what I think. I don’t feel it, but my mind disagrees. And the mind is always right. The heart is just a pump. Yeah, I know that some of you will disagree. It’s still true, nonetheless.

My pussy, he always leaves for last since to penetrate it first would mean that he couldn’t before in my ass. He doesn’t believe in ass to pussy or ass to mouth. He’s a gentleman, I must say. Of course, he only types. Sometimes but rarely, my pussy is first and thus my ass receives a fiesta of a fuck. Don’t laugh! He’s always serious when it comes to love. He loves me. I know. But the mobile pussy thing remains a foe. Let me describe what he does to my ass. I’ll also leave the pussy for last.

He looks at it with love, as far as I can surmise and from the pics he took of it to show me his take on its perfection, my perfection as he always indicates. More than love. With adoration. He kisses it from side to side. Up and down. Sometimes unable to forego a little kiss to my pussy, mumbling some poetry or a prayer of some kind. I think that he prays to the universe to be kind to womankind. I wonder if it’s not pussykind that he means in his heart. I mean, his mind. He then licks it everywhere he can, zeroing on the asshole — he calls it the anus — promulgating its status as my third best spot. Believe it or not, my pussy is only second best. My mouth is first. He likes to hear my voice, even when I’m complaining about him. It’s not fellatio, I swear. He doesn’t like to see it in my mouth. I do, of course, blow him, but only once in a while when he looks helpless facing my powers. I love the prick. What a prick!

Oh, there are other places before my pussy is actually accessed. He loves to kiss my feet and suck my toes. He massages my back but always ends up in my ass. He seems to appreciate my neck, building bridges of kisses to my tits. But my pussy is where he lives. I think that he could die for it. It’s true that I make it more inviting by the way that I trim the little hair that it wears like a heart. He looks at it and then into my eyes glancing longly at my mouth, perhaps deciding again whose first, my mouth or this source of life. He loves my pussy like I love life. He doesn’t care much about life — he calls it existence — but he cares about me, and my mobile pussy. He can love it anywhere but he seems to prefer the bed, our bed, where he can write a poem in his head about the eminence of my pussy in his eyes. I love the prick. He’s got me incensed. But peppermint remains his favourite scent. When I step out of a peppermint bath, he drops to his knees and prays to all the gods. He mentions Venus, Aphrodite, even Marilyn Monroe. He names all the goddesses but ends up bowing to me. I’m, after all, as he often affirms, his Goddess of love.

However, I think that he also despairs, sensing that I only believe in life when he, after all, only believes in death.

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