rough // what the fuck am i doing with my life

If they tipped me, I bared whatever they desired. My breasts that jiggled and wiggled as I fondled them, and twisted my nipples.  I knew that I was turning them on, and the knowledge of them watching me strengthened the sensations that coursed.

After setting up my tripod and camera in the bathroom, I started taking off my clothes. I shut my eyes and rubbed my nipples. I tried not to look too sad or lost or like I had a very fat chin. I tried not to spend too much time in my head, so I could feel the sensation in my nipples as it tingled down and into my cunt. But it didn’t. It stopped in my gut, a heavy weight.
When I received the right amount of tips, I leaned back, and spread my thick thighs to reveal a delicate, curly blonde bush that I stroked and twirled between my fingers. I spread my lips — deep pink, plump folds – to reveal the little gem that was my clit. I touched it lightly, and held it between my index and middle fingers, wiggling and pressing on my pelvis, a gentle pleasure that would make me bite my lip and sigh as I stared into the camera — at them.

“Ohh my,” they said. “Mmm.”
“Beautiful goddess.”

I readjusted the camera, trying to find a suitable angle for the movement I was about make. There was no way of knowing. I lowered myself into the mustard bath tub, which I thought of as avocado, but it was more yellow than green. Any bath tub colour other than white is an atrocity.

I thought of the fleshy rolls and the folds of my body, and imagined how they must look surrounded by mustard yellow in the dark bathroom, with the walls and the ceiling painted dark brown, like taking a shit in a cave made of packed dirt.

“I would like to know what dirty thoughts she’s thinking,” they said.

One finger, then two, slipped deep inside.  Pressed the palm of my hand against my clit. As I felt the pressure within the wet, velvety folds, the hair all over my body stood on end.

I was in the bathtub because I squirt, to contain the mess I make. Mostly, that was my location of choice, with feet up against the wall, pounding as liquid dripped and dribbled and gushed and shot into a trail to the drain. Liquid that got on my feet, that lefts dark dirty smudges on the bathroom floor from the filth that lived on my soles.
Hooked my fingers and pressed against the wall of my pussy.  The pressure was like a pleasure jolt, a wave within my body that grew in intensity as I pressed with more frequency. I could feel goose bumps on my cheeks as my pussy tightened around my fingers.  In the back of my mind, the thought of them watching me enjoy myself, and how much they would have love to be enjoying me too. I imagined what it would feel like for them, their own fingers, thicker and less delicate than mine, if they were in place of my own hand. How eager they would have been to rub their cocks along my slit, teasing until I begged to feel them inside.

A pang of guilt or shame or disbelief at the disconnect between their fantasy and my reality rang deep in my gut. Like there was something wrong with me for not thinking of the men and the cocks and how my pussy felt clenching around my fingers, and the 200 men that were watching with their dicks in hands as I hated myself in the bath tub.
My toy of choice was a pink glass dildo. It was hard and smooth, with gentle curves that hit just the right spots, no matter the angle. I rubbed the round, hard head against my clit, around my clit, before slipping it in. I took it deep, slowly, feeling every inch of the cool glass as it moved inside me. I slid it out, paused, felt the sensation of the warm walls coming together again. Each time I pushed it in, and pulled it out, I paused, resisting the temptation to fuck myself hard and fast, intentionally denying my pleasure, my orgasm, so I could feel each individual stroke, savoring it.

I was dehydrated, so I couldn’t squirt. It felt good, but I wanted to squirt. When I squirted, it felt better. There is something satisfying about liquid confirmation shooting from your cunt. But when you try to force it, it hurts. Rubbing your clit more. Pounding harder, deeper, hitting that magic A-spot, so it makes liquid build up in that mysterious pouch that may or may not be your bladder.
Unable to resist any longer, my fingers pressed against my clit. Hard, roughly rubbing. I let out a desperate, pleading moan. I could feel the pressure building. I did want it, but I didn’t want it. I knew what came next. I rubbed my clit faster, and ohh… liquid gushed out of my pussy, slow at first, as I instinctively tried to hold it in. But I couldn’t stand it any more, and the flood gates opened. Juices came squirting out of my pussy, puddling underneath me, landing on my thighs, my calves, my feet. By some miracle of physics, drops land on my chest, and my lips. It tasted sweet and salty.

When you are dehydrated, there is no liquid to build up.
Fucking myself and rubbing my clit, I came over and over again. As I gushed, the dildo slid easier, and I fucked myself harder.

Sensations in the form of colours, deep oranges, bright yellows, vibrant pinks, exploded from deep inside me, spreading in unpredictable patterns to the rest of my body. My free hand moved down my thigh and clutched the flesh, trying to find something to grip that would contain my pleasure.

To them, my frustration looked like an orgasm. 

I could have cried.
The thought of them watching me was no longer in my mind. There was nothing in my mind. My mind was empty. I was nothing but my body and the pleasure coursing through it, racked by orgasm after orgasm.I brought my fingers to my mouth, spreading them so I could see how my juices suspended between them, before slipping it into my mouth. I couldn’t resist my own sweet taste, licking each finger individually, making sure I got every last morsel. I rubbed my tongue against the roof of my mouth, savouring the taste of myself.
I breathed deep. I idly licked my fingers. The liquid was bitter, yellow. It rang on the tip of my tongue, and in the back of my mouth between my molars. It was thin on the roof of my mouth, and vaguely metallic on my lips.
It tasted exactly like diluted urine.
“Mmm I wish I knew how sweet that tasted,” they said.
I drank water from the faucet.
I wiped myself down with a wet wash cloth.
“Mmmmmm, oh yes.”

As I leaned forward, the folds and the rolls moved with me. They contracted and expanded. I dribbled water down my side, watched it flow into crevices and over mounds. My body was no longer my body. I no longer hated it. It was a landscape. A water wonderland. A puddle I played in, in the gutter after the spring thaw, when I was young. I built obstacles out of twigs on my flesh. I obstructed the water’s path with the sole of a rubber boot. I raced coloured toothpicks in the current under ledges of dirty ice.
When I was ready, I sat up, and watched their comments as they scrolled across my screen. I licked the juices off my fingers, more diluted, more mellow than they were before.  I hid my face in my hands smiling, bashful.

“You have the most perfect body on this site,” they said.
“Do you sell your panties?”