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Patricia sighed as she packed the last of the books away on the "Pattiwagon." Barely a couple of people took any books today, and the donation box was empty. The street was deserted, everyone down at the bar drinking themselves into a stupor. She sat on the step of her van, it's interior lined with shelves of books no one wanted to read about places they couldn't go, people they would never meet, written by people who had never heard of their little island. She absent-mindedly clutched at the blue earring that dangled down from her right ear as she surveyed the deserted street. The gentle lapping of water against the dock was the only sound, pierced by the occasion squawk of a gull or the metallic jangle from boat masts.
"The tourists will come." Tom had kept telling her. "The Island will come back to life." He promised, after every time he badgered that poor man on the mainland to come write about their town.
Nothing good is ever going to happen here. With a deep inhale, she rose, shut up the van and clambered into the driver's seat, firing up the clattering old engine and setting off home.
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Parking up on the driveway, she shut the van off, grabbed the bag of food she collected from the diner on the way home and went inside.
"I'm home!" She thought to herself, no one there to call out to, no one to welcome her. Turning on the kitchen light, she took a plate from the cabinet, grabbed cutlery from the drawer and set the table for one. Taking a bottle of her favourite red wine from the rack, she carefully poured herself a glass and opened the containers, steeling herself for disappointment.
"Wow, they actually got my order right." She said aloud, inhaling the smell of Chicken Parm. Taking a sip of her wine, she tucked in, savouring every bite.
Her moment of culinary bliss was broken by the Pattiwagon alarm cutting through the silence.
"Fuck."
Clutching the keys, she stomped out to the van, cutting the power to silence the horrendous screech. She really needed to get the thing fixed. As she was about to go back, a thud of something hitting the floor caught her attention.
Not again. Damn raccoons.
Patricia pulled the rear door open, expecting a flurry of rabid claws and teeth to maul her but there was... nothing.
Except a book that had fallen from the shelf. Fallen despite the elasticated straps that held them all into place. Her eyes narrowed as she eyed the book suspiciously. Cautiously she stepped into the van and moved towards the book, still expecting something feral to attack her. She picked the book up, not recognising it.
"How to Learn to Love Yourself." She read the title out loud. By Paula Poundcake, adult movie star and Sex Therapist. Patricia thumbed through the book, lurid illustrations and pornographic imagery of the author naked. She blushed, flustered and slammed it shut.
She locked the van back up and went inside, the book tucked shamefully under her arm. Patricia lifted the lid to the kitchen bin and dropped the book in. Then guilt took hold. It was wrong to mistreat books, even if they were filth. She took the book out, changed her mind again and threw it back in.
"Nope." She shook her head and relented, taking the book out once more, brushing crumbs away from it and placing it on the table. Patricia washed her hands and went back to her meal.
As she ate and she sipped her wine, she found herself drawn to the book, leafing curiously through the pages. Chapter titles on learning to love your body, how to explore your own erogenous zones. The buxom blonde graphically demonstrating upon herself.
How did this get published? She closed the book again, pushing it away, scowling. She stared at it, her plate now empty, glass drained of wine. It felt like it was calling to her. She fidgeted in her seat. Poured another glass and drank as she pulled the book towards her and opened it again.
Run a bath. Relax and explore your body with your fingers. Find what turns you on.
A bath did sound good. Clutching the bottle and glass, she took the book upstairs to the bathroom. She put in the plug and turned the hot tap on. She sat cross legged on the toilet seat and read on, sipping her wine.
Stand in front of a mirror, naked. Look at your body and appreciate everything you love about yourself. Say these things aloud. Compliment each part of yourself and ignore the voice inside that spreads negativity,
Who believes this bullshit? What qualifications has this writer got anyway? She looked at the back of the book again. With the bath now full, she placed the book down and began to disrobe.
Stand in front of a mirror.
With a resigned huff, she took herself to her bedroom. She stood in front of her full length mirror, arms darting around her body in a vain attempt to hide her nudity. She forced herself to look. Her black hair brushed against her shoulder. She ran a hand through it. She should tie it up. She always buys things to put her hair up and she never uses them. Ribbons, pins, barrettes, hair bands. A whole drawer full of unused dreams. She studied her face. A few wrinkles. Well, maybe not a few. She forced herself to smile, then revulsion and embarrassment took hold. What was she doing? No. Ignore the negativity.
With her eyes screwed shut, Patricia placed one hand on her hip, then the other. She held her head up, breathed in and opened her eyes. She tried to softly smile, then pout. She posed, and looked at herself.
"I have nice eyes." She said aloud. Okay, that was a cop out.
"I—I have nice b-breasts." They were small, but nicely shaped. Right? She cupped them and nodded. "I have nice breasts." She repeated with more confidence. She turned around and looked over her shoulder to look at her butt.
"I have-" She started. "I have a nice bu-ass. I have a nice ass."
Okay. That went well. She looked at her ass some more. It is nice, she thought to herself. There was one there, for a start. It was firm. I'm in my forties and I have a firm ass.
"I am in my forties and I have a firm ass." She repeated it out loud and giggled. She shivered, realising her bath would be getting cold.
"Okay that's enough of this." She scampered back to the bathroom and slid into the hot water. A little tingle of joy spread through her. That wasn't so bad. Maybe there is something to this. Patricia dried her hands on a towel and reached over to take the book up again.
Do something nice for yourself. Make yourself attractive to yourself. Wear something that makes you feel good. Well, it's too late for a shopping trip. Patricia remembered the black lace teddy hanging in her closet. Bought for a date that never happened. She decided once her bath was done, she would put it on—and put her hair up. She read on.
Learn about your erogenous zones.
"Okay wow!" Patricia exclaimed, as she progressed through the book, explicit images of Ms. Poundcake opening herself up, touching herself in different places with arrows and guidelines annotating exactly where to touch. Flustered, Patricia put the book back down and downed another glass of wine. She was feeling buzzed. Okay maybe it's worth a try. She started to bathe herself, lathering soap up on her legs.
"I have nice legs." She said aloud, her voice slightly echoing off the tiles. No. No more nice. "I have sexy legs." She caressed them as she rinsed the soap off. "I have sexy legs, a firm ass and great tits." She repeated it over and over now, reaffirming her earlier statements. She smiled to herself. She touched her lips.
"I have kissable lips. I would want to kiss my lips." Too much? No. People should want to kiss her lips. She was feeling good about herself.
"Touché, Ms. Poundcake." She nodded at the book then laughed to herself as she began to wash her hair using the expensive shampoo she bought then was too afraid to use.
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Patricia finished her bath, applied moisturiser and with a towel wrapped around her, skipped back to the bedroom. With a flourish, she unfurled the towel, exposing herself in front of the mirror again.
"I have a spectacular pussy!" She yelled. No, too wimpy.
"I have a spectacular cunt!" she snarled, sexily.
She ran her fingers through her thick, luscious bush, and spread her labia open a little, biting her lip. Then she wrapped the towel back around, and sat at her vanity desk. She turned on her hair dryer and ran her fingers through her hair, brushing it straight as it dried. With that done, she opened the drawer and began to put her hair up, putting it into a tight bun at the back and pinning her hair aside with a jewelled barrette. Finished, she admired her handiwork, smiling and caressing her slender neck as she stared at herself in the mirror. She applied her best lipstick, a red one, blowing a kiss to herself.
"That's silly." She chastised herself, then felt bad about that and blew herself another kiss. She smiled kindly at the reflection.
Dropping her towel as she rose, she turned to the closet door, unhooking the lacy bodysuit from it's hanger. She held it up in front of her, and then slipped it over one foot, then the next. She pulled it up around her, and snapped the straps up over her shoulders. Next, Patricia took a pair of black heels from the shelf and put them on. She strutted confidently over to the mirror again and gasped.
"I... I look sexy." She nearly cried. The heels pulled her leg muscles taut, a defined curve to her calves. She ran her hand up from her ankles, along her moisturised legs, the lightly gently reflecting off the sheen left by the lotion. Then with both hands, she felt herself, running her hands over her slender belly, cupping her breasts and caressing her arms. She winked at the mirror, and then in a fit of giggles, collapsed onto the bed. She noticed the book was there again,
"Huh." She didn't remember taking it from the bathroom. "Oh well." She looked through again, then with a smirk, closed it and placed it on the bedside. She lay back on her soft duvet, letting the pillow support her as she sprawled out, then tucked her legs together, feeling the soft skin of each leg brushing against the other. Her fingers explored the top half of the expensive lingerie, touching the fabric and enjoying the feel of it against her body. Fingertips traced the hardness of her nipples through the lace. She gasped as she pushed and squeezed them, blushing and nearly forcing her hands away in shame. She shook her head to herself in remonstration, ignoring the feeling of embarrassment.
Tucking her legs up, knees bent, shoes flat on the duvet, she stroked her thighs, moving her hands inwards and up. She gently brushed over her crotch. Patricia felt an urge. A neediness, a calling. She clamped her thighs over her hand trying to quell it but it was too much. She spread her knees out, and with a single finger, slipped it under the elasticated gusset, pulling it aside. She felt the cool air of the bedroom against the bare skin of her labia once more. Shame almost overwhelmed her again, nearly causing her to release the garment and hide herself under the covers.
"No." She said aloud. "I deserve this. There is nothing wrong with me. I am a beautiful woman. I am sexy!" Emboldened, she continued, and began to trace her finger over her vulva, stroking her pubic hair, caressing her lips, feeling the shape of them, the texture of the skin. She felt her body trembling, nervous. Hairs on her arm stood up, goosebumps forming on the surface.
Patricia felt a dampness. She was wet. She bit her lip, and pushed her probing finger inwards, feeling the wetness. She brought her finger up and tasted her own juices. She plunged the finger back in, moistened and lubricated with her own saliva. Tentatively, she placed a second finger in and began to feel around inside, experimenting with thrusting and rotating her fingers and she explored. She had masturbated before, but this time she felt more in tune with her body, focussed on what she experienced instead of quickly relieving herself. She slipped a strap down and pulled the bodysuit down, exposing her left breast. With her fingers still inside, with her other hand she fondled and caressed her tit, pulling and twisting her nipple, eliciting gasps as she did.
Patricia allowed her mind to clear. She wasn't thinking of anyone else. She thought only of herself, the image in the mirror, her soft red lips, the curves of her body, the feel of her own skin; how the lingerie clung to her, how she wore it well, like it was a part of her.
She let out a cry as her fingers found a tender spot, curling up and pushing, caressing the sensitive flesh inside. Braver now, a third digit pushed inwards and with her other hand, she felt around, lifting the soft hood of skin to expose her hardened clit. With one hand inside, the other massaging the little bump, she lifted her hips up off the bed. She saw her legs flexing as they supported her weight, she admired the muscles and tendons rippling beneath the surface. With her hips riding and falling, her bosom heaving and her fingers massaging and exploring the pink insides of her cunt, Patricia fucked herself to an orgasm.
She gasped and held her breath as she trembled and shook. She pushed on, unrelenting in her masturbatory act of self love. Her fingers pounded rhythmically in and out, a soft wet noise accompanying her. Instead of shying away in shock, she focussed on the sound, forcing herself to listen until she realised it was just the sound of her body and there was nothing shameful in it. She concentrated on the feel of her fingers flexing and twisting around inside her, the gentle pressure being applied to make her feel good. Patricia felt the creamy juices from her cunt run down her wrist, onto her forearm. She looked into the mirror, and then, forced herself to twist around so she could see her own fingers inside herself. Patricia watched with amazement, spreading herself wide open, looking at her soft pink tender insides. So wet.
Patricia slid off the bed, and kneeling in front of the mirror, she spread her legs and used the mirror to keep watching as she brought herself off again. With her heart pounding in her chest, her breasts trembling, nipples hard, she gasped and cried out as a trickle of fluids erupted from within, soaking her hand and forming a small, damp patch on the carpet. But she still wanted more. Rolling onto her front, using the weight of her body to push down on to her erect fingers, she pounded her hips up and down with a ferocity she'd never experienced herself. She raised her arm and fumbled on the bedside table, grabbing the remote for her Hi-Fi. Tapping a button while continuing to fuck herself, Enya gently serenaded her through the night as Patricia came again and again, until she was a sweaty bundle on the floor, fingers bent and curled up, numb and exhausted.
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Patricia awoke, gone midnight now, still lying on the floor, bodice wrapped around her ankles, and naked. She shivered in the cold darkness, and crawled to the bathroom, showering quickly then bundling herself up in her favourite bed shirt. She slipped under the duvet, thinking about how she might order some toys for herself when she's at work. Maybe the book had some recommendations on what to try? But in the morning, when she went to look, it had vanished from the house without a trace.
The End.