I wore my marks with pride. Walked taller, smiled broader. So many people wanted to prod at my reddened, bruising breasts and some did. I enjoyed body tight hugs and walked around nigh on naked without a thought. I felt so happy, so confident, so sexy.
Play club was on from 3pm to 3am and I played early on in the day. So had plenty of time to chat and laugh and be with friends. Hubby had his own fun, playing with needles, and when he finished, he was buzzing with the thrill of doing something he loves so very much.
It was late, only a few folks were left. There was kissing and cuddling going on all around and we indulged in some snuggling too.
“There’s loads of rooms free,” I whispered, “If you want.”
He was reluctant, but the lure of lying down on a comfy bed pulled him in. We shut the door behind us and jumped onto the fur throw covered bed. Directly opposite was the hugest mirror, elaborately gilt edged and the size of a whole wall. It was angled so you could see yourself in it perfectly from the bed.
Kisses and cuddles escalated, and he pulled me down to the edge of the bed as he knelt on the floor. I laid on my stomach, looking at us in the mirror, taking a few snaps as he stroked and slapped, pressed and poked my sore bottom and thighs.
I forgot the phone as he encourage me to roll over, split my thighs and let him eat me. Which is an absolute delight at any time, but there was something extra hot about watching it in the mirror beside us.
I looked at me, my curves, my bruises and I wanted to see the sexy. I wanted to see the hot but at first those negative thoughts that I’ve been trained to think slipped through. My stomach was too big, too many soft folds to my back and such huge thighs…it’s so fucked up that even when I feel at my sexiest, the first thoughts in my brain are cruel judgements of my body.
So, as I am learning to do, I pulled myself up. Do you know what changed my mind set? Looking at my boobs. So red, so sore, starting to purple with bruising. Those marks were beautiful. Absolutely gorgeous and they were on me. On my beautiful, accepted, loved body.
And from my battered, bruised boobs, I looked on the rest of me without the filter of societal condemnation and I felt beautiful. With a smile, I closed my eyes once more and focused back on the touch of my husband’s lips and tongue on my cunt. An almost magical thing, so warm, so soft and yet so hard and demanding. His mouth suckles, his tongue licks and I’m lost in the push and pull of impending orgasm.
I was mewling and writhing against him when I opened my eyes and looked again into the mirror. I saw abundant curves, jiggling and swaying with the force of an unstoppable climax. I saw the light in my eyes, the flaring bruises on my chest and I felt sexy. I saw the sexy man between my thighs, lavishing me with such intimate adoration and I realised how damn lucky I am to have him. To be had by him.
And you know what? I realised something, thinking back on that experience.
The sexy was always there and is always there. I just had to break through the wall of negativity that I’ve built up over nigh on 4 decades of being told I’m fat and not just that but that fat = ugly.
As I climbed to orgasm I felt like the sexiest, most beautiful woman alive and in that moment, in that place, I was.
I looked into the mirror and saw the truth. I am fat and I am sexy.