I slid my hands across my own smooth skin, surprised at the silkiness I hadn’t noticed before. I looked closely at my reflection in the mirror, every bump and curve. I drew in my own shape, admired the slopes between my breasts and hips. I touched the skin again, as if uncertain whether it truly was my own.
I pulled on some panties, knowing they would hide one of my many perceived imperfections. But after they were on, I took in the view, examining my thundering thighs, checking my tummy that suddenly looked smaller. I stood with my feet apart and together, taking in the shape, and again the softness of my own skin.
Next I moved to my breasts. They aren’t perky. They sag and have stretch marks. But they are mine. They are beautiful, fuller than in a long time. The skin was silky to the touch. The nipples were oblong, not quite perfectly round. And stretched to the bottom.
I looked at all this and I loved myself. My soft skin. My larger than life thighs. My saggy boobs. They are me and I am them. And I felt right.

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One response to “

  1. I’m not sure of whether or not I should appreciate this more for its artistic beauty or its sexy sensuality. If I had to guess, I’d say you should try your hand at writing romance novels.

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