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Priapus’ Bride
CH 1
She must get ready. In the bathroom she strips and looks at her nude body in the full length mirror. The woman in the mirror is gorgeous. Her green eyes look back at the nude woman in the bathroom. She is proud, the woman in the mirror. She is strong, has no regrets.
She runs the hot water and fills a bag with it. She hangs the bag from the shower curtain bar and picks up the nozzle, tops it with a dollop of Vaseline and, with a practiced motion, deftly inserts it into her ass, as she squats on the floor of the bathroom, looking at the woman in the mirror. She has done this before. The hot water, running into her bowels is not unpleasant. After it is all in, about a quart, she removes the nozzle. She will hold the enema for a while, while the hot water in the faucet runs, hotter still.
After she empties herself, she refills the bag, this time with two quarts and repeats the process. She will do it yet one more time, with three quarts. This time, the water flows clear. She looks at the woman in the mirror again, and enters the shower. She does not have time to blow dry her hair, so she puts on a shower cap.
She must get ready. She takes a long shower. The hot water pounds her body, her face, breasts, belly and lower. The lather cleanses her, but it is not enough. The water rinses the lather away. It runs down her body, soaks the blond thatch on her mons, and in rivulets falls to the porcelain floor of the tub.
She leans forward and cleanses her pussy, then leans back and lathers her ass. She rinses well. The shower gel has no fragrance, but she wants no trace of it’s bitter taste on her skin. She steps out of the shower and dries herself with the oversize white towel. The towel is plush, soft, and wraps her in its tender embrace. She relishes in its softness and warmth.
She must get ready. The woman in the mirror sits on the stool, and carefully examines her labia. Any stray hairs, she plucks. Her thatch is a perfect triangle. Not a single hair out of place, and none on her labia, or between the pink slit, that is already moist, and her puckered brown rose.
She stands, proudly. Her five foot stature is not tall, but her body is that of a goddess. Her legs are long, lithe, toned. Her abdomen is almost flat, only a minimal curve, below her navel suggests her femininity. Her skin, flawless, sports the faintest tan. There are no bikini lines on her breasts, and only a triangle of white skin, in her front contrasts with her tan. If it were not for that white triangle; she would not perceive the tan, so fair is she. She notices her moisture. She can already smell herself. For an instant, her finger traces her slit, and stops, for the tiniest fraction of a second, at her sensitive nub; but no, there is no time.
She must get ready. She selects her underwear. Today it will be white. It must be white. A white garter belt, to hold up her sheer white thigh-high stockings comes next. Over it, she puts on a tiny white thong. She selects a brassiere. Her breasts are pert, firm mounds of feminine softness, tipped by two small, pink, and already erect nipples. She does not really need a bra, but she will wear one. He will enjoy seeing her remove it and, why deny him the pleasure? She selects a flimsy, lacy, strapless underwire. The lacey, frilly fabric does not contain her nipples. She inhales, and steadies herself on the counter. Her legs are going soft and fail to hold her up. She is afraid that she will fall. She glances at the woman in the mirror. After a moment she approaches the mirror over the sink, and applies her make up.
She will not wear foundation today. There is no need. She applies water proof mascara, black, with black eyeliner. Eye-shadow in three tones of gray. A very light dusting of powder, on her cheeks and forehead. A dab on her nose, and she is almost done.
The woman in the mirror looks back at her, and smiles. She smiles back.
She must get ready. Only half an hour left. She opens the closet and picks out her dress. She has had it for a long time. She has never used it. It is made of the sheerest silk. It is also white, it hugs her body, it leaves her shoulders bare. It flares out at the waist into a bouncy, saucy skirt. The skirt comes midway down her thighs. She cannot help it and puts on her white sandals. They have really high heels. She looks much taller on them. Her perfectly pedicured toes are painted scarlet red, like her lips. She pivots and spins in front of the mirror playfully.
She must get ready. She brushes her hair, she has no time to do anything fancy with it. She finally decides to hold it back with two barrettes, black, with small rhinestones. She ignores the bottles of perfume. Today she will wear only her own scent; pure, unblemished.
She sees His car arriving at the door. She must go. She applies her glossy red lipstick, matching her nail polish. She waves goodbye at the woman in the mirror. She picks up her purse, and puts it down. She leaves the apartment, and closes the door. She does not lock the deadbolt, she left the keys inside.
She wants to run down the stairs to meet Him, but she cannot run with her white high heeled sandals, so she must walk down the stairs. It is more dignified, more appropriate in a sense than running down like a moonstruck schoolgirl.
He holds the door for her. She enters, sits on the passenger seat and smiles at Him.
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