I love being a woman.
We’ve had to endure so much over the decades, the centuries, through the ages, and yet we’ve survived—thrived even. We’ve had to be cunning, conniving, creative, or simply more brilliant than the next man to prove our worth on the world’s stage. We’ve been warriors, smugglers, pirates. We’ve been, and still are, Queens in every sense of the word. Most of all, I loved the softness of our bodies in comparison to the taut hardness of a man’s.
I love our breasts: some tiny, some huge and pendulous, and so many more variations in between. The curve of our waists as they give way to widening thighs. I love our bums—some sculpted from working out, others voluptuous and kneadable, grabbable. Curves everywhere.
I adore them. I adore us.
Our curves make us women. Our curves make us sexy. We show the passing onlooker what sexual beings we are every minute, with every footstep, with every roll of our hips.
The very essence of my own womanhood, though, is my ability to give birth—the magical process of bringing a living soul into the world. I’m the creator and guardian of generations, a bridge between those who have come before me and those who will come a long time after me. My mind has always been blown by this. I found it a real privilege to be honoured with this capability. I had been prepared to feel proud—majestic even—when I got pregnant, especially as my body changed, got softer, and blossomed.
What I wasn’t prepared for was how fucking horny I was going to feel. Like, all the time.
Once the morning sickness faded and my belly began to swell, the stronger my desire for sex became. My boobs grew, my nipples got larger, and as my belly began to protrude, the only real pregnancy craving I developed was to have sex—but with myself. Don’t get me wrong, I loved sex with my gorgeous man, and we still made love from time to time, but this wasn’t about us. It was about me and how amazing my body was making me feel. I wanted to worship at my own altar. Admire my feminine fabulousness. Honour myself with long, wet strokes of my pussy.
I would wank nearly every day, and I still couldn’t get enough of me.
It helped that everyone expected me to feel tired all the time. I admit there were days when all I wanted to do was put my feet up, but it also meant that I had the perfect excuse to retire any time a rush of desire took hold of me. It could happen anytime, any place, anywhere—having coffee with my mum, sitting with mates, out shopping, and even in front of the...
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Read all about the wonderful author: Persephone Blackwell
