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Horny on a Sunday afternoon when a date had tragically fallen through, I made up my mind to find out exactly what it was that my friend had seen from his vantage point betwixt my legs.
In the bathroom I lubed up. I placed a glass toy and my trusty Hitachi next to the air conditioning vent on the floor. I spread out a waterproof blanket, then topped it with a towel.
I anticipated much gushing.
I pulled from the wall an antique gold-leafed mirror. Propped against the wall, the reflection it threw back was uselessly too high. I needed to improvise.
Some time later, a McGuyveresque reflective device was complete. The mirror tilted down from atop an overturned plant stand; this rested upon two pillows. A paperback book added extra cushioning to the base of the mirror. Lying with knees spread wide and more pillows beneath my head, I had a gynecological view that must have been a pretty fair representation of what my friend had seen.
Between my cheeks went a glass toy. On my clit went the Hitachi. I wanted to come. I needed to come. But I also wanted to keep an eye on what was happening down south.
Did I see sunset-pink bits overflowing with falling waters? I did not. I could not see what I’d worked so hard to see, because I failed completely at keeping my eyes open through the intensity of Hitachi-induced orgasms.
I saw before. It was very pretty. I saw after. Again, right nice.
But during? Did it perhaps turn itself inside out? Blow raspberries? Or waggle an otherwise-hidden tongue? If my vulva did any such uncouth things I remain in blissful ignorance.
Guess I’ll just have to take my friend’s word that what goes on down there while I’m coming is pretty damn cool.



