Her cunt conveys nothing. Notice this when she’s sitting on a chair in your kitchen, legs spread and dress rolled to her hips, her phone in hand, reading out the texts she sent you last night. Her face is expressive, even in ways she cannot control: a slight blush or a moment of openmouthed hesitancy before she delivers certain sentences (sentencesshewrote, but which clearly she never imagined she would be asked to read out loud).
Her cunt, however, is inert. It is quiet, unchanging. A smooth and closedseeming entrance to her body. Her cunt does not blush. Does not stiffen like a cock. Does not engorge or drip with precome. Svelte and obscene, it merelyis.
Look at her face and you will know that the words she’s reciting excite her. Look at her cunt and you wouldn’t know a thing. It gives up its secrets only to touch. If she’s wet, if she’s open and ready for you, if she’s tense and snug, if the soft skin between her legs is hot, if there is a pulse within her beating like a heartbeat… all of these things you will know only when you touch her.
For now, though, you sit in your kitchen, and she sits before you with her legs spread and her dress rolled up, reading out the texts she sent you last night, and her cunt… nestled quiet and still and mysterious between her legs, tells you nothing.
