Also available as audio on The (It Girl. Rag Doll) Podcast Episode 2: Sunshine & Narcissism.
Written because I adore the words “narcissistic dacryphilia”.
She sat and her face swam into view before her, reflected back by the mirror she was certain flattered her. She stared into the cold, hard glass and admired the large roundness of her dark eyes, and the soft pout of her pink lips. She traced one slender finger along her jawline and blinked – twice – letting the butterfly-tickle of her lashes tease her blushed-red cheeks. It took work, but it was a reflection she enjoyed. The sight of green – truly green – eyes, well outlined above cupid’s bow pleased her. She smiled.
But her hands moved like clockwork. Not for a second did she tear her gaze from gaze. Simply stared herself down, and let her hands open drawers and produce the wipes and cleansers that would reveal – beneath the socially accepted fakery – her natural visage. The wet tissues smudged and smeared her eyes, and tore her lips into a joker-like smile. She pressed on, and peeled off the false lashes, hypnotised by the sight of her eyelids stretching from each iris. And then her cheeks grew pale, wipe by wipe, revealing the raw, never-seen flesh beneath.
She saw no beauty. Nothing pretty. Nothing outstanding. Nor did she see anything repulsive. She didn’t recoil at her revelation, but simply sighed into her mediocrity. The icy palm of the unremarkable began to squeeze her heart, forcing her blood in unsteady jets through her paling body. Nothing gripped her worse than the truth of total ordinariness.
His words rippled across her skin, leaving goose-pimples in their wake. “She’s prettier than you.”
Simple. True – she knew it was true. And so affecting. It annoyed her, and she sat opposite him, holding back emotion, and digging her nails into the back of her hand beneath the table.
Now, at home, she let his words flood over her, again and again, in waves and ripples, and blinking hard she forced the tears from between her lashes. They flooded the wells of her eyes, and spilled, poetically, from the lips of her lids. Coursing their rivulet-way down across the swell of her cheeks, they caught and dragged the remaining kohl until the pathways of her sorrow were etched in black.
And seeing them flow caused her body to heat and pant. Poetic, tragic, dramatic, her tears in all their romance flowered as heat and moisture between her thighs.
Depth of feeling? Shakespearean tragedy? The hopeful, wishful wanting of a man to kiss the water from her face? Something about these tears, their strength and power, their unecessary-necessity whispered arousal to her. She wanted, so much, to feel the pain deep in her abdomen. She wanted it to split her from core to cunt.
But for all her desires, she only saw it, painted in transparency on her colourless cheeks.
She gazed at her romantic reflection and writhed in her seat, sliding five fingers between her pumping, warmth-plumped thighs. She sought her opening, weeping at her own emotional depravity, trapped in the most delightful cycle. She whimpered and plunged inside.
She violated herself, immersed in misery; in her fantasy-filled mind, she was Ophelia, drowning in the water as her tears flowed and met the river. She was Anne Boleyn stepping onto the scaffold. She was Orpheus turning back.
She bit her lip, capturing it’s fullness between sharp teeth, and watching it swell on either side. It grew red, and redder, bursting like cherries. She swept her fingertips from hood to pucker, smearing wetness, and floating on the ecstasy of her self-produced moisture. Trembling she sought more, dragged from the furthest recesses of her mind, her most icy memories. She let them grip her heart and drag her into perturbation.
Her Mother left, and her Father drank. Her brother cut, her friends bitched; her lovers scorched her, and every teacher marked her down. And all of the pain grew fainter the more she used it. Like pornography that soured after three or four viewings. She longed for her agony, but softened it by indulgence.
Of course she sought drama. She sought tears. She sought desire.
She fucked herself harder as she thought of fear, thrusting four fingers inside her almost-virginal cunt, listening to the wetness that made him gasp. She watched her tears rolling – more, more, more – and wondered when they would stop.
Submerged, she felt her weeping drip and splash onto the tender flesh of her breast. Eyes grew red, swollen.
She wished and imagined that her tears could fall, unobstructed and precisely from their source to the estuary of her cunt. The thought made her shudder. She shook, pressed fingers harder inside, and saw, in her mind’s impossible eye, one perfect drop – sorrowful in it’s beauty – fall softly into the dip below her mound.
And she came. Clasping in her knuckles, and gasping in her cunt. She came.
The tears stopped and she overflowed, her sex glistening, the ever therapeutic weeping coming to aid and wash away her climax.