Meditations on Girth

She has ambitions for her cunt. Plans for that sleek little hole. She wants to fill it. Not just fill it, but fill it. Meanly. Violently. She wants to get her hand in there. Her whole hand, closed fist, fingers pressed together. Down to the wrist. That’s something she fantasises about. Looking down and seeing her wrist disappearing into her hungry cunt. Swallowed whole.

It frightens her a little. How, in the moment, there doesn’t seem to be a limit to it. When she’s horny she fantasises about penetration. Imagines fucking herself with an anaconda dildo. Pornstar cocks thrust into her cunt. Two cocks at once. How would that feel? She imagines it. She imagines it often.

They’re odd fantasies. She acknowledges that to herself in the aftermath. Silly ideas. One cock fills her perfect adequately. Four fingers is about the limit of what she can endure before it becomes painful. And yet, in the moment, she cannot help but want more. And not just a little bit more, but an absurd excess.

When she masturbates she pictures cocks as thick as coke cans rammed home between her legs. Outsize dragon dick dildos – the kind she’s seen on the internet, but never dared to buy. She imagines hands – male hands, big hands, thick, strong hands. She imagines looking down as she’s filled with them. Her tiny cunt. Stretched beyond endurance.

As she calms down, the fantasies fade. They take on an absurd lustre. Silly ideas. Out of line with practical reality. Warm and pink and sweaty, in a post-masturbatory haze, she cups her cunt. That little hole. She feels the size and tightness of it with her fingertips. One day, she thinks. But not today.