InsaneJournal

Minerva ran her fingers over the coarse, splintered timber frame of the mirror. She wondered how it had come to be in this room; this room she had never knew existed until this very night. She stared at her reflection in the dusty, greasy glass. Running her fingers over the frame, Minerva let them fall to the cool surface of the glass. Her worn, grey eyes examined those that stared enquiringly back at her: Minerva could not fail to notice the wrinkled indentations of skin that had accumulated over the years.

 

She sighed deeply, the musty air of this strange, novel room filling her lungs. Minerva coughed as rogue dust particles tickled her throat. Patting herself gently on the chest as she cleared her airway, Minerva allowed her hand to linger over her chest. She pressed her fingertips to the thick fabric of her tartan robe: she could feel the bony ridge of her sternum beneath. Exhaling deeply, her warm breath conjuring a cloud of condensation, Minerva let her fingers graze the small mounds of her breasts: the soft cotton of her pyjamas caressed her aged nipples as she did so.

 

Minerva’s nipples responded in the same way that they had always responded to touch; and to the alternating application of the warmth of her clothes, and the almost icy cold temperature of her fingers as she pinched one nipple between her thumb and forefinger. Minerva’s fingers departed from her breast and deftly loosed her robe so that if fell to the floor. The heavy tartan lay in a crumpled heap about Minerva’s thin ankles.

 

One hand still gripping the timber frame of the mirror, Minerva opened her eyes. She stared intently at her reflection as she slipped out of her nightgown, exposing her worn body to the cool night air. She shook her hair loose, the strands falling about her shoulders. Minerva trailed her free hand down over her almost concave stomach to the jutting hipbones of her pelvis. Her hand continued its downward movement, burying itself in her wiry, grey pubic hair.

 

Tentatively pressing against the triangle of her pubic mound, Minerva extended her index finger, running it along the opening of her vagina. The skin was somewhat dry, but the sensation was no less pleasant for that fact. Minerva increased the rapidity of movement of her finger, the extent of its penetration widening with each movement. She swallowed; the gesticulation of her throat caused her to emit a small gasp, as though a single puff of air had escaped the confines of her mouth.

 

The bones of Minerva’s hips grated against one another as she plunged her fingers ever deeper inside herself and bucked gently against her hand. She manoeuvred her fingers ever so slightly and began to stimulate her clitoris, rubbing the intensely sensitive protuberance in alternately increasing and decreasing circular motions. Minerva’s breathing quickened. She moaned. Thrusting her fingers in and out of her cunt, Minerva’s legs began to tremble: she held fast to the frame of her mirror, her knuckles white from the sheer force of her grip as she tried to steady her balance.