I wake to a blast of noise. The alarm gets smashed to the floor but turns off. Confusing images of my possible future husband with another woman flickers behind my eyelids.

Late to bed, early to rise - my mantra for life. Effort, preparation, and patience messages adorn my walls.

I groan. My legs try to rebel and keep me in bed, but my brain pushes, and they reluctantly respond. I throw the heap of yesterday’s clothes into the hallway for laundry, as again, I choose duty over the bed.

Today will bloom with the sun, and I will glow with energy to do everything that needs doing. My baby blue bed calls me, promising comfort and warmth, but instead, I rip the sheets off for washing and neatly fold up the comforter.

I can do this. Mondays dawn this way. I hope the rest of the week won’t copy Monday. My reflection informs me I have not had enough sleep. I can easily hide the dreaded black bags with an artful foundation on my coco skin.

A quick dust and short clean before the washroom demands my time. Cold, building to warm, water washes the last vestiges of sleep from my body. White noise holds me and pushes the world away. Dead skin gets violently rubbed off, and burning water ignites my tingling nerves. Skin cream glides over and soothes my angry skin, stopping the revolt it threatens. My body doesn’t understand staying young and beautiful must start now.

I want the water to hold me forever, but the day demands my attention. At seventeen, my morning routine takes too long without bowing to my body’s wishes. A further inspection of my complexion reveals a slight blemish on my lower right cheek. A blend of foundation works its magic and returns my face to perfection before the next step.

Do I put pajamas back on, only wear my panties, or devolve into naked barbarism? I choose the middle ground, and the ball of silk material gets added to the hallway pile for washing - bed sheets and pajamas together again.

My large breasts tug against gravity for not wearing a bra, with threats of ugly stretch marks, however, the cool air grows my nipples, which helps my body stay awake. I will wear a bra in the future, but not now, even if my breasts sway too much. They need to understand and refrain from complaining.

A primitive part wants nudity, but the sensible side doesn’t like leakage running down my leg. The black bush between my legs tickles me as I pull my panties up. Worth shaving? Some websites claim guys like a smooth, or semi-shaved, pussy, while others - natural. Natural hides my large, blood-engorged lips, a popular feature in online videos. I can shave if my husband wants. It’ll take too long to regrow, so I’ll keep my razor to my legs and armpits. I can’t miss out on the perfect husband because he wants hair down there.

Mom and Dad’s goodbye call startles me, “Bye.”

The door bang echoes up the stairs.

They love each other enough to carpool, so many other parents divorce or live separate lives together. Mom’s so lucky to have Dad. I hope God has someone like Dad for me.

The clock shows 5:30 a.m. My morning health routine takes so long now. Maybe I have an illness, I had less energy yesterday, or I need to stop my complaints, toughen up, and enjoy what I have.

Vitamin D, Iron, Calcium, Fish Oil, and Elderberry Juice all help increase my immune system, hopefully enough to crush this cold or flu or whatever this is.

The kitchen gets wiped, the living room vacuumed, the cat fed, the plants watered, and the laundry started before I get my time. Yoga keeps my body limber. The large mirror analyzes my poster and form. I can select the best positions and poses to maximize my best features.

First, the classic toe touch, my best pose; I position my heels one and a half feet apart, hips high and slightly pushed back, arms loose, and hands resting on the floor. The mirror tells me to lean a bit more forward, bringing my ass higher. My wide hips draw the gaze to my panties that pull into my ass and cunt crack. My breasts complain of lack of support in this position, hanging down, almost to my chin, brown nipples pointing at my future husband. Soon, I remind them. Soon, someone will hold and caress them.

Strong fingers will lift and tickle each nipple before slipping my panties to the floor. Their nose will rub up my slit. The hairy vs shaved debate jars me back to reality. Good thing I didn’t listen to my cunt as the panties keep my legs dry.

Next position. Downward-facing dog. Legs spread, back straight. I breathe through the stretch along my spine and hips. My cunt and ass shout that my panties constrain them, as they claim I don’t need panties. My pussy wants to spread its wings while my little bum hole wants to wink at the world.

However, I prefer to act like a princess, not a barbarian. My future husband will remove my panties and free my naughty cunt and demanding ass. His job, not mine. Or maybe he will wrench the silk fabric to the side and give into my cunt and ass demands.

Chubby, rough fingers will press into my wetness, my lips red, my cunt a second hungry mouth, and my tiny asshole, the third hungry hole. Again, the juxtaposition of having both hair and no hair slams me back to reality.

Re-focus, breath.

No husband observes today. The future husband will remove the panties when he wants.

My cunt sends images of a faceless dick fucking it. Yes, one day! My ass asks for a finger. Later, maybe later. My body responds with more energy, giving me a boost of adrenaline to help me through the pose.

Focus, breath, count.

I move into the Extended Puppy pose.

My soft, thick carpet presses and supports my breasts, and their complaints stop. My back arches while my hips push up. My neck whines about staring at the mirror, but I must scrutinize and adjust. The exact position of my cunt and ass remain hidden. My cunt wants more back arch for better display, but also shallow for better dick access. Stupid cunt. Next time, a video will settle the debate, or a friend to scrutinize and adjust.

Better a friend. Real-time adjustment works better. I want a sibling for this. Blonde Izzy complains about her younger brother, but he helps her practice. If only she didn’t act so possessive.

Focus, breathe, count.

I roll onto my back for my second favorite pose, the Happy Baby.

With no mirror, I focus on my body sensations. The thick, soft carpet resists the gravity tugging on my body. Warm, rose-scented air caresses my nose while a distant chirp sneaks through my window. My hands hold my feet and pull my legs to the sides, stretching tight tendons in my hips. The pose perfectly displays my cunt. The stupid thing screams to remove my panties. It wants to gape apart and call into existence the perfect husband, someone to lower their face and kiss it.

All my friends agree this pose will break down any man’s barriers, trapping them. Taylor taught me this pose. She learned it from her gymnastics teacher for her massages. She insisted on doing it nude, which I resisted until she filmed me.

My stupid cunt screams to remove my panties while my panties slip deeper in. Why can’t my cunt make friends with my panties? They protect it. Engored with blood, my cunt refuses to listen to reason. I ignore it.

The day after I learned the pose, I demonstrated it to Mom in the living room. Mom insisted we remove our clothes. The pose worked better naked. Her trim, pale body contrasted lewdly with the dark grey, almost black, rug. I helped spread her legs wider to better expose her shaved pussy. Her sexual scent assaulted me when I bent over to push her legs further down. Her angry deep red pussy smiled at freedom, perfectly presented between her legs. Her massive milky white breasts lolled to the side, bright red nipples grew and begged. Impulsively, I licked my dry lips.

Mom had trouble holding the position long enough to get Dad from his workshop. When he arrived, well, he stripped while staring at her, tongue stuck out to the side. I mumbled an excuse and sprinted upstairs but paused at the top. Mom’s moans and Dad’s grunts begged me to find out how to please my future husband. Visible from my vantage point, Dad’s dark brown manhood slammed into Mom’s flaming red pussy. His slightly lighter ass thrust in and out. For a man of fifty, he knew how to make Mom scream. For a lady of forty, Mom held the pose for a longer time than I have ever accomplished.

I tried not to, but my right hand ignored my pleas and rubbed its best friend, my cunt. A husband must love his wife so much he takes her in the middle of the front room while the kids play elsewhere, but I will let them learn. Kids must know how to please their future husband or wife.

After a thank-you visit to Dairy Queen, they retreated to their room where the moans and screams once again demanded my cunt have its best friend, my right hand, down to play.

Re-focus, breath.

My mind always wanders when I do yoga. I must learn to focus. I skip the other poses, worried my hand will ignore my commands and succumb to my cunts offers.

Now, morning meditation.

Today, I focus on the importance of practice and the possible sexual needs of my future husband.

Still clad in panties, I ignore my cunt and ass’s unfairness complaints that my breasts and back received carpet caresses. I focus, empty my mind, sit cross-legged, and stare at the black cross on my white wall.

Breathe in, breathe out, and force my mind to go blank and connect with God.

Mom and Dad married late in life, both in their twenties, Mom earlier, Dad later, so now I must wait until at least nineteen before marriage. Patience. Only two more years.

Patience. Breath.

Mom’s message tumbles to the top of my turbulent mind. A modern woman needs to clean, cook, and sexually satisfy her husband while working a full-time job. I can do everything, but I need more sexual practice for my future husband. Luckily, I have time.

Patience. Breath.

Research remains contradictory on men’s sexual satisfaction. Some articles claim husbands only need missionary sex, while others claim a man will need blow jobs, anal sex, and threesomes with other women or men. To cover all possibilities, I have practiced blow jobs with bananas. The good ones go deep down my throat. Those I eat slowly, while the ones that caused me to gag get eaten in a rush.

Friday, Teacher Barrett explained veggies will not make you pregnant. I trust her over the stupid sites that claim women have become pregnant from vegetables. I agree with my classmates that the slutty women got pregnant by a ‘not husband’ man, so they didn’t want to tell the truth. However, all weekend, I had an internal debate about whether I wanted to practice pregnancy or not. A practice pregnancy might make future pregnancies with real babies easier. Vegetables would have worked best. Baby cucumbers or carrots popping out might hurt and embarrass me, embarrassment versus practice. Everyone sucks at first, and only practice makes you better, so success needs embarrassment for growth. Now, I don’t know how to practice.

Two more years to get ready. How long does it take to stretch out my cunt to accommodate my future husband’s penis? The web has too many answers. Maybe a good question for health class today?

I force my mind off its tangent and back to my future husband’s needs. It will take as long as it takes. I need to start now.

I have a cucumber for my cunt and a carrot for my ass. The fat, short cucumber will stretch me but not poke out my panties. A giggle escapes, imagine a green hard cucumber hanging like a man’s penis. I bet slut, Blonde Izzy, would stroke and play with it. Maybe I could get a long fat one and practice with Blonde Izzy. Each of us gets an end.

I will use a smaller, longer carrot. Tests indicate my cunt can handle larger objects than my ass, though the internet claims that with practice, it will switch.

The internet does not say how many men want a threesome with another guy. Or how many want to bring another couple into the bedroom. Mom and Dad have had Dad’s oldest brother and his wife over for fun love games. But I don’t have any siblings, however, some of my classmates act like sisters. Maybe their future husband will want an orgy. I need to practice for everything.

How much lube?

My breath increases as I focus more on the cross while working to extend the depth and reduce the speed of each inhale. Still too fast, I hold each inhale for a count of two.

My mind returns to the problem of how much lube. Too much and the vegetables may fall out, too little, and they will hurt going in and out. In the future, I need to handle things without or with lube. What if my future husband wants slippery or friction? I need to practice both.

The first time, I will use two fingers worth. Over time, I will work to find the correct amount. All practice involves trial and error, hence why we practice.

Pleased with a decision, I force my mind blank, trying to empty it, but images of possible husbands keep materializing. I try to return to my breath and empty my mind, but the images refuse to leave.

Tall men, ivory-skinned, like my friend’s fathers or Mom’s brothers. Bearded, with chocolate-hued hair, soulless blue eyes, or maybe soulful, hazelnut brown. Late twenties, old enough to know how to treat a girl but young enough to keep up.

However, like Mom’s brothers, white men have narrow, closed minds unable to glimpse past the skin to the beauty and love inside, only focusing on the surface contrast. Their blonde wives, with artificial breasts and fake tans, do not judge but also do not socialize with Mom and Dad.

Images of my uncles and aunts invade my musing - thin, quick, mahogany-skinned men and loud, sparkling, curvy women - dreadlocks and hair extensions with brilliant white smiles. My extended family embodies fun and love. All four couples remain married. All four couples have open minds and can peer past a person’s facade to the inner beauty. Age doesn’t matter, only the maturity.

I entertain the idea of an Asian man. I don’t know any personally, though we have a few in our church. Images of my uncles and aunts hugging keep returning. I force their smiling faces out of my brain and focus on the Asian men. They couple with fellow Asians and smoke. My middle uncle, Noah, smokes, so I know a wife can love a smoker, even though the smell lingers on everything. I keep an open mind, but the toxic clouds and dirty ashes turn my stomach. I hope my future husband doesn’t smoke.

Maybe a Hispanic man. All the church Hispanic men work hard, but the image of my father’s youngest brother, Isaiah, replaces the men I know. I push down the tangent and focus on Daniel, a new member in his late twenties with creamy skin, dark black hair, and a wide, bright smile. He said, “Hi.” the few times we passed in the front vestibule. However, divorced means he sucks at picking a wife, or he sucks as a husband, or both.

The images of my uncles intruding must mean God has a plan for me to marry a strong, caring black man. We have a few unmarried ones in the church. Maybe the tall, muscular Cameron. Or the lean, strong Jaxon. Both smile and flirt after services.

I push the intrusions away. God has a plan for me. My perfect husband will appear in time. Patience, perseverance, and trust in God’s plan.

Breathe in, breathe out. Hold on the in, fully exhale.

With my decisions made for the day, I focus on breathing and emptying my mind. Images of my uncles and aunts keep bubbling up. Online, all black men have huge penises, and black women have hairy, large-lipped cunts like me. I allow them to surface and then float away.

Just breathe, push the idea away. Breathe. Just breathe.

But what if they have an extra big penis, too big for my hand to fit around the shaft, or they don’t fit inside me. I need to practice. God has a plan. I must embrace his plan.

The ring of my meditation timer destroys the peace. I need to get ready. My panties no longer contain the wetness, as a riverlet inches down my leg, so off they go. My cunt lips rejoice at the cool air while my cunt calls to my right hand. ‘Listen, I remain in charge, so not now. I don’t have time.’ Every meditation. Thank goodness I do the laundry.

Our dress code allows me to pick clothes fast, except for the type of bra. Do I wear a more sporty one to contain the bounce, or a more supportive one to ease the pressure on my back? Today, I chose a lovely pale blue supportive bra. The color clashes with my red panties, but no one will find out.

I pull my hair into two French ponytails, add extra make-up to enhance my flawless, cream-mocha skin, and then search for Vaseline. Not in the main bathroom, so I search in Mom and Dad’s.

They do not like me poking around, but they have left for work, so they will never know. I slip through their immaculately clean room and into their gleaming bathroom. The white counter and toilet shine in the skylight sunlight.

Like an intruder entering this semi-restricted place, I tiptoe softly, alone, afraid of my parents arriving home and catching me. I quietly open the doors under their sink, and in front of the cleaning supplies, the large container of Vaseline waits, almost finished. Thankfully, I only need a bit.

I pull off my panties, chastising myself for not leaving them off. A little string of my cunt’s juice holds onto my panties before finally breaking at my knees. Does my cunt want to keep on these panties? Stupid cunt, I need another pair.

Two fingers scoop out a glob of lube and smear it around and in my already wet cunt. A moan escapes as my two fingers enter. My nerves vibrate as if on fire, and my cheeks already appear tomato red, like my cunt. Thank goodness I didn’t use blush.

I need more lipstick. My lips need more color against my flushed cheeks. I must remember to put more on.

I quickly scoop out another glob and push it into my asshole. Another moan escapes while my knees buckle. I kneel on the floor, and a small trickle of sweat rolls down my cheek.

My right-hand moves to my cunt, but I exert dominance, not here, not in my parents’ bathroom. Fumbling, I replace the Vaseline lid. As I place the container back in, a huge, black dildo, too big to get my hand around, peeks out at me from behind the cleaning supplies. It smells of bleach and plastic. Could I fit this in? Not a chance. Yet, my future husband might have a penis this size.

Mom must use it to stay loose for Dad. Wow! While his penis appeared huge from the top of the stairs, however, not this size. A penis this size would make me scream just like Mom does at night. I need to practice more.

Does this mean my uncles must also have immense penises? Their wives have huge breasts like Mom. Would Uncle Cameron and Aunt Jada let me join them for practice? Aunt Jada always said I could ask anything. Maybe I can sneak Mom’s dildo to practice? Maybe Uncle Cameron will help stretch my cunt while Aunt Jada uses this to stretch my ass.

My mind tumbles, but I force it back on task. The flow from my cunt increases, so I use toilet paper to dam the flow. The dildo gets shoved back before temptation overwhelms me. I gently close the cabinet doors, retreat from the room, and I try to wipe the Vaseline off my hands with my soiled panties, but it smears.

The clock tells me I have less than five minutes before Judith and her mother pick me up for school. Where did the time go? How did I space out so much?

I toss the used panties in the laundry, grab a new green pair, and rush down the stairs to the kitchen. Which first, cucumber or carrot? I ask myself. No time to decide, and since I find the carrot first, it goes first. I contemplate the long, orange, and thin root vegetable in my hand, do I wash it? No, It goes in my ass, where shit comes out, so dirt doesn’t matter.

Bending over, I push the small end into my ass. Oh, my God, the earth shatters as it slides in easily, but the pressure builds until it pops, and my knees shake. Exquisite!

No time to savor the moment, I grab a medium-sized, green, bumpy cucumber and slam it in. The head spreads my angry red lips while my cunt sighs as it impales me. The two together almost send me over the edge and I can barely stand, as I stumble backward, the cucumber and carrot try to slip out, but I push both back in and lift my foot to pull on my panties.

The simple lift of my foot, and waist bend, darkens the world - only my cunt and ass matter. Only the cucumber and carrot matter. Only the pulses of pleasure matter. Too close, I almost orgasm.

I pull up the panties and focus on my breath and not spill over the abyss into orgasm. The panties barely make it up my legs, I squirm, and force the vegetables higher. The gag pair from my Secret Santa cut into my skin, but they will work to hold in the veggies. Maybe the slight discomfort will hold back the orgasmic flood.

I shuffle the long walk out the door and down to the curb. Thankfully, I live in a secluded cul-de-sac, where no one walks a dog or does yard work. The birds sing about knowing what I have inside me. How do they know? Why do they care? Because God made them? Husband and wife birds encourage me to stay strong for my future husband.

Did the curtain move in the white two-story house across the black pavement? Chill and nonchalant, I hide the shivers and pleasure rocketing through my body.

I can do this. Stay calm, and breathe out the pleasure. Remember the why.

Yes, the curtain moved, which made me think, ‘Does Carol spy on me? Does she suspect? Does she touch herself while laughing at my discomfort? How does she know? She could help me practice.’

She’s stayed married for decades, so she must know how to please Peter. Wait, Peter retired last month! Does he watch me, or do both watch me? Maybe he takes her from behind while they spy on me!

I squint at the house, where small, grey, cat ears resolve themselves against their grey curtain. The stupid cat, Milo, licks itself. Imagine if I could do that, my right hand would grow jealous of my tongue, becoming new best friends, with my cunt. The cucumber and carrot keep putting these lewd ideas into my head while my cunt and ass pulse with warmth and pleasure.

I stare at the mouth of our curl-de-sac, willing the old, grey, Prius to turn and save me. Late, of course, because I needed an extra minute. A reminder that God makes everything come in its own time. You can’t rush things, nor do you have to worry about having enough time because God has a plan. My perfect husband waits in the future, I just have to get ready.

The morning rays peek over the houses and large trees, warming my cheeks and competing with the fire in my belly. I try to stay still because each movement sends electric pulses through my body. But I shift, and a pulse of pleasure shoots up my body.