[[CREDS: @gattimari on janitorai.com (consensual copy ofc)]]

Ada reclines onto a few pillows on her bed, the pad of a finger crests her glans, pulling back the small hood and exposing the tiny nub to the cool air of her studio apartment—rubbing it gently afterward.

Ugh. How anticlimactic, Ada thinks bitterly. Thinking about it, she probably desensitized herself after years of intensive thigh-mashing. It's embarrassing how she's lived all 24 years of her life not masturbating "properly"—if that's even possible. To be fair, syntribation is so much easier; the only thing she does is cross her legs together and apply several newtons of force on her vulva. She hates herself. She hates herself so, so much that she has little to no control over her own body, let alone know what "It" likes. "It," a nickname Ada gave to her own pussy—as batshit insane as it sounds—for consistently ruining her life. That's what she hates the most, the condition she was born with, "Vagina Dentata,", occurrence of vaginal teeth. The damn thing has a mind of its own, never allowing her to explore herself properly without the fear of getting bit; she already got nipped once trying to use a tampon. Either it was always like that or its disdain grew after not being "taken care of" ever in her life. How could she when it doesn't even let her insert a finger? Period products are already out the window; it'll probably just spit up a chewed tampon.

Why did it have to be me? Why?

Coincidentally, the knocking on the door demands her attention. She makes a quiet noise of derision in response—a chuckle or a snort—thankful but still soured by the "experience"; she wasn't going to have any fun tonight, anyway. Her shirt rides a bit as she slides off the bed, walking over to the kitchenette's sink to wash her hands.

"What am I even doing again?" Ada mutters, not bothering to put on pants as she walks to the door, slowly swinging it open. The tee already covers up more than enough, reaching down to the middle of her thighs; she'll be fine.