Down the rabbit hole.

July 18, 2021

Dear Diary,

Today was a blur—a hot, messy, insane blur. Woke up still in that black swimsuit from yesterday, the one I bought with Tara, still clinging to me, a little sticky from last night. Couldn’t take it off—didn’t want to. It felt too good, too right. Had a full day planned—uni reading, a shift at the café, groceries—but none of it happened. Instead, I did something stupid. Or brilliant. Grabbed my laptop, pulled the swimsuit tighter against me, and typed “one piece swimsuit fetish” into Google. Just curious, you know? Oh, Diary, I had no idea what I was in for.

Down the rabbit hole I went—hours, hours of it. Japanese fetish sites first—Hirogato, endless galleries of girls in tight spandex one-pieces, shiny and stretched over every curve. Poses that made my pulse race—legs spread, fabric pulled taut, wet from pools or sweat or… more. Then Swimsuit Heaven—amateur shots, real women in sporty suits like mine, smiling but with that edge, that tease. Kept clicking, deeper, until Pornhub loaded up—videos of women grinding in swimsuits, rubbing themselves through the fabric, moaning like it’s the best thing they’ve ever felt. I couldn’t look away. My hands were on me before I even realized—sliding over the spandex, pressing where it hugged my clit, my nipples, mimicking what I saw.

Supposed to be at work by noon. Didn’t go. Didn’t call. Just sat there, legs splayed on my bed, laptop blaring moans, my fingers relentless. Kept going—rubbing, squeezing, tugging the swimsuit aside just enough to feel the air, then snapping it back. Watched a girl in a red one-piece grind against a pool float, her face all blissed out, and I copied her—humped my pillow, spandex slick against it, soaking through. Hours melted away. Found a Japanese video—some guy licking a girl’s swimsuit crotch while she squirmed, and I lost it. Pushed my fingers harder, faster, imagining that, imagining Tara in her tights, the saleswoman’s smirk. Came so hard I shook, but I didn’t stop—kept going, chasing more, drowning in it.

By night, I was a wreck—sweaty, trembling, the swimsuit drenched. Sweat, juices, all mixed up, sticking to me like a second skin. Must’ve watched a dozen videos, clicked a hundred pictures. Forgot to eat, forgot everything. Fell asleep like that—laptop still open, some looped clip of a swimsuit girl playing in the background, my hand limp between my legs, the spandex warm and wet against my face where I’d pressed it. Exhausted, spent, but God, so alive.

Woke up just now to write this, still in it, still soaked. It’s not just a swimsuit anymore, Diary—it’s me. I’m hooked, and I don’t even want to climb out of this hole. Work’s gonna be pissed tomorrow, but right now? I don’t care. Night—or whatever’s left of it.