I Can Touch Myself Now

The moment of anticipation is almost too much for me to bear. My hands tracing the lines of my body as I wriggle, eager for connection.

My writhing pushes the sheet further down until it's barely even covering my hips. Lower and lower and when I glance down I can see the top of my mound clad in the tight boy shorts I wore to bed and I thrust up, raising my ass off the bed just enough that the soft and silky sheets drape over me and when I part my thighs I see it settle on the mound of my sex.

God I want it. I press my hands into the bed beneath me and gather up the fabric of the fitted sheet in my fists and I groan and I wonder why I'm being so cruel to myself. Why I insist on teasing myself. Why I don't just give in.

I have no reason not to.

Drawing in a deep and shuddering breath I close my eyes and let my head lie to the side, angled towards the mirror. I wriggle my hips deliberately and push my hands down, pushing the top sheet down my body as I do so until I feel it leave me and the cool blush of air touches the top of my thighs and in my shorts my blushing sex thrums with need.

Warmth contrasted with cold. My room not cold but cool and in contrast to the burning of my skin and the heat in my belly it might as well have been an arctic chill. It was so pronounced, so different, so very cold.

But the cold only made the hot feel so much hotter and it only made my breath catch in my throat, my body shuddering as I felt the jiggle and shake of this feminine form of mine bounce beneath me.

Sheet down to my knees now and with a giggle I kick it away and there is nothing left for my hands to do now, no reason to deny any longer.

I can touch myself now.

Nails first. Fingers turned so the tips of them press into the tops of my thighs as I drag them up, so light that it won't leave a mark but they're sharp enough to draw a hiss of painful pleasure out of me.

Reaching the top of my thighs and turning, flattening out so the balls of my fingers press into the skin of me and I feel the heat build around then as I press down and tease my way into the sensitive skin of my inner thighs.

But I don't go far. I hold fast and I continue to take it slow because with each moment I deny myself the pleasure of me, I build that wave even higher.

I think I'm understanding that now, understanding how this body works How the body of a woman works. How different it is from that of a man.

Giving a woman pleasure is an act of deliberation, it takes time and focus and attention. You build on things bit by bit, laying a foundation and the structure afterwards and slowly teasing your way higher and higher until you reach heights you barely ever even knew to be possible.

So different that is from a man. A man where you can basically just push them onto their back and thrust them into you, where the blunt and the obvious and the direct is often the best approach, if reaching the end quickly is the aim at least.

Men are simple. Women are complex. And this body of mine craves the slow build because I know that if I give it to me it'll be so very worth it in the end. It will leave me gasping, eager for more and more and more and more.

Never able to be truly satisfied, perhaps, but when even a single climax is enough to leave me gasping so who am I to complain?

God it's so much better and I know it. It is light and it is lust and it is teasing refrains that put a smile on my lips as I pull my fingers up until they're settled on my hip bones and I tease them inward, pressing onto the top of my mound through my shorts but not pressing down, just feeling it instead as I press in and hold.

Feeling that bundle and ball of warmth deep in my belly. Thrumming and throbbing and pulsing with life and aching for me to satisfy it.

Begging for me to push it over the edge.

Needing me not to stop, not now.

Maybe not ever.

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