I love being a woman. Soft skin, rounded curves, firm and yielding at the same time.
Some mornings, when I first wake up, I cup my breasts, feeling their weight, stroking the rounded underside.
I admire my dark pink nipples, teasing them to tight peaks with my fingers.
My hands wander from one to the other, up my neck, across my collarbone, and back down again.
I gently squeeze my right breast, tweaking a nipple.
Sometimes, I lay in bed and stroke and pinch one nipple and then the next, letting the sensations race through my body.
The other hand often runs down my torso, across my hip, luxuriating in feel of my hip bone and my ass. Rarely, my hand finds my mound, stroking the soft, bare skin, before floating up my stomach to find my soft, round breast again.
My softness comforts me in the dark of the quiet morning.