I don’t touch myself often. I don’t feel the need anymore. At any given time, when we’re together, I’ll feel his hands on my body. Stroking my ass. Tweaking my nipples. Nipping at the sensitive skin on my neck, just below my ear. I shiver just thinking about it.
When I do touch myself, it’s usually in an absentminded way. He’s on my mind, but he’s not with me – or he’s otherwise occupied.
I’m a good girl, though. My pussy belongs to him. I don’t touch myself there without permission.
But my breasts, soft and round? My nipples, alternately soft and wide or taut and crinkly? I touch myself often. Cupping one breast, fingers skimming across the other nipple.
My body arches at my own touch. My legs spread. The center of my body dampens, hoping for attention of it’s own.
My hands move down my stomach and waist, luxuriating in the feel of soft skin and full curves.
I may flip over to my stomach and let my fingers play along the curve of my ass, legs askew, pussy pressed into cool sheets. Instead of cooling my desire, it’s only heightened.
Touching as many soft places as I can without going too far, I ignore everything but the feel of skin beneath fingertips.
The world slips away. I am all soft places and curved lines. I feel good in my own hands.
“Enjoying yourself over there, Babygirl?”
How long does he watch me before interjecting? I’m never sure.
Sometimes, he swoops in and rescues me from myself with strong, warm hands that know my every secret place. He brings me to the edge, and I beg for release. Often, he grants permission and my body shudders and trembles as I spasm around his fingers.
Other times, he is simply a casual observer, knowing that by doing nothing, I will remain needy and wanton, ready for him at the time of his choosing.
For once, I actually used this week’s Masturbation Monday prompt – sort of. For those who choose to use the help, it’s all about who and what we think of when touching ourselves. So I have to ask – what do you think about when you touch yourself?