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Nearly 24 hours after some of the most explosive orgasmic episodes I’ve had in a while, I was back at it. This time, though, we weren’t interested in mutual kinky fuckery. Instead, I was trying to test a mini vibrator to see if it could get me off. John Brownstone read his book while I laid on top of my come towel (lesson learned from the night before) and started to play.
I freely admit that when I’m masturbating next to him, I want to distract him. I hope I do. Sometimes, I try very hard to get his attention – blame it on my babygirl side. This time, it wasn’t about sexing it up and getting him to focus on me. I had a job to do – figure out if this sex toy worked or not.
When it didn’t, and whoa buddy, it didn’t, I was slightly disappointed. And bored. Very bored. I didn’t want to read. For once, I didn’t want to scroll through Twitter. I kind of wanted an orgasm and was a little let down.
Maybe I should just rub one out.
After so many years with a partner who touches my clit more than I do, and a box full of vibrators to do the job, it felt almost quaint to put my hand between my legs and play with my body.
I forgot how my clitoris swells with each circle of my finger. It feels like a jelly bean from this angle. I forgot how wet I get – without squirting.
I’d missed the soft petals buried in my body that shift and move with my fingers. It had been so long since I sank my fingers into my body just because.
As I explored myself again, an old game came to mind. Stroke your clit and let the orgasm build. And don’t stop. No matter what.
That game needs a name.
It was like old times, in the early days of figuring out how my body worked and masturbating for the first few times. A few times I rubbed one out until I gushed a little, partly because I could, partly because I needed the release. But I always went back to the game.
Swirl. Circle. Rub. Stroke.
My clit grew fat and heavy, pushing against my fingers. The tingles of pleasure I used to love began at the bottom of my feet and crept up my legs, like electrified molasses. Every muscle tightened. I reached out blindly and grabbed his arm. If he was watching me, I didn’t know or care.
I dug my heels into the bed, bracing myself for…what? Impact? I don’t know, but something was coming. Something good. Something explosive. Still, I swirled, circled, rubbed, stroked.
At times my body would spasm, my cunt clenching on itself. I kept going. Hissing between gritted teeth, eyes squeezed shut. This feels so good. It hurts so much. When will it end? Never stop.
The pressure and pleasure built, stoking an internal fire with each pass of my finger, until I reached a tipping point. Force the muscles to clench and let myself come or keep going.
I kept going.
“Aaaaaiiiieeeeeeeee!” I shrieked, not caring or knowing if I was heard, my body throwing itself to the side, burying my face against John Brownstone, my hand still moving between my thighs. The orgasm ripped the breath from my body, sending lightning streaking through each limb. I spasmed over and over again, shuddering against his firm warmth, feeling small, protected, and satisfied.
“Breathe, babygirl. Just breathe.” This too felt familiar, from the early days when I masturbated for him over the phone. “Did you have a good time?”
I chuckled, face still buried against him. “I’d say so. I think I should rub one out more often.”
Welcome to Masturbation Monday! A weekend full of orgasms was exactly what I needed. I’m still recovering and plotting my next opportunity to get off. If you need more smutty goodness, you know what to do.