Last night I couldn’t sleep. The house was silent—only the distant murmur of a city that never quite shuts off—and there I was, lying on my back, the sheets tangled around my legs as if someone had left them there on purpose. It wasn’t the bad kind of insomnia. It was the kind that warms you from the inside, the kind that starts with a silly memory and ends with your hand drifting down, slow and unhurried.
I thought of you. Not a specific you, of course—because sometimes desire doesn’t need a face or a name; it just needs room. I thought about the way you look when you truly like something, the way a sigh slips out of you before you can stop it. And I imagined you here, sitting on the edge of the bed, saying nothing—just watching as I opened my robe little by little, letting the fabric slide off my shoulders until it caught at my elbows. There were no words. Only the sound of my breathing changing rhythm when my fingers found that exact spot that always seems to know what I want before I do.
I moved slowly, as if I had all the time in the world. Because I did. No one was waiting for me early the next morning, no one was going to judge the mess of the sheets or the moan that escaped when I pressed a little harder. I closed my eyes and let the fantasy grow on its own: your hands replacing mine, your mouth following the path I’d traced, the weight of your body over mine—not crushing me, just reminding me I’m alive, that I’m still choosing this, that I still want to feel everything.
And when I reached the edge, I didn’t hold back. I let the orgasm move through me like a slow wave, the kind that soaks you completely without making a sound. Afterward I stayed there, breathing softly, with a silly smile no one saw.
This happens to me more often than I admit. Sometimes in the morning shower, with the hot water falling right where I need it most. Sometimes on the couch after reading something that stirs me up inside. Sometimes simply because the day was long and my body decided I deserve a reward before sleep.
It isn’t just sex. It’s reminding myself I’m still here—that my desire hasn’t been worn down by the constant friction of routine, that I can still light up from a thought, a touch, the simple idea that someone—or I myself—can make me tremble. And that, darling, is the most honest thing I have right now.
If it ever happens to you too—if one night you find yourself thinking about someone (or no one in particular) and your hand moves on its own—don’t feel strange. It’s just your body saying, I’m still alive, I still want. And wanting is one of the most beautiful things that happens to us.
And you? When was the last time you gave yourself a moment like that—just for you, without explaining a thing?
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