Having been visiting family and sleeping in close quarters, I haven’t had the opportunity to masturbate for the past several days. And prior to that, I was in too black a mood to even want to.
But, I returned home last night to an empty house (Mr. D and our kiddo have gone camping). It’s not like I walked in and was like, “Holy shit, I’m alone! I should drop everything and fuck myself!” Though, that wouldn’t have been a bad thing, and I applaud those who have that sort of spontaneous, singular focus to let everything else go. I need to cultivate that quality in myself.
Mr. D hasn’t touched me in over two weeks, so my body is craving human touch. I can shut my needs off for some time and let my head take over, compartmentalize and numb myself…but sometimes, my bodily needs become strong enough that they look right past my head and my heart. They become physical manifestations of my fears and my stress and my guilt, turning themselves into simple, physical lust.
The beauty of lust is that it does not require thought.
In lust, we do not have to be afraid. We do not have to admit our sins. We only need to feel…good. In lust, we crave, we seek, and we feed our desires. Lust is hungry and can be selfish and thoughtless. Lust is seeking and fulfilling.
I let my bodily needs take over last night, briefly, as I got myself off while watching TV. It was absently done, quick, and for maintenance purposes only. But this morning, I let myself go. This morning, lust spoke to me.
I rolled over to look at the clock. 10:42. I’d slept in and felt somewhat guilty for having lost a portion of the day. But, what did I have to do? Not much….coffee, writing, maybe sweep the floor and do a little laundry…dinner reservations at 5:00. No one was home. No one would need me to do anything. I didn’t need to shop or do anyone’s laundry. No one would expect anything from me.
The thought left me feeling decadent and lazy.
I licked my forefinger and moved my hand through the maze of sheets and blankets, pajama shorts and panties, and found my clit, dry and still sleeping. It would take more than a licked finger to wake it up, and so I committed myself to the effort, removing blankets and clothing, spreading my legs to the slowly moving ceiling fan above. I reached up to the headboard shelf and found the lube, opened it, spread my labia, and dribbled a liberal amount onto my clit, feeling the cool liquid seep down the folds. I was going to do this without the help of any devices, because I felt I needed to reconnect with my own body.
I put the lube back on the shelf, and used both hands to rub the lube in and around my entire pussy. I wanted it wet. Just the slickness turned me on. Just the movement of my hands. I rubbed my clit and then slipped a finger inside, as deep as my hand would allow, pressing my palm against the wetness, moving it back and forth as I pushed my finger in and out. It wasn’t enough. So inserted two fingers, which finally encouraged my own wetness within. I could feel it well up, and the sucking sounds began. This was likely to be messy.
So I moved to the bathroom and set out a few towels and my pillow. Laying down, I spread my legs wide and began to circle my clit with all four fingers several times, and then dripped some more lube onto my already wet pussy. I inserted the same two fingers, rubbing my palm against my pussy, making sure to address my swelling clit with the edge of my palm, nearly my wrist. Circling my clitoris with the fingers of my left hand, I inserted three fingers from my right hand into the sopping wetness, hooking them in a bit to reach my g-spot, the place where I was producing handfuls of my own wetness with each thrust. My pelvis began to rock back and forth, my thighs and calves and forearms tensed, and my back began to arch. I was so wet, I actually managed to fit all four of my fingers into my pussy, and the gushing from within me began. It took all of my arm strength to continue, as my wrist and forearms were beginning to scream with the effort, but that orgasm was too damned important and too damned close.
I spread my legs wider and thrust my hand into myself harder (wishing suddenly that I could fit my whole fist)…in and out and in and out…and it gushed down between my legs and across my ass onto the towels with each thrust. The squelching sound echoed against the bathroom wall, loud and wanton, as I held my breath, furiously rubbing my left fingers over my throbbing, dime-sized clit.
I felt it coming. The orgasm built from just behind my clit, and just within me, behind my g-spot. My entire body tensed with the expectation, and I held my breath as it came. As I came. Like something exploding from within, at my core, it sent pulsing shock waves down my legs to my toes, and up my torso, down my arms and to my fingers. And I felt the wetness over my hands, like a faucet, like warm-water, spilling forth. I let go of my tightness, and simply let the pulses come and slow until I lay spent on the bathroom floor.
I think the after-effects of an orgasm feel like morphine coursing through me. A liquid happiness that takes over and leaves no room for anything else but feeling it.
I nearly chose to simply roll over and fall back to sleep. But the wetness beneath me began to cool and became uncomfortable. I sat up and saw the large wet spot I’d left. I stood and used a clean towel to dry myself off, redressing in clean lounge clothes. I took the pile of towels to the laundry room and then made myself a cup of coffee, basking in the humming vibrations that are always left by a good orgasm. The residual heat in my chest and throat and cheeks kept a small smile on my face.
Sometimes lust is destructive. But sometimes…often actually…it is healing. And I’m fairly certain I’ll be letting it take over again today…and tonight…and tomorrow. Because right now I need it. I need lust to simply take me places I cannot take myself.