The lovely Tabitha Rayne suggested the #30DayOrgasmFun about a fortnight ago (although I am refusing to count as I have no intention of finishing) as a way of boosting mental health by taking the time to look after yourself in a way that left a smile behind and excellently burnt calories rather than adding them. And on Thursday evening I massively enjoyed @WatchingDistant with @mistress34F and @_Masterseye with their podcast #PlayingOutLive again on the topic of playing with ourselves
So I had masturbation on the mind. Not surprising then that when I opened a new document for this week's Wicked Wednesday prompt this is the path I took.
In the middle of a bright afternoon she has come to bed. This house has seen most of life and some beyond, but… I am drawn from the half shadows into her company. She hasn’t drawn the curtains or pulled back the bedclothes and I feel the unfamiliarity of the day, the burning sun illuminating the shade.
Unselfconsciously, she sheds her clothes while I watch from my perch by the window, where the bright light warms and I am invisible, even to myself. There are mirrors, but she doesn’t linger. Hangers, but her clothes rest as relaxed as she, draped over the chair and pooling on the floor.
Bodies fascinate me. I have shed prudery in favour of experience, but not everyone is so comfortable. Corsets and girdles and hose and layers of cotton lawn replaced by jeans and sweaters and onesies, but so often nothing has changed. Glimpses of skin before diving for duvets or covering with nightclothes. Towels held tightly as though they sensed I was watching.
Knee drawn up, back arched, she opens herself with bold fingers and I see her intimately, or would if I could bring myself to look.
Men have bared their cocks before me many times and my innocence is long gone. Have heard the grunting, moaning, wailing disturbance as copulation in all it corporal mess happens before me, creasing the sheets and dripping from their skin. Seed spilling from thick veined rods and slender elegant members and many variants between. Watched them jerk and tug, in a rough game of chase the release.
Words also. Men use more words aloud, although recently it is reading over the shoulders of the women I have learnt more vocabulary. So many words for their bodies, for the acts. And the words never stay still.
The women though have kept themselves private, beneath sheets or bodies of their men. Not her. I don’t even know her name and her legs are spread and a flush rising across her body. Lost in herself, I move closer wanting to savour this new carnality.
Mouth parted and eyes lightly shut, her limbs serene and relaxed, she entices me. Captivated by the subtle changes in her skin, her scent, she is triggering remembrance of a body. Of my body, long dismissed. She makes me want life.
Softly audible, puffs of warm breath tickle my senses and I capture them in my mouth. Such pleasure to be found in her unhurried actions. The fluttering of the pulse in her throat, strongly anchored to life, painfully emphasising our differences, sharpening my excitement at her physicality.
Fingers move purposefully between her legs and moisture glistens like dew. She is slow and I can tell it is a deliberate touch. The air is so heavy with her scent I can taste it, earthy and savoury. I imagine my mouth watering. Her legs lol revealing the slick, shiny folds and it is impossibly beautiful.
The euphemisms had seemed unlikely, but her sure touch makes her lips swell, flushing like a spit-slicked mouth bruised with kisses. Skin, rouged, gaping and yet she is here without her lover. She unfurls, so delicately, so reflective of and yet so different from the men I have experienced. Soft and pliant, their opposite in more than form.
Juice is coaxed from her flesh and fingers dip shallowly into the weeping eye of her sex: the rhythm of fucking created on a solo instrument. Melody played now by her thumb, in swooping circles around a pearl of flesh that winks from beneath a protective blanket. Her need, a ballet of sound and movement, precise practiced exertion to a backdrop of rustling bedlinen and slack-mouthed sighs.
I wonder at the powerful arousal that shimmers from her body, the waves of sensation that whisper past long dead nerves. I want to touch her. Myself. In her I have identity at last. An understanding of what I could have been.
I wait for her orgasm. Will she be noisy, the panting and cursing, calling for God and lovers present and past or silently biting her lips, pillows and willing flesh to stifle the noise? Delicate gasps or animalistic grunts. She waits to, holding herself so close to the edge, her movements building and subsiding like waves on the shore.
Tension. Through limbs that are a vague memory and curling through the core of my thoughts like thunder building. Undulations of need that mirror the movements of her hand. Shimmering reflections of her in a memory of me.
When she falls, I fall with her. My cry breaks free from her lips and I imagine our souls dancing together before she quietly slips back into her body. She sleeps, I think, and I fall away from her presence unsure if I might disturb her. She has disturbed me.