I’m so wet, so aching.
I part my thighs. Circle my clit with the tip of my fingers.
Light. Feathery.
I stare off at the porch, lips parted.
I don’t want to come yet.
I’m not ready to lose this.
In my fantasy, he’d want me to stop before I go over the edge, want me to drag it out and prolong this show I’m giving him.
So when I’m about to tip over the edge, I move away and return to my breasts, increasing the ache.
Everything gets sharper.
Like it’s the edge of a blade I’m perched on.
I imagine him twisting the knife.
Then I start the process all over again.
Rubbing and touching and moaning as I think of him watching me.
I throw my whole heart into it, letting it sweep me up and push me higher before calming down again.
My whole body is on fire.
Consuming me.
He’s watching.
Watching.
Watching.
Over and over. So close to the edge. Him whispering to stop. Obeying and beginning again. I go on like that, lost and frenzied and mindless, until a fine sheen of sweat has broken out across my skin and I’m so slick and swollen I think I might lose my mind.
Watch me.
Fuck. Please be watching.
And when I can stand it no longer, I push myself over the edge.
I bite my lip to keep from crying out as the orgasm shakes my body. My hips lift into the air, and I work every last swell and release from my body until I collapse and, panting, finally go still.
Satiated, my muscles melt like jelly and all the anxious tension I’ve been walking around with seeps from my body. The sensation is temporary, but I’ll take it.
I’ll be embarrassed soon enough, but for now, this will do.
At long last, I think I can sleep.
I adjust my nightgown, covering my breasts and shielding my body from the elements. I manage to climb off the oversized lounger, which suddenly wants to suck me down in to its plushness.
I have to hurry, before I lose this feeling and sleep eludes me. Lids heavy, I pick up my phone and open the doors to my bedroom, where I can crawl into bed.
My eyes drift closed.