There is a formula that I follow, long and drawn out, it takes me on the perfect journey from bored and horny to sated contentment. This isn’t a quickie, not a “do it and get on with my day” type of situation. This is a process, a love affair with myself, a special kind of Me Time.
I get to do this once a week now that Sir owns my orgasms. I don’t have to tell him when or how long or with what. It’s a freebie that I requested and was granted because it’s something that I need. My connection to myself is just as important as it is to him, and I need to keep that relationship healthy and thriving. I used to perform this ritual whenever I wanted, and so I did it often. Now, this time is more precious to me, a special moment that I want to draw out as long as possible.
I go to my room, the guest room, which is decorated in a soothing palate of blues, greens and grays. The light streams in through the double glass doors making me feel as though I’m out in the garden, the breeze trickling over my bare skin and the birds swooping overhead. I lay on the bed on my stomach at first, always crossways at the foot of the bed so as not to disturb the carefully propped pillows. I read erotica on my phone to get my imagination and my juices flowing. I like all different genres, BDSM and lesbian sex, male on male and first time anal. I browse through a couple of stories before I find one that might get me off, and I begin reading. I don’t touch myself until I’m aching with need and my panties have a wet spot in the crotch.
Then, I slide my panties off, slicking my wetness down the inside of my thighs, feeling the cool air on my hot, moist cunt, and I continue reading as I press my mound into the soft mattress. I grind against the covers, the slight pressure gives me shivers and makes me want to start touching myself, but I still wait.
I wait until I’ve dripped onto the covers, making a clear liquid mess that only I know about. I’ll do the laundry later, but for now I enjoy being dirty, arching my hips up to see the liquid string stretch from my cunt to the bed. The ache between my legs grows, and I finally reach my hand down between my legs and part my lips, my finger already saturated. I tease around my clit, delaying my climax even longer, slipping around in my mess. I place a finger on either side of my clit and grind against my hand, massaging and teasing before sliding down lower and dipping inside. I find the spot just inside, a little rough to the touch, and I buck my hips, fucking my hand. I can feel my muscles clench, and I am so close to tipping over, but I pull back, smearing my wetness over my lips and letting the sensation subside before diving back in for more.
I try to time my orgasm with a good part in the story, when the main character’s ass is penetrated or when the submissive comes from a hard hand spanking. When I’m finally ready, I allow my fingers to rub my clit. It doesn’t take long. Just a few quick strokes against my pebble-hard nub and my body explodes. I cry out even though I am alone, loud and dramatic just as I do for Sir, my muscles clench and pulse around my hand. I drool into the quilt and grab at the fabric, I hump against my hand and flex my ass cheeks. I don’t want it to be over, and as soon as it is, I crave more.
But, that is all I get. I lay still for a moment, my hand crushed beneath me. My eyelids rest at half mast as my heart slows to a normal pace, and my brain tells me I’m sleepy. Before I drift off, I groan and roll over, pulling my hand out from its sticky hiding place. I wipe my mess off on the bed covers, still not caring about propriety. Then I bring my hand up to my nose, inhaling my own warm scent, a comforting aroma that is all me.
My ritual is my own, an hour of self-worship that makes me feel powerful, and female and satisfied. Without this time to be with myself, I would be cranky and needy. I wouldn’t know my body as well or feel as comfortable in my own skin. I touch myself and I know myself and I love myself.