A small, dry tickle—that’s always how it starts.
I take a deep breath. Exhale. Relax. I let the sofa take me in. The towel curls around my legs, gently embracing them with its freshly washed warmth. I spread, far and wide.
A few puny clicks and I’m letting this glorious hunk of moulded plastic and electrical components explore me, again. It stimulates me with such deliberate puffs of air and vibrations that I’m transfixed, unable to move, frozen in a neverending moment of bliss.
Prepuce throbbing, I start to feel it spread—top to bottom, side to side—striking every single chord in my cunt. Sweet musical moans slip from my throat as I reposition the nozzle, tilting it ever so slightly to a 45-degree angle.
Mmm. That’s the spot.
I am submerged in a pool of liquid sex that melts down my anxieties and pours the residue into a fuel tank for motivation.
Flapping and shimmering, a three-way of hard silicone tendrils beat my clit into a swollen red bud as though it’s a tiny punchbag, or is it the boxing glove?
Nerve endings? They’re just the beginning. The feeling just keeps on building, like waves slowly gathering at low tide, or invisible Lego bricks aligning and stacking atop one another to create a big picture.
I’m soaked to the core, and something like honey drips—little by fucking orgasmic little— from inside of me, spilling right into the fabric of this beautiful feeling. Pumping, aching, arching, giving into the pleasure.
Then bam! it hits me, a wave of raw energy shooting through my body like an electric bullet. Throat tightening, I let out guttural spurts of nonsense. I rock and quiver as my eyes roll back, muscles contract and my cunt pulses thick and fast.
And even afterwards, those internal sparks stay with me, a reminder that all forms of self-care are extremely important, and fun.