Mine All Mine

My knickers lay crumpled beside me. I can still see the faint imprint of my hand pressed into the cushion of the velvet sofa, the subtle outline like a map to my own pleasure. My thighs still hot and slick, how delicious it feels in this moment to exist entirely for myself.

Self-love is my sacred ritual. There’s something so sexy about being alone with just toys and thoughts. I sink deeper into the cushion beneath me, letting my fingers roam. One hand tracing the curve of my breasts, rolling my nipples between my index and thumb finger until a shiver runs down my spine. The other hand drifts lower, teasing the wet lace clinging to me, brushing over the pulsing heat that’s been building up for hours. Each touch deliberate, exploratory: a conversation with myself.

I take my time, circling, pressing, rolling my fingers just so, savouring the friction of lace against my silky skin. My breath begins to come in ragged gasps and soft moans, spilling out without concern for the noise I might be making. I bite my lip, every stroke of my fingers bringing me closer to that delicious edge. I start to grasp for my wand. Arching my back, pressing my body deeper into the sofa, grinding against it in the slow, consuming pleasure of being mine alone.

It rolls in waves and builds into a delicious crescendo. Finally, my body surrenders to biblical orgasms: shuddering, trembling, warm in the glow of euphoria. Every nerve ending pulses as I roll onto my side, pressing myself into the velvet, letting the aftershocks linger. I smile to myself, fingers brushing the damp lace, revelling in the intimacy of my own touch. Alone, yes, but fully alive, present, in control of every wave of sensation rippling through me.

This is pleasure from the inside out. Every curve, every shiver, every moan - a testament to what I can give myself, and how euphoric it feels. The lingering warmth, and knowledge that I can return here whenever I want, for as long as I want, to explore myself, adore myself, and surrender to my own delight.