Member-only story
Let me get straight to it. When I write about my naughty adventures, it doesn’t just bring memories. No, it gets me all worked up. Every word, every detail, I’m not just typing — it’s like I’m physically feeling it all over again.
Imagine writing about that one night when his fingers went places they’ve never been before. Or that look she gave me when she was ready for more. Remembering is one thing, but writing it? Damn, it’s like reliving it in high definition.
When I describe that slow, teasing touch, I swear I can almost feel fingers brushing against my skin. Every stolen glance, every whisper of dirty promises in the middle of the night, I write it and it sets me on fire. The urge to touch, to feel, becomes impossible to resist. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m writing for you or for me. Probably both.
Because as I write, I’m not just thinking about that guy’s hands on me, or how her lips tasted. No, I’m touching myself, feeling my body’s response. I won’t even pretend. Many times, I’ve had to stop mid-sentence because I got so damn hot, so wet, that I needed to take matters into my own hands. Literally. My hand in my jeans and then panty, nipples hard which i pinch with my fingers.
Sometimes, my one hand explores my wetness and aroused me so much that I had to…
