The quiet of my apartment wraps around me the second I lock the door behind me.
I’m humming softly, riding the warm, fuzzy edge of three glasses of wine. The dinner with the girls went by in a blur of laughter and shared secrets, ending far too quickly.
My bag slips from my fingers and lands somewhere near the wall. The trench coat follows, barely making it onto the hook. I don’t even bother looking. My heels are next—kicked off without ceremony, relief immediate as my bare feet hit the floor. The night was so good. Too good. It ended too fast, leaving something restless and unfinished under my skin.
In the kitchen, I pour a glass of water and drink it slowly, leaning my hip against the counter, staring at nothing. The bar still clings to me—smoke, sweat, perfume, other people. It’s in my hair, on my skin, in the fabric of my dress. I can feel it. It makes my stomach turn.
The bathroom light floods everything in sharp white. My fingers find the zipper at my back, tug it down, and the dress loosens instantly, sliding over my hips and down my legs in a soft whisper until it pools at my feet. I step out of it without thinking— but then I stop.
Black lace. Sheer enough to show everything, not hide it. My breasts rise and fall slowly, the fine mesh stretched over them, doing nothing to conceal the cool gleam of the silver bars through my nipples. They stand out sharply, already sensitive, already reacting. My skin is still slightly flushed from the wine, from the walk home, from the heat of the night.
My fingers trace down the center of my stomach, slipping under the thin waistband of the panties, feeling the warmth there, the softness, the quiet awareness already building. No one saw this. No one touched me. No one—
I reach back and unhook the bra. It falls away, and the cool air hits instantly, tightening everything. The metal of the piercings feels colder now, sharper against my skin. My thumbs hook into the sides of my panties and drag them down slowly, deliberately, watching myself in the mirror as I do. Fabric over hips. Thighs. Knees. Gone.
The air feels different like this. Cooler. Cleaner. My body more… present.
The shower hisses to life, steam beginning to gather almost immediately, softening the edges of the mirror as I step inside. Heat envelops me, heavy and immediate, water cascading over my shoulders, down my back, washing the night away piece by piece. I tilt my head forward, letting it run through my hair, over my face, down my chest.
My hands find the soap, work it into a slick lather, and then they’re on me—sliding over my skin, slower than necessary, more aware than they need to be. Up my thighs, over my hips, across my stomach. By the time they reach my breasts, I’m already paying too much attention.
My palms cup them, thumbs dragging across my nipples—
—and the reaction is instant.
It shoots straight down, low and deep, settling heavy between my legs. My breath stutters, just slightly, but enough. Enough to notice. Enough to make me still for half a second before my hand drifts lower again, almost absentminded at first.
My fingers slip between my thighs, parting myself easily. I’m already warm. Already slick. The water only makes it easier, everything softer, more sensitive, more exposed. When my finger brushes over my clit, the sound that leaves me is quiet—but it echoes anyway.
The shift is immediate. Subtle, but irreversible.
My stance widens, just a fraction. One hand braces against the tile, steadying myself as the other becomes more deliberate, more focused. Two fingers press at my entrance, then slide inside, slow enough to feel everything—the stretch, the heat, the way my body welcomes them without resistance.
A breath leaves me, heavier this time.
I move them again. Deeper. Curling slightly.
My walls respond instantly, tightening, pulling, reacting like they’ve been waiting for this. For pressure. For something more than just passing touch. My thumb finds my clit again, pressing, circling, not gently anymore.
The rhythm builds without asking permission.
Soap, water, slick—it all blends together until I can’t separate one sensation from the next. My hips start to move on their own, small at first, then more obvious, pushing into my own hand, chasing friction, chasing something just out of reach.
I grab my breast with my free hand, fingers closing around it, tugging once—then harder—pulling on the metal ring until the sharp sting makes my back arch.
Heat floods through me, low and heavy, coiling tight and fast now. My fingers drive deeper, hitting that spot inside me that makes everything blur at the edges, while my thumb presses harder, faster, unforgiving.
My breathing breaks completely.
The tension climbs too quickly to control, too intensely to slow down. It gathers, tightens, pulls everything inward until there’s nothing left but the pressure.
It tears out of me, uncontrolled.
My legs start to shake. My grip slips slightly against the wet tile, but I don’t stop—can’t stop—my hand moving faster, rougher, pushing myself right to the edge and past it.
My entire body locks as the pressure snaps, and I cry out, loud and unrestrained, the sound ripped straight from my chest as wave after wave crashes through me. My muscles clamp down hard around my fingers—
—and then it spills over.
Hot, forceful bursts surge out of me, uncontrollable, splashing against the tile in sharp, wet sounds that echo under the running water. It keeps going, pulsing out of me in thick waves, my body bearing down through it, riding it out until there’s nothing left but trembling and airless, broken breaths.
It’s still shaking, still reacting, still sensitive as the water continues to pour over me, washing everything away while I stand there, barely holding myself up, pressed against the wall.
Too hot now, almost—but I don’t move.
My body is still humming, skin flushed, oversensitive, my thighs pressing together like I can keep that last warm flutter right where it is. It lingers anyway, soft and glowing, making me shift just a little, a quiet, private aftershock I’m not ready to let go of yet.
I lift my head, catching my reflection through the fogged glass.
For a moment, I just look at myself.
Then a small, amused smile slips out before I can stop it.
If I could, I’d give myself a high five.
