I stare at the ceiling. The room is kind of too quiet. The sheets smell like him — that specific warmth that clings to his pillow, his side of the bed — and that is exactly the problem, because my brain does something deeply unhelpful with that information and routes it directly between my thighs.
I last approximately ninety seconds.
I pull my underwear off, reach for his pillow, and fold it lengthwise without letting myself think too hard about what I'm doing. I already know what I'm doing. I've known since the second I read that message and felt my clit throb in response like a Pavlovian disaster.
I position it beneath me and sink down.
The pressure is immediate and devastating — firm and broad exactly where I need it, and I rock forward once, just to test, and have to press my face into the mattress and breathe for a moment because yes, that, exactly that. I can feel how swollen I am against the fabric. How wet. The pillow is already warm from the friction, and I roll my hips again, slowly, finding the angle that drags the seam directly over my clit, and my thighs tighten instinctively around it.
Not slowly. There's no patience left in me — there was no patience to begin with. I ride his pillow with my weight fully forward, hips working in short, rocking thrusts that grind my clit down hard with every stroke, and I push two fingers inside myself at the same time, curling them immediately toward the front wall. The fullness hits me like a slap. My inner walls close around my fingers and I can feel how swollen I am from the inside, how sensitive, how ready — the soft ridged texture of my own front wall against my fingertips, slick and hot, pulsing faintly already.
The sounds I'm making are embarrassing and I don't care. The wet drag of my fingers, the soft rhythm of my hips against his pillow, my own breathing breaking apart in the silence of the room. I curl my fingers sharply and my back bows — that spot, the one that makes everything go white at the edges — and I do it again, and again, chasing it without mercy, grinding down with my full weight on every stroke.
The tension coils so tight it almost hurts, that sharp sweet ache at the base of my spine, and I feel it before it happens — the deep fluttering clench of my walls around my fingers, the way my clit stops feeling like pressure and starts feeling like electricity —
I come with my face buried in the mattress beside his pillow and my hand clamped over my own mouth.
The orgasm contracts through me in long, powerful waves — my walls gripping my fingers so hard I can barely move them, my whole body shuddering with each pulse, hips still working involuntarily against the pillow in small desperate rolls. I feel the gush before I can stop it — warm and unmistakable, soaking into the fabric beneath me — and I moan into my own palm so loud that my teeth break the skin at the base of my thumb.
All of it. Every aftershock. Every twitch of my oversensitive clit against the wet fabric. I stay there, folded over his ruined pillow, trembling and breathless, until my thighs stop shaking and my brain comes back online in pieces.
Then I lie sideways on the mattress.
His pillow is destroyed. I feel absolutely no remorse about this.
After a long moment, I reach for my phone.
Find his message still waiting.
Take your time, no rush baby ♥️
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