I’ve always loved reading and writing erotic things. It brings me such a unique pleasure…
At the end of the day, I just want to feel good.
It just so happens that a really nice way of feeling good is to stimulate my privates, whether that’s physically or mentally. The mental stimulation comes in the form of memory, I think. Long past remnants of pleasure stir in my pussy, wavering like an unsteady radio signal, but never going completely dead.
Except for during the day, of course, when I go about my business. Sometimes the connection will spike, at the sight or sound of something deeply perverse, but it remains steady once night falls and I’m left to my own devices.
I got started with reading— smut, erotica, sex stories of all kinds. The words fuck and squeeze and writhe and cum were ingrained into my brain from such a young age, it didn’t take long for me to begin crafting my own suggestive literature. I’d write for minutes at a time, squirming in my seat as I turned impulses, thoughts and feelings into written word, before abandoning all shame and giving in to the desperation thrumming beneath my skin. I wanted— no, needed to feel good. And it would happen, I could sense it, a strange energy gathering inside of me, one that tugged at my subconscious to rub, grind, hump my tingling pussy against my own hand until the balloon popped and I felt tremors wrack my entire body, all while my eyes were trained on the full page of writing beneath me.
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