It’s 2 a.m., the house is dead, the kind of quiet that makes your own breathing sound guilty. I’m flat on my back with my legs spread wide, the cool air licking at my bare cunt, skin crawling with that restless, low-grade itch that never really goes away. I should be sleeping. Instead, I’m thinking about my favourite filthy little words and how they feel in my mouth when my fingers are busy.
“Masturbating,” I rasp into the dark, just to hear it. My voice comes out wrecked, hoarse, as if I’ve already been screaming for hours. I love that word. Masturbating. It’s clinical and dirty at the same time, like I’m filing a report on my own bad behaviour. I shove the heel of my hand down and grind it into my clit, that hard, angry knot thudding against my palm as if it’s had enough of waiting for me to get on with it. Ungh, fuck. My breath is already coming in short, frantic hitches. I’m not being gentle; I don’t want gentle. I want it to sting, to feel like punishment and reward tangled together. I’m already drenched, my pussy juice slicking across my knuckles while sweat pastes loose strands of hair to my forehead. Masturbation, I think. That’s what this is. That’s what I’m doing. Say it and make it real.
“Jilling off… yeah… hnnngh…” The phrase slips out between my teeth, half moan, half confession. ‘Jilling off’ sounds sillier, more playful, like the kind of thing you’d scribble in a diary with hearts over the i’s, and somehow that makes it even filthier. I hook two fingers into my aching snatch and yank upward until the stretch burns, then start fucking myself in earnest, my fingers mimicking the blunt, heavy shove of a cock. The room fills with it, that sloppy, rhythmic slap-squelch of wet skin working against wet skin. My whimpering gets louder, climbing pitch by pitch until it’s a low, desperate whine that doesn’t sound entirely human.
I close my eyes and bring the men in, because this is where the words really come alive. In my head, I’m on my hands and knees, the mattress pushing up under my knees while my fingers stay buried, pretending to be a cock. I feel a thick shaft shove past my teeth, the pierced head scraping and then colliding with the back of my throat. Gah. Ack. I gag around him, eyes watering as I’m forced to swallow, spit leaking from the corners of my mouth. While I’m choking on him, another man curls his fingers into my hair, hauls my head back like I’m nothing but a handle, and slams his meat into my cunt, hips snapping hard enough that my whole body jerks.
“Fingering… ungh… fuck… harder!” The words tumble out in time with my hand, half commentary, half command. Fingering sounds almost innocent compared to what I’m doing to myself, but I like how it feels, how it labels exactly what’s happening: my fingers, my choice, my mess.
I cram a third finger inside, feeling the blunt stretch as I scissor them until the pull reaches all the way into my hips. I’m pumping them in and out so harshly I know I’ll be tender tomorrow, but I keep chasing that edge. My breath falls into a broken, staccato rhythm. Haa, haa, fuck, like I’ve run a mile.
My pussy clenches and flutters around my knuckles, greedy and frantic, trying to drag them deeper. In my head, the third man steps up, looming over my face with his cock glistening, a fat, heavy weight that drips pre-cum onto my lips while he waits for his turn to use me. I can almost feel his hand on my chin, tilting my head just right.
“Cumming… oh god… I’m… hnnngh…” The word ‘cumming’ tastes cheap and perfect, the way porn sounds when you’ve got the volume too high. I love how blunt it is, how it doesn’t pretend to be anything but what it is: the moment everything snaps.
I’m right there, balanced on the lip of it. I mash my thumb into my clit until my arm shakes, trying to grind past the hurt into whatever comes next. In my mind, all three of them lose control at once. One ramming my throat full of hot, salty spurts, one emptying himself deep in my cunt, and one painting my chest in thick, sticky ropes that slide down between my tits. I want all of it, that imaginary weight, that imaginary warmth, even though it’s only my fingers milking my body for whatever it will give me.
Climaxing… NOW!
Climaxing feels more formal, almost old-fashioned, like something you’d read on the back of a vibrator box. I don’t care. The word still punches straight through me.
It hits like running headfirst into a wall. My whole body snaps into a violent arc, my back bowing off the bed as my cunt clamps down on my fingers in deep, agonising twitches. “Aghhhh… ungh… haaa… AHHH!” rips out of me, a jagged, ugly sound that probably would terrify anyone listening. It’s not pretty; it’s raw and broken, like something being torn loose.
The orgasm tears through in waves. I feel the first hot burst of my juice erupting, spraying across my hand, then another, and another, soaking into the mattress beneath me until there’s a spreading, dark patch; I know I’ll feel it in the morning when it’s cold. I’m thrashing, my heels digging into the sheets as if I could get away from my body. My pussy fires off in rhythmic, electric spasms, milking hard around my fingers for those imaginary creampies that aren’t really there, squeezing against nothing but my hand.
“Orgasm… huff… huff… fuck…” The word falls out on a shaky exhale. ‘Orgasm’ feels like the neat, polite label for the messy disaster I’ve just made of myself, like slapping a tidy sticker on a crime scene.
I’m shivering, every muscle buzzing with aftershocks. My hand is still buried inside my wrecked snatch, slick with a thick mix of cream and sweat, my fingers starting to ache from how hard I tensed around them. My chest heaves as I drag air into lungs that feel too small, my throat raw from all the sounds I let spill out. The room smells like sex left out too long; salt and sweat and the sharp, animal tang of my cunt.
Eventually, I manage to ease my fingers out. They glisten in the dim light, coated in a long, white string of pussy juice that stretches from my knuckles to my thigh before it breaks and falls. For a second, I watch it, half dazed, expecting that soft blanket of satisfaction to drift in and settle over me the way it’s supposed to. It doesn’t. The high fades fast, peeling away and leaving a familiar hollow ache low in my belly, as if something important got promised and then snatched back.
I don’t feel satisfied. I feel used and a little bit stupid, like I’ve talked myself into the same trick for the hundredth time. I wipe the mess off on the duvet without really caring where it ends up, then tug the covers down over my swollen, throbbing cunt as if that could hide what I just did. My breathing slows, but the itch doesn’t go completely; it just curls up and waits. I stare into the dark and quietly roll the words around my tongue again: masturbating, jilling off, cumming, climaxing, orgasm, like a list I’m rehearsing for next time.
I know as soon as my pulse settles and my hand stops trembling, I’ll probably start another entry in this stupid little solo log.
Because I love those words too much to leave them alone for long.
