I awake.

Mildly rested, silk nightshirt tucked within the overlap of my breast. Sun slowly illuminates a drawn curtain. My night swirled with nightmare and dreams; ending just before my rise to the living on a sweet vision that my body delays its response.


Disheveled; I sit with my hand on my forehead. Escaping yawns try to coax me back to slumber as my mind draws the focus of dreamed visions. Heart rate paces as my breath deepens; my hand under a patterned cloth of silk and cotton. The other hand following in dances of misguided morning fog and fluster as it pulls the fabric away that had been lodged under my breast and off my shoulder from a restless sleep.


My most adventurous hand, brushing the mounds and openings of my form found within loins. Gasping as I deal with heat and residual lust; quietly growling at my perverse touch. Erect in accompanied hand as the pressure of my palm and knowledge gained at the start of age 14 cloud my mind and rush time past as it becomes a blur into non-existence.


Quick flashes of memory to aids. Rigid plastic or soft pliable silicone forms to mimic what isn’t present. Fake forms with no warmth or care - unneeded as I progress through by hand. Arching, tensing, my muscles tighten in my legs, loosen in my spine, and jaw agate. It’s a miracle I am not blind at this age - parents warning of all manner of disability to such acts I flood myself with.


My primary fingers deep, now moist. The accompanied long since torn free and clawing sheets as my head digs into pillow and nightshirt falls aside of forced buttons. Matted folds and promises of new sheets as reason has long left my presence and I draw the closure of intensity. Drawing sweat and release from the deepest parts of myself over stomach and bust. A salt taste; my inner slut sucks my fingers while catching breath and pulling on blankets, cotton, silk, and skin to bring freedom of air to a burning desire.


Minutes felt like hours and I feel the chill of air signify the coating of sweat I now lay within as my breast lifts and lowers quickly and I feel need to grasp thin sheets to my groin and turn away from the locked door as if to gain what little dignity I fain to have.


Lustful, sinful, a skank with breast and tender folds, a slut, recovering sex addict, a normal girl… a woman. My night ending with dreams of sex and passion; my morning beginning with my solo recreation through brief and skilled masturbation. I first started the exploration of my body at 14; I learned to in secret and was taught the sins and blinding wrath of a god I would incur with such “unnatural” acts. Yet those same acts my mother performed in her youth and which lead to the skilled symphony of her folds satisfied by penetration from my father as she accepted his climax.


Much of the world sees negativity in things based on an unseen god. We judge and we teach with an underlined fear of punishment. Punishment from exploring ourselves, becoming comfortable with our intimate forms and reactions to the touch. I take no shame in this story (this prose?) of my morning, this very morning, as I reduced stress and anxiety by continuing a dream of lust I awoke from. Nor should any of you feel pressured to avoid being you and exploring yourselves in all manners; sexual or not.