Self Love...

 ... a morning ritual.

Scents of linen & Dewy air rush into my lungs. Eyes still forced closed, like a storefront too early before the open.

Zombie-like awareness comes to me as my hand moves under the blanket. My mind overtaken by lustful thoughts from a void I did not invoke, moist fur under soaked cotton. Fingertips spread, caress, and explore creases tucked under bluebell tinted fabric.

He is not here. The pressure upon and within the most taboo of locations of my body arises without his assistance--it comes solely from my own accord. A rush of the scent of fresh cut grass surges into my nose as I inhale through a surged orgasm, my start to this morning no longer innocent.

My breasts heave, lift and fall to raced breathing and fluttered heart. Muscles in my abdomen tighten, and I arch as my nipples harden. Even while not fully awake, my hand is well-trained to bring my climax fully, and my body responds as nature and I intend.

This morning has offered the perfect storm. These scents, the temperature, the lighting, and the desires all mix as one. My fingers are pushed from their play by the explosion from my loins. Bedsheets now require cleaning as I lift my fingers across my skin. My eyes are now broken open, only slightly, by such forces.

The feeling of moisture where my hand has plotted a path up my body, my fingertips a bit damp as I let my eyes focus on them. Added scents rush from the sight in front of me and drive me further into madness. Two fingers are put into my mouth, pressing down on my tongue, which salivates and puts on a maddened display of lust and uncontrolled need.

I suckle, cleaning my fingers as I tightly grasp the blanket with my free hand. My loins are warm - my skin is riddled with goosebumps -- my breathing normalizes.

He's not here. I am now awake. I pull back the blanket revealing the physiological consequence of my actions. I wish he could be present now, so he would be the cause of such damage to my modesty and my mid-grade linens.

As I shower, my folds of womanhood tender as the warm water feels chill upon my body, fueled by a fire that the water has yet to extinguish. Goosebumps are still prevalent, and my nipples are still sensitive. I try to wash away the salty and sweet, the heat and a developing sadness.

Disappointment breeds a wave of mild erotic anger before drowning it by standing under the sprayer to wash my hair. I will gather laundry afterward before sitting in front of a Apple-branded glowing master, which will beckon me to my studies.

It has been years now. Yet I still miss him and how he would wake me up on crisp weekend mornings. We had more than just those exciting physical encounters, but somehow the Saturday mornings always just felt better after it. Lost love is always the hardest to forget. I miss you, Brad. 💔