The warmth stays with me.
I wake slowly, the morning light soft through the curtains, and before I've even moved, I feel it: low, steady, quiet. The same hum. The same gentle weight.
It doesn't fade the way it used to. It lingers now.
I stretch lazily, the sheets brushing soft over bare skin. Even that small movement brings it sharper. My thighs shift. My breath stirs. A faint, familiar pull curls low in my stomach.
I lie still for a long time.
Not because I'm chasing it. Not because I mean to.
Just because I don't want to move away from the feeling.
The rest of the day follows the same pattern. Every motion carries the faintest flicker – sitting, stepping, the soft brush of fabric across skin. It's subtle, but it's there. Persistent. Familiar in a way that makes my breath catch when I notice it too clearly.
I don't act on it. Not yet.
But I don't shy away from it either.
The warmth hums quietly beneath every ordinary moment. Patient. Full.
And I know – by evening – I won't be able to leave it untouched forever.
Evening comes, and I don't resist it this time.
I move through the small rituals as I always do – dishes, folded clothes, tea cooling untouched on the bedside table. But the warmth is heavier now. Closer. It drifts just beneath my breath, no longer soft enough to ignore.
I change slowly. Cotton. Soft fabrics. The weight of them feels sharper now. Familiar but charged. My fingertips drift without meaning to, brushing lightly as I settle onto the bed.
I let my hand press down.
Gently at first. Just pressure. Just stillness. The same way it's always been. But the warmth rises faster this time. My breath slips quicker. The press of my palm deepens, and I feel it – real, sharp, unmistakable.
I move without planning to. Small circles. Careful touches. The heat curls deeper with every shift, and before I can think to pull back, it builds – sweet, tight, shivering up through my belly, my chest, my throat.
It takes me quietly.
A soft sound escapes before I can stop it. My breath breaks. My thighs press tight.
The pleasure spills through me – not overwhelming, not sharp – but full. Real. Unmistakable.
When it fades, I lie still.
Breathless. Light. Steady.
I don't speak. I don't think. I just feel the warmth still humming low, as if the world has softened around me.
And for the first time, I don't push it away.
The quiet after is different.
I lie still for a long time, the weight of breath easing slowly back to softness. My skin hums faintly beneath the layers. The warmth lingers – not sharp anymore, but low and steady, like embers tucked deep.
I don't feel guilty.
I don't feel wrong.
I feel… calm. A little dazed. A little distant from myself, but not in a way that unsettles me.
I think of how long it took to reach this.
How carefully I circled it. How I held back without even knowing why. How no other touch – not in the past, not with anyone – ever felt like this.
I sit up slowly. Cross my legs. Let my hands rest in my lap.
The mirror catches me when I move. The reflection is ordinary: hair loose, cheeks flushed, softness clinging to the curve of my sweater. Nothing has changed. And yet everything has.
I touch my fingertips lightly to the edge of my lips, then lower. Just resting over the fabric. No urgency now. No chase.
Just that quiet hum.
I smile.
Small. Private.
I like this.
I want this.
I let the thought settle.
And I know: this is only the beginning.