It started with the pillow—a soft, worn thing I slid between my thighs, its cool cotton edge kissing the heat pulsing off me. My hips rocked, lazy and unhurried, just tasting the friction as it simmered low, a quiet hum threading through my veins. The room hung still, broken only by the faint rasp of fabric bunching under my weight and the shallow catch of my breath. No rush, no endgame—just me chasing the hum, wondering why it's never enough. Instinct took over, hips grinding deeper, the pillow's yielding flesh molding to my rhythm, tugging a soft, needy ache that hissed more in my bones.

My eyes snagged on the dildo—a silent tease. Hunger clawed my spine—sharp, sick of the same old hum. I needed it to split me open, to answer something I couldn't name. I grabbed a hardcover and slammed the suctioned base down—A wet thwop locking it. I tossed a towel over it and knelt, knees sinking into the mattress, shins pinning it, thighs twitching as I hovered above it.

The slick tip grazed my entrance—teasing, taunting—and my breath shuddered out, shaky and thin. I lowered myself, slow, deliberate, feeling it breach me, stretching me open with a smooth, relentless pressure that stole the air from my lungs. My pussy gripped it, tight and greedy, and a low, guttural groan tore from my throat. I sank deeper, hips settling as it filled me—full, heavy, complete—the towel-cushioned book steady beneath my trembling weight.

Then I moved. Knees braced, I dragged myself up, savoring the slick drag as it slid out, then slammed back down hard. That first thrust punched deep, a spark igniting in my core, and my hips seized the reins. Up, down—slow at first, drinking in the plunge, wondering who I'd rather fuck like this. The bed creaked, a faint whimper beneath my swelling rhythm. Shins clamped the towel tighter, locking the book as I rode harder, faster, the dildo burying itself with every drop. Fucking myself exactly how I hungered, hands-free to roam.

One hand clawed up, cupping my breast, fingers twisting my nipple with a stinging pinch that shot liquid fire straight to my clit. The jolt crashed into the steady, brutal plunge inside me—sharp, sweet, a glorious mess of too much. My other hand roamed, clawing the sweat-slick dip of my ribs, teasing until my breath snagged and my thighs shook. Sensations piling up to choke me.

Then my phone was in my grip—grabbed in a haze, screen flaring alive, pulling me under. I scrolled Reddit, drowning in the flood: slick skin glistening, bodies writhing in grainy clips, audios spilling gasps and moans into the air. My hips didn't falter—relentless, savage—the dildo slamming into me as I sank into the delirium.

A video hooked me—a woman, legs splayed wide, fingers frantic, her ragged breaths crackling through my speakers. Her rhythm bled into mine, her soft, broken whimpers syncing with the wet, rhythmic slap of my thighs against the toy. Her—That's who I wanted to fuck. I watched her unravel, face twisting, her gasps sinking teeth into me, dragging my own desperation up by the roots.

I needed to cum with her. Had to. My hips bucked wilder, hips pistoning, the bed groaning loud, springs shrieking under my feral bounces. The dildo drove deep, mercilessly, each thrust a gut-punch of pleasure that smeared my edges into nothing. My free hands abandoned my breast. One clawed the sheets while the other lunged for my clit—rubbing fast, sloppy, unhinged. Her moans spiked, sharp and keening, and mine roared back, hoarse, untamed. Tension coiled tight, like a wire ready to snap.

She shattered first—a shuddering, piercing cry—and I crashed after her. Pleasure erupted, my spine arching, and I dropped onto the bed, gasping. My phone slipped, tumbling. The dildo slid free, leaving a slick, throbbing ache in its wake. I trembled, ruined, bliss pulsing through me in slow, molten waves.

Lying there, chest heaving, the air thick with the musk of sweat and sex, something sparked awake. Cuming with her—hands-free, synced in that raw, jagged moment—cracked me wide open. That quiet hunger curling in my gut wasn't new—it's been there, gnawing, begging for her, for them, for something I can't outrun. This wasn't just a release. It was a door swinging open.