I Became Addicted to Touching Myself at Any Hour

This started a couple of weeks ago and I still don’t really know how to stop it. I’m not even sure I want to. One random night I was lying in bed, messing around on my phone, scrolling through posts without paying them much attention. And then, between two stupid videos, an ad for lingerie popped up.

The model was a brunette with a body so perfect it made you resent her. Round, perky breasts, barely contained by black lace that covered nothing important. I stared at her longer than any ad deserves. Without thinking, I went into the store’s profile and started scrolling, photo after photo, woman after woman modeling underwear clearly designed so you’d picture it on the floor.

I don’t know when I started feeling that tingle. At first it was barely noticeable, a faint warmth low in my belly that I ignored. But the photos kept coming, and so did the tingle, until I realized something pretty obvious: it had been a long time since I’d masturbated. Weeks. Maybe more. Between work, training, and exhaustion, I’d simply put it aside, like someone who forgets to water a plant.

I kept browsing similar profiles. Models with flat stomachs, wide hips, asses that made you want to bite them. And with every image the heat grew more insistent, harder and harder to pretend wasn’t there.

Soon I was more than turned on. I didn’t decide anything, it just happened: I brought my hand down, pulled my thong to the side, and found myself soaked. So wet it surprised me. I slid my fingers slowly, from top to bottom, feeling how thick my juices were, and that only made it worse.

I started playing without rushing. One finger, then two, in and out now and then, with no hurry to get anywhere. Until I got tired of beating around the bush and went straight for my clit.

At first I touched it gently, in slow circles, and little by little I picked up the pace. How could I have gone so long without this? I thought, almost angry with myself. It felt too good to have left it behind.

I kept rubbing hard, the way I like it, without letting up, until my whole body tightened and I came. I stayed still for a few minutes, breathing, my hand still resting there. Then my eyes closed and I fell asleep almost instantly.

***

I thought that was the end of it. That it had been a one-night impulse and nothing more. I was wrong.

The next day, in the afternoon, I got home from training wrecked. It had been a rough day in every sense and the only thing I wanted was to get under the shower and stop thinking. I went straight to the bathroom, turned on the hot water, and stood there for a while, letting the rain fall down my back and wash away the fatigue.

After a while I started soaping myself up, with no ulterior motives, I swear. But hands have memory. Almost without realizing it, my soap-covered fingers ended up between my lips, sliding with a ease that made me open my eyes.

And of course, I couldn’t stop there.

I kept going and going until my breathing turned ragged. I bit my lip so I wouldn’t moan, and then I immediately realized I was alone in the house and could moan as much as I wanted. So I did. I slid my fingers in and started moving them, feeling how the hot water made everything slipperier, more intense.

I was hot, really hot, but I needed more. I propped one leg up on the edge of the tub to open myself better. And then I looked at the hairbrush sitting there on the shelf, and an idea came to me that two weeks earlier would have seemed insane.

I soaped it a little, the handle, and pushed it in without thinking too much. My body took it without complaint, as if it had been waiting for it. I left it inside, still, while with my other hand I rubbed my clit fast, nonstop. The feeling of having something inside me while I touched myself up top drove me crazy. I couldn’t stop moaning, my voice bouncing off the tiles, and I felt like I was about to explode.

When I came I had to brace one hand against the wall so I wouldn’t slip. My legs were shaking.

I pulled the brush out, finished my shower as if nothing had happened, got dressed, and went on with my day. But something inside me had already changed.

***

On the third day I woke up like that. Horny. Wet before I even opened my eyes. And that’s when I understood this had become something else.

The funny thing is I didn’t want to touch myself as soon as I got up. Quite the opposite. I decided, almost like a game, to hold off. I wanted to spend the whole day with that heat on me, that delicious tension, and only give in when I couldn’t take it anymore, with the first thing I had at hand. I wanted to crave it all day.

And crave it I did.

I spent the morning squeezing my thighs under my desk, crossing and uncrossing my legs, distracted in every meeting. Every time I moved in my chair, the seam of my pants reminded me how wet I was. A coworker, Lorena, asked if I was feeling okay because I was flushed. I told her it was the office heat. I wasn’t entirely lying.

By the afternoon I couldn’t take it anymore. I went to the office bathroom, locked myself in the last stall, pulled my pants down to my knees, and leaned against the edge of the sink. I started rubbing myself against the rim, slowly, holding my breath. It was a different sensation, more forbidden, more mine. And the fact that I couldn’t moan, that I had to swallow every sound so no one on the other side of the door would hear, made it even better.

That afternoon I didn’t come. My body and the time just didn’t allow it. But every half hour I found an excuse to go back to the bathroom, rub myself a little against the sink or with my own fingers, and then return to my desk as if nothing had happened, cheeks burning and heart racing. I spent the entire day on the edge, never quite falling over. And I swear I never worked so focused just to distract myself.

***

I got home that night convinced I was going to make up for it with interest. And I did. But it wasn’t the same as the first time anymore. Now I knew what I liked, how far I could hold out, how far I wanted to take myself before letting go. I’d learned my own body in a matter of days, as if I were breaking it in.

I tried new things. In front of the mirror, looking at myself, something I’d never done. With the light on instead of off. Taking all the time in the world, pushing myself to the edge and stopping right before it, over and over, until the orgasm, when it finally came, shook me in a way I didn’t know.

I discovered that I love that prelude. The waiting. Knowing that at some point in the day I’m going to have to stop everything and find a corner where no one can see me. Sometimes I manage it, sometimes I don’t, and when I don’t, I’m left wanting until the next day, which only leaves me burning hotter from first thing in the morning.

***

That’s how I’ve spent the last ten days. Ten days of waking up horny without fail. I open my eyes and the first thing that crosses my mind isn’t coffee or my to-do list, but the moment in the day when I’ll be able to put my hand down there. I plan it. I look forward to it. I savor it in advance.

I don’t always come, and far from frustrating me, I like that. It keeps me in that state of constant desire, with sensitive skin and my mind set on a single thing. Going through the whole day like that, lit up on the inside while on the outside I smile in a meeting or answer emails, became my little secret. My vice.

I realized I enjoy this more than the release itself. The constant fantasy, the tingle that never dies down, the sensation of always being on the verge. It’s like carrying an electric current under my clothes that only I know about.

So yes, I’ll probably keep indulging my vice for a few more days. Or a few weeks. Or who knows how long. The truth is I have no intention of stopping.

And if you want me to tell you more about my daily habits, about the places where I’ve dared to touch myself and the ones I still haven’t tried, let me know. I have the feeling this is only just beginning.