I Confess to My Addiction to Touching Myself All the Time
As long as I can remember, I haven't been able to stop. I'm not talking about a passing compulsion or a phase of adolescence that cures itself. I'm talking about dedicating any free moment, any gap in the day no matter how small, to slipping my hand between my legs, spreading my pussy open with two fingers, and rubbing my clit until my thighs tremble. It's the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing before I go to sleep.
The strangest thing is that I'm not even as obsessed with fucking as I am with thinking about it afterward. I have sex with someone, yes, let them drive their cock all the way inside me and fill me with cum, but deep down what I'm really waiting for is the moment when I'm alone, going over every detail in my head and touching myself while I remember it. Sex, to me, is almost archival material. The real show begins when the door closes and I’m left with my fingers buried in my wet pussy, replaying the fuck scene by scene.
The men I hook up with think they've hit the jackpot. I always ask for the same thing: for them to take me from behind, on all fours, my face against the pillow and my ass held high, and they leave convinced that I'm a gift from heaven. The joke is that I'm the lucky one. While they concentrate on thrusting, gripping my hips, and driving their cocks into me with all their strength, my hands are free, my eyes half-closed, and I rub my clit at my own pace without making it too obvious. With two fingers I make quick circles right where I know how, squeeze my thighs around his cock, and come silently once, twice, three times while he keeps fucking me without realizing a thing. They finish exhausted, emptying themselves inside me with the grunt of a satisfied idiot. I finish with my pussy soaked in cum and just as eager to repeat it alone as soon as they fall asleep.
If someone saw me on any ordinary day, they would most likely find me sprawled across the bed, sheets in disarray, legs spread wide, one finger inside my ass while my other hand punishes my clit without pause. I imagine scenes I would never say out loud: anonymous cocks entering all my holes at once, thick loads running down my face, men masturbating in front of me without ever touching me. It's not something I decide to do. It's something that simply happens, like breathing.
***
When I've had a partner, my fantasies have always followed the same strange path. More than once I urged a boyfriend to have a threesome, and not because I was dying to share him with another woman. I did it so I could watch. I wanted to sit in a corner, see him with his hard cock buried in another woman's pussy, hear her moaning like a bitch while she sucked him, watch him put her on all fours and spread her ass with his thumbs. And touch myself while I watched them, legs spread on the sofa, two fingers inside me and my thumb on my clit, as though it were a movie made to order for me.
That's my uncomfortable truth. I enjoy watching and touching myself more than participating. Some people would say I'm a voyeur, and they might be right. What turns me on isn't contact but distance—the detail of watching a cock slide in and out of another pussy, seeing a tit swell beneath a man's mouth, watching cum spill between someone else's lips while I silently come undone and bite my lip so they won't hear me.
I have another habit I've never confessed to anyone. When I'm about to come, I lick my middle finger thoroughly and push it all the way into my ass, squeezing my sphincter around it while I keep rubbing my clit with my other hand. I can't explain why, but that gesture multiplies everything, as if it closes a circuit. I feel everything inside me contracting, my pussy tightening around the emptiness and begging for a cock that isn't there, and I come in spasms that shake me from head to toe. It's my private trick, the one I save for when I want an orgasm to leave me trembling, with my panties turned into a puddle.
***
The vice is so strong that it creeps into absurd situations. I can be talking on the phone with anyone—I don't care who: a friend, my boss, a friend's husband—and while I carry on a perfectly normal conversation, my other hand is tucked beneath my underwear, two fingers buried in my pussy and my thumb circling my clit, moving slowly so my voice won't give me away. I learned to control my breathing out of sheer necessity. I've even come while my boss dictated instructions to me, biting the sleeve of my sweater so I wouldn't let out a moan. If they knew I'd just come listening to them talk about Monday's report, they would never call me again.
Anyone would think that with an appetite like mine, I'd love sucking, licking, and sucking cocks until I choked. But no. What I really need is to keep my hands free. That's my obsession: my fingers, alone or with company, giving me what I know nobody can give me better than I can. If someone insists on putting it in my mouth, I put up with it for a while out of politeness, but my hand is already working down there, fucking myself while he thinks he's using me.
I remember my university years as some of the most intense in that respect. I shared a flat with several girls, and the best moment of the week was when one of them brought a hookup home. I would shut myself in my room, pressed against the wall, my ear flattened to the partition and my hand already inside my pajama bottoms. Every muffled moan that reached me was gasoline: the rhythmic thuds of the headboard, the creak of the mattress, her voice asking him to go harder, his grunt as he emptied himself. I didn't need to see anything. It was enough to hear him fucking her on the other side of the wall for me to fuck myself with three fingers, coming twice and three times in a row as soon as she began screaming that she was coming.
***
The days when I come home especially horny are a problem. If I've spent the whole day away from home, unable to touch myself, I arrive with my panties soaked, stuck to the lips of my pussy, and an urgency that won't listen to reason. I throw my keys wherever they land, take everything off any old way—skirt on the floor, thong ripped away, shirt half-unbuttoned—and head straight for my favorite toy, a thick dildo that opens me up completely when I push it all the way in. When I don't have it handy, I improvise with whatever I find: a broom handle, a cucumber straight from the refrigerator, the showerhead on full pressure against my clit. That way I come two or three times in a row, legs trembling and the dildo still inside me, until I go limp with my pussy throbbing.
The truth is, it isn't all that different from my normal routine. Get home, strip naked, lie on the sofa with my legs spread and hanging over the arms of the furniture, and pleasure myself until I burst, one finger in my ass and the dildo sliding in and out of my pussy at top speed. It's how I close out the day, my way of leaving the tension somewhere else. Some people meditate. I fuck myself until I fall asleep with my panties back on, soaked with my own juices.
Weekends when I have the place to myself are another world. I spend the entire day naked around the house, moving from one room to another, tits bare and my pussy always one brush away from the next orgasm, and I completely lose count of how many times I touch myself. I do it in the kitchen, leaning against the cold countertop, two fingers spreading my lips while my thumb punishes my clit until my legs give out. I do it by rubbing myself against the edge of a table as I pass, riding the wooden corner until I come with my fist between my teeth. I do it sprawled on the living-room floor, legs spread against the rug and three fingers buried to the knuckles, for no reason other than wanting to. It's not something planned. It's just that my pussy asks for it every few minutes, swelling and dripping without warning, and I never learned to tell it no.
***
I have a secret I've never told a soul. Every morning, before getting up, I open the gallery on my phone and choose a photo of some random contact. I don't care who it is: a friend's father, the plumber who came last week, a married coworker. I touch myself while looking at that face, imagining how he would spread my legs on the bed and push it all the way inside me, how he would pull it out dripping so I could suck him, how he would come in my mouth. And just when I'm about to come, fingers flying over my clit and my pussy contracting, I send him a perfectly innocent good-morning message. As soon as I see him reply, I come while staring at his name on the screen, in silent spasms with my hips lifted off the mattress. That person will never know the role he played in my waking up, or that he has just emptied himself imaginatively inside me before my first coffee.
Porn is similarly contradictory for me. I start by looking for extreme things, brutal scenes of enormous cocks destroying throats, gangbangs where a woman ends up covered in cum from head to toe, double penetrations that seem impossible. But I always end up in the same place: videos of women pleasuring themselves alone, legs spread in front of the camera, fingers shining with juices, swollen clits pulsing to the rhythm of their orgasms. I watch them to copy them, to learn a new gesture, to discover a different angle for touching my G-spot, to feel that I'm not the only one who's addicted to her own hands.
***
The one who understood me best was a man I dated for a while. He was the perfect man for someone like me, because what he liked most in the world was watching me do it beside him, his cock in his hand as he stroked himself to the rhythm of my fingers. With him there was no need to hide anything, and that made it a period I'll never forget.
Every morning I deliberately woke up five minutes before him. I pushed back the sheet, spread my legs wide, and began touching myself slowly, two fingers sliding in and out of my pussy with a wet squelching that filled the bedroom. He would open his eyes to the sound of my moans against his ear, turn over, and without saying a word pull out his already-hard cock and start masturbating while watching me. I would speed up, open myself wider, slip a finger into my ass so he could see it clearly, and we would come almost at the same time, his cum spattering my belly while I came screaming his name. There was no better alarm clock. If I saw him reading quietly in the armchair, I would throw myself onto the rug, spread my legs toward him, spit on my fingers, and start without asking permission, knowing that sooner or later he would drop the book and pull out his cock to jerk off while watching me until he came all over the pages.
When we went out to dinner with friends, he already knew the ritual. At dessert I would excuse myself for a moment, lock myself in the restaurant bathroom, hike up my skirt, prop one leg on the toilet, and fuck myself with three fingers until I came biting a napkin so they wouldn't hear me. I would return to the table with flushed cheeks, my fingers still smelling of pussy beneath the table, and a smile only he knew how to read. Sometimes I would reach under the tablecloth and make him suck the finger I had just pulled from inside me. Nobody else at that table imagined what I had just done three meters away.
If we went for a walk in the country, we always ended up behind some rock, clothes half-lowered, skirt raised to my waist and trousers around our ankles, touching ourselves in front of each other like two impatient teenagers. He would stroke his cock with a hand full of saliva while I, braced against the stone, spread my pussy open in a V with two fingers and punished my clit with my middle finger until I came all over his shoes. And as for the cinema, I'd rather not even talk about it. I went straight there with nothing beneath my skirt, no panties, and in the darkness I would have two or three orgasms while burying my fingers in my soaked pussy, with him covering my mouth so we wouldn't cause a scandal in the middle of the theater. Sometimes I would undo his fly and suck the tip for a while—not because I enjoyed it, but so he would come in my mouth while I kept rubbing myself nonstop beneath my coat.
***
What almost nobody would believe is that, deep down, I'm a shy person. I find it hard to look people in the eye, I blush over silly things, I avoid being the center of attention at any gathering. And yet sometimes I fantasize about filling my house with cameras connected to those sites where people pay to watch. I imagine myself with my legs spread in front of the lens, two dildos inside me at once, one in my pussy and the other in my ass, while hundreds of anonymous guys come paying to watch me. I'm convinced I'd make a fortune. There can't be many women who experience desire with this intensity, awake at all hours, their pussies always wet, bound to an appetite that is never satisfied.
I'm not telling this as a complaint. I'm telling it because, for once, I wanted to say it out loud, to let go of the secret I've carried forever. This is who I am; I don't intend to change, and if I've learned anything, it's not to apologize for it. Tomorrow I'll wake up five minutes before the world, choose some random face on the screen, spread my legs beneath the sheet, and it will all begin again with two fingers inside me and my thumb on my clit.