My Vibrator and I: The Routine Nobody Knows

While I’m mulling over the continuation of another story I have half-finished, it occurred to me to tell something else about myself. Something small, almost a secret: the way I touch myself when I’m alone, or when I want to give my partner a show they don’t expect.

This will be a short story. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed living it. And if you have any suggestions to make my stories more entertaining, I’d truly appreciate them.

I don’t remember exactly when I started touching myself, but ever since I discovered it, it became an important part of my life. I was just over twenty when I tried my first toy. Between what I saw in porn and the conversations with my friends, curiosity finally won out.

They talked to me about the classic rabbit, about how much they liked feeling penetrated and vibrating at the same time. I preferred to take it slowly. After looking at reviews and remembering one video or another, I decided on a small but powerful vibrating bullet. Something for a beginner, I thought. Something that wouldn’t scare me.

I didn’t dare go into a sex shop alone, so I ordered it online. A huge mistake to think it would be discreet. The box arrived days later with a photo of a naked woman spreading her legs while holding a vibrator identical to mine.

The delivery guy could barely hold back his laughter. He looked at the box, looked at me, looked back at the box, and finally handed me the package. I signed with my face burning. As soon as I closed the door, I heard him burst out laughing in the hallway after all that restraint.

Earth, swallow me up.

But well. I already had my new accessory, and that was all that mattered.

I decided my first time with it deserved something special. I locked the door, put the bullet on charge, and prepared the room like someone preparing for a date. It was a pink bullet, about ten centimeters long, with several speeds and a hum that was anything but quiet.

In front of the large mirror in my room, I started undressing slowly. I’ve always liked my body. Back then I was in my best shape: flat stomach, long legs, firm breasts, and an ass that drew attention even though I never thought it was anything special. I wore my pubic hair trimmed, not fully shaved; at that time I still hadn’t worked up the nerve.

I took off my tank top, then the shorts. I imagined I was dancing for someone, and somehow seeing myself in the reflection made me feel like the show was for me and not about me. I was left in my underwear, a white matching bra and boxer set.

I started caressing myself. One hand on my neck, the other sliding down my stomach, alternating, unhurried. I liked what I saw. It was like spying on another woman masturbating from a meter away.

The heat came slowly. I touched my breasts first over the fabric, then slipped my fingers under to find my nipples. They were hard. I unclasped the bra and freed them, and seeing them in the mirror, crowned by the areolas, excited me more than usual. I pinched them lightly, stretched them a little. I squeezed my thighs together to soothe what was building between my legs.

I ran a finger over the boxer briefs and I was already wet. Because they were white, they went translucent, so in the reflection I could make out the shape of my lips through the fabric. That image alone left me breathless.

At last I took off the boxers. Completely naked in front of the mirror, nipples peaked, goose bumps on my skin, and my heart pounding against my chest. I admit it: I was too excited for it to be just a simple solo session.

I sat in front of the glass with my legs spread. Since I was there, I wanted to look at myself calmly, without shame.

I studied every detail of my sex in the mirror. The mound of Venus, the outer lips with a little hair, the inner lips peeking out, neither too large nor too small. And above, like a shy cherry on a cake, the clitoral hood waiting for its turn.

I started touching myself and discovered how soaked I was. I have the habit, which I still keep to this day, of tasting my fingers: they have a slightly salty flavor and a scent that is mine, and I’ve always liked it. I parted my lips with both hands and watched myself open, glossy, ready.

I traced the opening with my fingers and lubricated them. I touched each part separately to understand what gave me what. The outer lips offered a soft sensation; the inner ones, a different kind of tickle. The entrance was already leaking, slippery, and slipping the tip of my finger in and out made a new kind of pleasure burst from me.

I invented a route. I started on one side, at the entrance, went up following the edge of the inner lip to the clitoris, drew two circles, and went down the other side to start again. Touch, penetrate, wet, climb, caress. With each lap I stopped a little higher.

I was bathed in sweat. Saliva dripped from my parted lips because of the moans slipping out of me without permission. My hips moved on their own, back and forth, searching.

The heat was unbearable. I wanted to stay quiet and couldn’t; my breathing could be heard all through the room.

Faster. Harder. Something was approaching. More, more, I needed more.

I pinched my clit between two slick fingers and moved it without stopping. Faster, faster, more! I arched my back and, in the middle of the spasm, kicked the mirror. I was left breathless, legs tense, my whole body rigid as a wave washed over me from top to bottom.

That was my first orgasm. The best was still to come.

***

When I’d recovered some composure, I went for my new toy.

I turned it on at the lowest speed. I placed it first on a nipple and almost laughed: it was more ticklish than pleasurable. For a second I thought I’d thrown my money away. Without further ceremony I brought it straight to my sex and, wow. How wrong I was.

It felt incredible. The tickling was still there, yes, but mixed with a different kind of pleasure. I brought it closer and farther away, exploring: the perineum, the entrance, the lips. Every area responded differently, and all of it was delicious.

I pressed it against the entrance and held it there, with no intention of penetrating. It turned into a relaxing and exciting massage at the same time. Since I’d already had an orgasm, I was much more sensitive. I moved the bullet up and down just like I had with my fingers before: vagina, lips, clitoris.

My poor clitoris. I subjected it to a delicious torture. The sensation was so intense that it was hard to withstand; I had to pull the vibrator away because it was too much. But the moment I moved it aside, my body begged for a little more.

I gathered my courage. With my right hand I spread myself as wide as I could to expose the clitoris and placed the bullet right on top. I closed my legs, curled up on my side, and hugged my knees so I wouldn’t give in to the urge to remove it. The vibrator was trapped between my lips and the pressure of my thighs.

I don’t know why I did it. Seen from afar, it was a little madness. But it gave me an enormous amount of pleasure, seriously. I don’t remember ever being so turned on or so desperate to finish as that first time.

Logically, the second orgasm didn’t take long. I clenched my whole body. I felt like I needed to pee and didn’t want to move, and with each contraction I closed my thighs without even realizing it, which pressed the bullet more and lengthened the release.

I couldn’t help it and let go: two or three little spurts, and each expulsion was a tiny extra orgasm. I don’t know how to describe it, but I think girls know what I mean.

On the verge of cramping, I spread my legs and the pink bullet fell to the floor, vibrating and rolling on its own across the room. I almost lost it under the bed.

Needless to say, the cleaning afterward wasn’t nearly as pleasurable. But it had been a completely new experience, and I loved it.

***

Since then, the bullet became my go-to for those quick, powerful orgasms. For when I couldn’t sleep and needed those endorphins that help me drift off. For when the urge hit and there was no time for ceremony.

Over the years, what was already a delicious habit became even more intense and fun. I’ve never been ashamed of it, and I don’t plan to start now.

Today my favorite way of doing it comes in two parts.

The first is a vaginal vibrator that stimulates the G-spot and is controlled remotely. I like to set it to random mode, pocket the remote, and go for a walk around the block or to the corner store.

Pretending nothing is happening while my cunt is vibrating and getting wet out on the street turns me on like few other things. Even more so when I go out without a bra and my nipples, outlined under my blouse, betray my secret game. I’ve gotten more than one accusing look, and that, far from stopping me, turns me on even more.

When I feel like I can’t take it anymore, I run home. Yes, run, with the toy inside; running makes it feel like something is penetrating you with every step. Once the orgasm hit me before I made it home and I was nearly run over by a van. I ended up sitting on the sidewalk, wet, horny, and scared out of my wits. But that’s another story.

I get home and slowly take the vibrator out. With my other hand I open myself up, expose the clitoris, press the device on top, and a few seconds later the orgasm I’ve been dragging in from the street arrives. God. Just writing about this makes me wet again.

Every now and then I do it with a partner, but it’s something more personal, something that’s mine. I like touching myself alone, though that doesn’t mean I don’t occasionally do it in front of my partner. Or in front of someone else.

I love my clitoris and he loves me. After all, his only purpose is to give me pleasure. Quite a marvel of evolution.

And you, how do you give pleasure to your clitoris, or your partner’s?