My Girlfriend Left and I Discovered How Much Pleasure I Could Give Myself

I’d been in a long-distance relationship for several months, and during all that time the only sex I knew was what I gave myself. That’s not a complaint. I like touching myself, I know my body well, and I’m capable of giving myself long, slow sessions of pleasure that many people wouldn’t understand. But there are things your own hand can’t replace: the weight of another body on top of mine, breasts pressing against my own, someone else’s breath at the nape of my neck. I’m bisexual, so I’m used to wanting everything, and that breadth of desire gets harder to bear when there’s no one nearby.

Bruna, my girlfriend, had to leave for work with no clear return date. At first they talked about two weeks. When those were up, the deadline became a month. And so it went, over and over, until suddenly she’d been away for three months, in a city I only knew from the photos she sent me in the middle of the night.

The first few days I didn’t even notice. Even when we lived together we’d had dry spells, weeks when exhaustion or routine got the better of us. But as the months piled up, my body started demanding its due. And not discreetly.

I spent the whole day turned on. I could be cooking, watching a series or, worse still, in the middle of a work meeting, when out of nowhere a memory would ambush me. I’d see her bent over me, sucking my breasts with that desperate hunger of hers, squeezing them with her mouth as if she’d been starving for hours. I remembered her fingers playing with my nipples, holding them, pulling them slowly until she wrung a moan from me. I remembered her tongue tracing slow circles around the areola before closing over the tip again.

Then we’d switch. Then I was the one licking, nibbling, and devouring her breasts. And what breasts. Bruna has tits you can’t ignore. We’re both big-breasted, but in my case it’s because I’m thick-bodied: wide hips, a little belly, full thighs, and a nice ass. She’s thin, with a small frame, except for that generous chest that seems to defy the rest of her silhouette. No matter what she wears—loose clothes, a modest blouse, a high-neck sweater—you can always tell. She gets stared at in the street every day, and I know because I’ve walked beside her counting those stares.

So there I was: alone in my house, in the supermarket line, in the subway car, on a bench in the park, or sweating at the gym, trapped again and again in the memory of her tits and of every time I kissed them, squeezed them, and made them mine.

Other times what came back was her mouth between my legs. The way she licked my clit while fingering me with two fingers, unhurried, reading every tremor in my body to know when to press and when to ease up. That combination made me explode. I have wet orgasms, the kind that leave a trace, and she loved getting all of that on her face, licking me a little longer afterward to make sure nothing went untried.

Bruna likes lingerie, the more sensual the better, so it was also inevitable that I’d remember her in black lace against her pale skin, or in that flesh-colored bodysuit that gave the illusion she wasn’t wearing anything at all, just a shadow of fabric over her nipples and pubis, enough to drive anyone crazy. I liked starting to lick her nipples through the fabric and, after a long while pressed to her chest, discovering that the bottom of that underwear was completely soaked. Then I’d start stroking her sex even over the panties, feeling the wetness seep through the lace. That sensation drove me as wild as my touch drove her. Only later, when we couldn’t stand it anymore, would I take everything off so I could touch and kiss her without barriers.

***

All those memories fell over me like a rain you can’t dodge. And in those months I masturbated more than ever before in my life.

The other night was different. I poured myself a glass of red wine, turned off the overhead lights, and left only the bedside lamp on. I undressed slowly in front of the mirror, looking at myself as if someone else were watching. I got into bed with my phone and started reading erotic stories, the kind you look for when your body wants more than your imagination can give on its own.

I mixed what I was reading with my own memories. I imagined Bruna and me as the protagonists of every story: lactation, threesome with women, scissors, sex in public places where we might get caught. As the glass emptied, I began touching my breasts, pinching my nipples with the same slowness she used. I ran my hands down my belly, over my thighs, and brushed my sex just enough to confirm how wet I already was.

I touched myself all over, paying attention to the exact sensation of my fingertips on my skin. Then I reached my clit and really got to work. It felt bigger, firmer, swollen with all the blood that had gathered there. I worked it by alternating speed, stopping just before it became too much, and every now and then sliding my fingers down to sink them inside me. One hand below, the other on my breast. I took myself right to the edge and back off. Again to the edge, and again back.

No exaggeration, I spent nearly an hour in that game of almost-cumming and starting over. Every time I stopped, my body protested with a current that shot up my legs. A little more, I told myself, just a little more and then I’ll stop. But I didn’t stop.

When I could no longer handle the heat, and the wine made my body feel heavy and loose, I opened the nightstand drawer. I took out a plug, lubed it well, and slowly worked it in. It hurt a little; in my hurry I hadn’t stretched enough, but that brief sting mixed with a pleasure I can’t describe. What I like most is the feeling of being full everywhere, so I also took the vibrator, the rabbit-shaped one that stimulates two spots at once, and slid it into me.

At first I left it off. Just having both holes occupied already had me at the limit, breath coming in short gasps, my chest rising and falling. Then I turned on the vibrator. The tip started working on my clit while the rest vibrated inside me, and I let myself go completely, thinking about what I’d read, about Bruna, about lovers I’d had before her, about mouths and hands blurring together in my head.

My mind was a tangle of blazing images, but at the same time I couldn’t settle on any of them, because pleasure was dragging me along faster than I could think. I felt shameless, hungry, free. A woman who at that moment existed only to feel. I held out as long as I could, postponing the finish until my body stopped obeying me.

One orgasm came, and behind it another, and another after that, chained together, until I burst in one that made me arch my back, clamp my thighs over my own hand, and soak the bed with no shame at all. I was left trembling, my breathing shattered, staring at the ceiling in the dim light. It took several minutes before I came back to myself.

***

Those became my favorite sessions, and I had no intention of giving them up. I loved discovering that, in the solitude of my home and my nights, I could give myself all the pleasure I wanted without asking anyone’s permission. Touching myself calmly, filling myself with my toys, taking myself to the edge again and again, resting and continuing.

Sometimes I recorded myself. Other times I took photos or sent Bruna voice notes with my voice breaking, so that from her distant city she could hear what her absence was doing to me. She answered with messages that forced me to start over, and that’s how we spent entire nights, each in her own bed, united by a screen and by desire.

I’m still turned on, very turned on. I miss my girlfriend’s body, her weight, her scent, her tits on my face. I count the days until I have her back and can make up for every hour of these months. But in the meantime, alone, with myself, I’m having far too good a time.