When I touch myself, I am the loneliest. Feeling each crevice of my body craving the warmth of a lover too far in reach. On my saddest days, I touch myself to escape the pain, the numbing feeling of being abandoned and used by many. Stockholm syndrome as you will. I am a prisoner in my vices; just wanted to be held, to be embraced. As I feel my nipples harden, my pussy begins to swell up and become so wet for the thought of my hands trailing down my body.
I massage my breasts in the hope you can teleport yourself to me; just to imagine not my sweet touch. I go to escape from my darkest sorrows with my deep, dark desires. I pain, I scream. My scream was muffled with the imaginary feeling of your hands all over me. Just completely surrender to the thought of my hands as your hands.
But I have to remember, these hands belong to me. And these hands are the only thing that knows how to please me; my hands are the keys to my desires.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/pntgaj/my_depressed_masturbation_solo_f