Something about this much isolation. At first everything turned me on. My t-shirt grazing against my bra-less nipples (who wears a bra in isolation?), a cable news guest giving a coquettish side eye, kik messages from a couple about fantastical someday plans.
After a couple weeks, the desire had morphed into aching. I woke up wet in the morning, feeling my puss dilating against nothing, longing to be filled. I took more and more breaks during the workday, getting in bed to open up incognito tabs and flip my Hitachi magic wand back on — it’s strong enough I don’t even need to take off my pants to give myself a rollicking orgasm, and it’s hotter knowing how much he’d love a photo of my soaked undies. I have mastered squeezing and twisting my nipple with my left fingers while also holding my phone watching some girl (or guy, or girls, or guys) get pounded, my right hand holding the vibrator in place while my wet mouth hangs open until I climax again. Deep sigh. Check email. Repeat.