Going Exploring

It's quiet in the house early in the morning. Maybe the occasional creak as someone shifts in bed, and of course the omnipresent hum of fans, but no footsteps, no words, just white noise. And suddenly I'm awake in the cocoon of quiet and wondering just what I did in a past life to deserve this.

That's how I wake up in the morning. If I sleep in, it's totally different; I wake up groggy because I have to. But if I'm up in the early morning hours, it's because I'm suddenly awake, not happy with no longer being asleep but unable to do anything about it.

I keep my eyes closed. You never know; sleep might decide to take pity on me. Besides, if I don't look, I won't know what time it is and that won't be something my mind can think about. So I'm almost asleep. Almost. I can go on telling myself that until doomsday and it won't make it true, but I tell myself that anyway.

My internal monologue has grown too complex to ignore, and that can only mean that I'm not asleep. And since I'm not asleep... well hello, mental picture. I've seen so much porn at this point that I can create nice scenes in my head sometimes, scenes which I've never seen but are amalgams of real life and fantasy and fiction. Porn isn't interactive. My brain is. And now my libido is sending out signals too, telling me to stop pretending that I'm dreaming, because if I were dreaming it wouldn't make this much sense. I'm not dreaming, therefore arousal can be tended to.

But I'm not ready to give up my pretense that maybe I'll be able to sleep again for another hour or so. So my eyes stay shut. But I shift around in bed to find a more comfortable position, and I squeeze my thighs together a little, which is a mistake because it just reaffirms my libido's central position that I'm awake and therefore I could be cumming.

My middle finger is between my lips now, and it tastes like... well, it actually doesn't taste much like anything other than morning mouth. But the point wasn't to taste my finger. My eyes are still closed, and my sensations are both dulled and heightened as I move my finger to run around my left nipple, slowly, feeling the pebbly skin around the tip, the sensations of first warmth from the finger and then chill from the evaporation. I twist experimentally with my thumb and finger, but that's too much and it threatens to knock me out of my fantasy of sleep. Returning for another dip, my finger runs over my other nipple, slowly, almost like someone else was doing it, although I can't quite fool my brain into ignoring the sensations coming from both ends of the transaction.

Then, eyes still closed, I see various exciting things in my mind, things which can't be staved off by mere nipple play, and my hand runs down over the bump of my sternum, over my belly, which momentarily awakens the bitch who tells me that I'm getting flabby because I'm not as washboard as those models on TV. I almost open my eyes and give in at that point. Stupid bitch. But I manage to maintain a feeling of disconnect from reality just long enough to quickly distract myself by slipping my hand lower still until it's resting between my legs.

Most of the time, when you see women masturbating, they're spreading their legs to give a good look at the goodies. And there's nothing wrong with that. But sometimes, I like to keep my legs closed, at least at first, slipping a finger between my thighs like I'm penetrating without penetrating, using pressure to stimulate parts while the tip of my finger strokes inward, running over my clit like somehow I've transported it into my vaginal canal, like my clit has been substituted for a G-spot. Maybe it's peculiar to me; I've never seen anyone else do it. It's a bit like being on hands and knees with knees together, which puts pressure on things, and then having someone finger you from the front, hand reaching over your ass and down. Something like that, but different. Slower than getting right to it, legs wide, fingers in the honey.

The caress of my clit has sufficiently distracted me from my inner critic, but my finger is too dry, so I'm forced to choose between chafing or readjustment. In the end, to avoid a repeat of the situation going down, I spread my legs a little so I can get lower, then gather some juice, probably more sweat than anything else, and then return to position. There's a catch in my stroke, a moment where there's a division between stroking up to my clit and then stroking above it. Sometimes masturbation is displayed as being one solid movement, a rubbing action, but when I'm stroking slowly, especially at the beginning, there's a slow movement up, a momentary pause at the height of sensation, then a slow stroke over the length. I imagine that men have the same sensation; when I suck a cock, particularly at the beginning or if I know that it'll be a long blowjob, I start slowly until my mouth is totally over the head, then I pause and concentrate on the head for a moment, then slip down until I'm stimulating the shaft as well. I'm not on the other side, so I don't know exactly when to make the transition, whereas when it's just me I know exactly when. One of the advantages of doing it myself, I guess.

It's getting too hot under the sheets, even though the morning air is somewhat chill, and I finally have to give up any pretense of going back to sleep. But I keep my eyes closed. My legs open and the breeze blows on my heated and until this moment protected pubis, which almost sets me off, then becomes too extreme a sensation, so I shield myself with my hands for a moment until the reserves of heat are built up again. Now I can stroke more purposefully, my finger encountering slightly roughened skin (I need to shave, I idly tell myself), then dipping into warm, smoothness, just the hint of a tight passage at the tip of my finger, then between the yielding folds, each pressure making me tighten and then relax, then up more quickly, lubricated and warm, and over the nub at the apex, my fingertip flicking off the head, causing a brief spasm.

Eventually I reach down with my other hand too, which had been just idly tensing and relaxing, and attempt to straddle the opening with two fingers before giving up, dipping my stroking finger into myself and keeping pressure at the base of my clit with my other hand. My cunt welcomes my finger with some reluctance; maybe it knows it's not a cock, or maybe it's not awake yet. But there's no pain, just a momentary struggle to acclimate, followed by acceptance and enjoyment, warm and firm around my finger.

It's getting close. Another finger has sneaked in, spreading me inside, although each tension and relaxation threatens the beach head. I've moved to the more-traditional rubbing, slowly at first, then faster, the images in my mind a whirl, nothing but sensation. Finally, it happens.

I've heard men describe orgasm as a balloon being inflated inside them, then released. I've described climax as a wave before. But this time, it's more like a sudden spasm of tension, until the tension becomes too great to hold and something gives and everything relaxes. There's no wave, just a sharp contraction and then release. My pussy heats up to melting point and then melts. My clit becomes tender, and my rubbing no longer feels right. My fingers move away and just cradle, keeping things warm.

And finally I open my eyes to find that it's even earlier than I'd hoped it was. Damn. It gets chilly again, but there's no point in lying down again. I get up and wrap myself in a robe and wonder when Dad will be up.