Just Letting It Go

It's been three weeks since I broke up with Sarah. We were together for two years, but it just wasn't working out anymore. Last night was the first time I didn't go straight to bed after getting home from work; instead, I stayed up and poured over old photos of us on my phone, feeling nostalgic yet strangely liberated. It was then that the urge hit me hard, I hadn’t had sex in weeks, not since before we parted ways. And as much as I’d been trying to keep it together for her sake, now there was no one else but myself to answer to. I stripped down and grabbed a bottle of lube from my bedside drawer, where it had been collecting dust for far too long. My fingers traced the contours of my cock, feeling the skin taut against hard muscle as I prepared myself with slickness. It’s funny how something you do alone can feel both incredibly intimate and oddly impersonal all at once. I leaned back into the pillows, my thighs spread wide, and entered myself with slow, deliberate strokes until it felt just right. Then came the part that didn’t need any buildup, I lined up my cock against the slick entrance of my fingers, sliding in quickly but not recklessly. The heat and tightness around me were intoxicating; my breathing grew ragged as I worked myself into a faster rhythm, pulling out only to thrust back in harder with each pass. My hands explored every inch of skin they could reach, mapping out the planes and dips of my body under the glow of the bedside lamp. It was over way too soon, but that’s how it always is when you’re so caught up in your own sensations, time feels warped. Cleaning up afterward was a mechanical task; the bed sheets were stained with sweat and lube, reminders of something I hadn’t let myself do for far too long.