Alone in the Wardrobe Room

Every Friday night, after a long week of nursing duties, I find myself in an unlocked wardrobe room. The door creaks open as I slip inside, and once alone, I touch myself, imagining him, my partner who's always busy on these nights. My fingers slide over damp panties, feeling the warmth between my legs grow hotter with each stroke. A moan escapes me, echoing off the wooden hangers as I rub harder, faster. Tonight, it’s more than just a quick release; I need his touch, crave what we don’t share often enough here at home. When will this cycle of solitude end? Am I alone in this kind of need?