Then I lean over and turn the music up. A few notches louder. Enough to cover the sounds I might make.
I position myself over the toy, bracing a hand against the floor, the other at the base of the dildo.
And slowly, carefully, I begin to lower myself until I feel it.
This isn’t the first time I’ve touched myself like this. Not by a long shot.
Since the first time I ever jerked off—messy, awkward, and completely overwhelming—I’ve wondered what it would be like to feel more. Not just in my hand, but deeper. Inside. Where my fingers only barely reach.
I started small. One finger, then two. Experimenting late at night, under the covers, heart racing with the thrill of doing something no one knew about. Then I started trying things. Stuff from my room. Things I could hide. A toothbrush handle. Then the back end of my hairbrush.
But nothing ever quite did what I wanted. Nothing gave me that feeling I knew was just out of reach.
Until now.
I exhale slowly, easing myself down. My muscles tighten instinctively, but I don’t stop. I can’t—not when I’m this close.I breathe through it, one hand gripping the floor as I lower further, stretching. Adjusting. Letting it in.
And then—God.
The head finally slips past the tightest point, and I moan, loud and unguarded. My thighs tremble, but I stay. Let it sit there, just for a second, buried inside me like it belongs there.
My breath comes in short gasps now. Not from panic—but from need. From this slow burn that’s turning into something sharper. Deeper.
I lift my hips—just a bit—and ease back down, repeating the motion again and again, each pass sinking me further. Until I’m there. All the way.
The stretch is intense. Full. Borderline too much.
But it feels good. So good.
I wrap my hand around my cock, already painfully hard, and stroke with the same rhythm I’ve built below. I tip my head back, jaw slack, hips rolling in time with my fist.
This. This is what I’ve been chasing. That elusive something I’ve tried to recreate a hundred times with a hundred things that never came close.
My eyes flutter shut as I start to move faster, breathless, each downward grind coaxing another sound from my throat. I can’t stay quiet. Not anymore.
The beat of the music fades into the background as I give in to the rhythm I’ve found—stroking, grinding, imagining?—
Dante. Always Dante.
His voice in my ear. His breath on my neck. The weight of him behind me.
It’s only because I envy him so much that I think about him like this. Right? How hot he is. Confident. How all the girls at school want him and all the guys want to be him.
My pace stutters.
I whisper his name.
And I don’t stop.
I don’t even hear the door open.
All I hear is the gasp.
Sharp. Wet. Like it punched the air out of her lungs.
I freeze—completely still—until my eyes lift to the mirror.
And I see her.
