Some women light candles.
Some women run a bath.
I close the blinds, dim the lights, and plug in my wand.
It’s not just about the orgasm. It’s the ritual.
Tonight had been long—emails, deadlines, people asking for too much. I needed to disappear. Not from the world, but back into myself.
I kicked off my jeans, peeled off my shirt, and let my body fall into the center of my bed.
The wand lay on the nightstand. Heavy. Reliable. Mine.
I didn’t even have to touch it yet. Just seeing it there, waiting, was enough to let my shoulders drop and my breathing slow.
I started slow. Just my fingertips first, grazing the insides of my thighs. My hips responded on their own, curling forward, asking for more.
When I finally brought the wand between my legs, the first vibration knocked the air out of me.
Deep. Resonant. Like it had tunneled straight to my core and unlocked something I didn’t know I was holding.
I closed my eyes. Parted my legs wider. Let it hum against my clit in slow, lazy circles.
The pressure built fast—but I didn’t rush it. I held myself on the edge, hovering in that sacred space where want is stronger than release.
My free hand gripped the sheets. My breath turned uneven. I moaned—not loudly, but truthfully.
The first orgasm hit like a shiver.
The second rolled in before the first faded.
And the third—oh, the third—wasn’t just physical.
It was emotional. A kind of exhale I hadn’t let myself take in weeks.
My body convulsed. My eyes blurred. My mind emptied.
Afterwards, I curled onto my side, the wand still buzzing faintly on the sheets beside me like a purring animal.
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t speak.
I just smiled.
