I'm sitting on the couch, the TV on in front of me, but I'm not even paying attention to what's playing. My mind is elsewhere, completely absorbed by the sensations building up inside me. My right hand rests on my jeans, right at the button. I don't even know why it's there, but it is, as if it had a mind of its own.
I start to gently pull on my jeans, lifting them slightly upward. This simple movement creates a light pressure on my groin, a pressure that sends a wave of warmth throughout my body. Instantly, I release the fabric, then I do it again, repeating the action several times, as if my body knows exactly what it needs.
With each pull, with each release, the sensation intensifies. It’s subtle, yet so powerful at the same time. It’s as if this simple pressure of the fabric against my skin awakens something deep inside me, something that was there, just beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed.
I know this isn’t a good idea. I know I should control myself, that I should try to think about something else, but it’s so hard. The warmth in my lower abdomen only grows, becoming more insistent, more impossible to ignore. It’s as if my body has a will of its own, as if it refuses to listen to me, to let me control it.
It’s not even been five minutes since Anna left, and I already feel like I’m losing the battle. I knew that this tension wouldn’t simply disappear just because I was interrupted in the shower. On the contrary, it’s still there, stronger than ever, just waiting for an excuse, a reason to take over.
I pull on my jeans again, feeling the pressure increase. It’s almost like a game, a game in which I’m trapped, unable to escape. I lose myself in these sensations, my mind fogs, and the TV becomes just background noise, distant and irrelevant.
I close my eyes, trying to focus on something else, but it’s impossible. All I can feel is this heat, this desire rising within me, refusing to be silenced. My hand, as if possessed, starts to move more slowly, exploring the contour of the button on my jeans. My fingers brush against the zipper, gently caressing it, almost as a test, to see how far I’m willing to go.
The fabric feels so thin, so light, as if it can no longer contain what’s happening beneath it. I can feel every fiber, every crease of the jeans against my skin, amplifying the sensations even more. It’s both torturous and addictive, a spiral I’m sinking deeper into.
I know what will happen if I continue, I know I’m on the verge of giving in, but I can’t stop. The battle is already lost, I can feel it. It’s as if all my attempts at resistance were in vain, as if they only delayed the inevitable.
I let out a sigh, a mix of frustration and desire. There’s something almost desperate in what I’m feeling, as if my body is demanding something that I can no longer deny it. It’s too intense, too powerful to be ignored.
My fingers begin to play with the button of my jeans, brushing it, turning it gently between my fingers. I can almost feel the tension building inside me, getting ready to explode. My heart beats faster, harder, as if it’s following the rhythm of my movements, of my thoughts.
I tell myself I’m just going to open it, just to release a little of this pressure, to see if it helps calm this burning heat within me. But deep down, I know it’s just an excuse, a pretext to give myself permission to do what I already know I’m going to do.
With a slow, almost hesitant gesture, I unbutton my jeans. Immediately, I feel a sense of relief, a kind of liberation, but it’s only fleeting. Because now, there’s no more barrier, nothing left to stop me from continuing.
My fingers slide along the zipper, slowly pulling it down. The sound of the zip echoes in the room, but I’m too far gone to care. The heat emanating from me is almost palpable now. I can feel it, vibrant, alive, demanding to be soothed. I know I shouldn’t, that I should get up, walk away, but it’s impossible. I’m already too far gone, too lost in these sensations to turn back.
I slip my hand under my jeans, letting it gently glide over my stomach, feeling the warm skin beneath my fingers. Every movement is like a shock, an explosion of pleasure that runs through my entire body. I bite my lip, trying to stay quiet, but it’s hard. Too hard.
I know that if I continue, there will be no turning back. But at this precise moment, I don’t care. All that matters is what I’m feeling, this growing need, this urge that refuses to be silenced. My hand continues to move downward. And as I sink deeper into this spiral, I realize that I’m already lost, that I had lost this battle before it even began.