I was alone, in our bedroom, on top of the covers with my back against the headboard. Pyjamas on, hand between my legs, gently teasing my hard little clit. I was going very slow, still afraid of hurting myself or doing some damage, but it felt too good to stop. I remember breathing fast and hard— the kind of respiration that sounds to the naive passerby like I’m running on a treadmill—and my nipples being so hard they actually hurt. My brain was a nebulous mess of confused thoughts, part sexual fantasy, part real world worries, all blended together into something that transcended the cerebral. I quivered, which isn’t something I normally do, and it took a conscious effort to keep my legs from shaking. When I finally did cum, I pressed the side of my hand against my spasming cunt, clamped my thighs around it and fell onto my side, curled up in a paroxysm of pleasure. I have a vivid memory of the sounds I made while climaxing—a kind of whimpering that, to my ears, would have been more appropriate issuing from the mouth of a little girl having a temper tantrum. When it was over, after the shock of orgasm left my body, I lay on my side for a long time with my hand pressed between my legs. It felt good to be stationary, almost as though I’d managed to connect past and present together via the contact between my hand and my pussy. I guess at some point I must have drifted off to sleep, because I was still in that position when Blake woke me up a few minutes later. He didn’t say anything, he just gave me this knowing grin, and then the two of us went downstairs for dinner.