AvienLume

Sometimes I wonder if there's anyone who really sees me. I don't mean the polite greetings or courteous glances when I walk into a room. That's enough.. I mean to see myself. Notice the cracks beneath the surface, the gestures that escape when I think no one's looking. No, most do not see anything beyond the flawless hair, calm voice, ironed shirt and serene expression. They say I'm elegant, firm, reserved. I've been told in the office, at business dinners, even at family parties. “So professional, so in control”. Sometimes I smile inside when I hear it. Si supieran.

Cause yeah, I'm serious. I am tidy, punctual, efficient. But that's just a part of me. The one I learned to show. The one that protects me. The one I built with care. The other part. that lives hot. There's no more exact word. Hot, burning, ready. always. constantly. Sometimes a fleeting glance, a low voice, an accidental touch is enough for something to awaken in me. Something that doesn't sleep at all. Living on the loose, under layers of silk, discipline and red lipstick. as today. I got up late today. Not for lazy, but because I had touched three times in the early morning. I had fallen asleep, with wet thighs, exhausted, naked, the sheets still warm from rubbing against them. A las 7:30 I already had to be leaving, and there was no time for more. So I dressed quickly: white blouse without bra, one of my most subtle weapons, skirt, tube, black, thin stockings, and my favorite heels, those that make me walk as if I owned the world.. And underneath. nothing else. Nothing to hinder. Nothing to stop the air from rubbing me.

Already in the office, I behave as usual. Cold, precise. Nobody would notice that every time I cross my leg I feel the wet friction between my lips. That the leather of the chair makes my muscles tighten as I sit. That I'm so excited that sometimes I have to hold my breath not to let escape a sigh. Sometimes, in the middle of a meeting, I fantasize about someone telling me that I can tell. Who has smelled it. That you can see the heat on my cheeks, the way I run my tongue over my lips more often. What do you know?. who wants. And then I imagine myself on my knees, in that same boardroom, swallowing his desire, with the polarized glasses covering us from the rest of the world. Today, as I pretended to review a report, I felt that someone was watching me. The new guy in the IT area. He doesn’t talk much, but he has those big hands and that way of looking that seems to measure everything in silence. I pretended not to notice, but I leaned a little further over the desk, as if by accident.. I wanted to see if I fell. And he did.. I saw how he looked down. My nipples instantly hardened. I could not escape the tremor of his breath as I approached to ask him something banal, almost whispering. My voice may sound serious. but I know how to use it.

Went to the bathroom minutes later. I closed the cubicle door, pulled up my skirt, and put my fingers between my legs without thinking.. I was already wet. Dripping. I hardly had to touch myself to feel that electricity running down my spine. I imagined his face between my thighs, his long hungry tongue. I came quietly, with my teeth clenched and a hand over my mouth. I cleaned myself up, put my clothes on, and went back to my desk.. Nobody noticed anything. But inside, my body was still vibrating. I've done this more times than I could count. I've masturbated in taxis, in elevators, in waiting rooms, even on the roof of the building during a lunch, when the wind made me feel so naked I couldn't help it.. I always make sure to be alone, or at least look alone. What turns me on the most is not sex itself. is the limit. The Edge. The risk of being discovered and not stopping.

The funny thing is that I can be with someone and still feel dissatisfied. Not because I don't like it. If not because the desire inside me is voracious. I like to be in control, yeah. But what really gets me is giving it away. dejarlo todo. Turn me need, flesh, mouth, cry. Be that woman who only reveals herself when the doors close. When the clothes fall to the ground. When the fingers squeeze my neck while I'm bowed, with the soul surrendered. And, nevertheless, I continue walking the world with steady steps, makeup, serious, as if nothing. Cause it's my game. Cause it gives me power. Cause I know at any time, with the right person, I could become everything I hide. And they have no idea. But I do. I always know. I'm ready.. always.

There's something almost hypnotic about the weight of my tits. It is not just a question of size, although yes, they are huge, rebellious, difficult to hide and even more difficult to ignore, it is the way they feel fundamental part of my pleasure, my femininity, my desire. They have their own presence, as if they spoke, a language that only the body understands. For a long time I learned to enjoy them not as an accessory, but as a power center, a source of play, of connection with myself. They are not there just to be seen or desired by others; they are mine first. And when I'm alone, I like to remind myself. I like to rediscover them as if they were a secret that is always worth re-opening. I love to undress slowly, without haste, and let the air caress them before my hands. It’s such an intimate feeling, so delicate. as if the world stopped for a moment just to contemplate me. And then, my fingers begin to traverse them, gently first, then with more intent.

No matter how many times I have done it, there is always a new way to squeeze them, to caress them, to provoke that wave of heat that is born in my nipples and spreads like fire throughout my body.. I pick them up with both hands, squeeze them together, and watch in front of the mirror how they bounce, how they escape, how they claim attention. My nipples are a chapter apart. They are sensitive, capricious, addictive. Just rubbing them, my breath gets shorter. I love toying with them, surrounding them with my fingertips, pinching them with that point just between pain and pleasure that makes me moan low, just for me.

Sometimes I use oil or a warm cream that leaves them shiny, slippery. I watch as my hands run over them, as my fingers play and my skin responds. It's a show that I enjoy without guilt, without haste. My tits are stage and star, and I am my favorite spectator. I don't always need someone else to be around to turn me on. My own body is enough for me. In fact, there is something deeply empowering about turning me on with my own caresses, making me moan with my own hands, becoming my own best lover..

Although of course, I know and I am fascinated to know that when someone else looks at them, when someone wants to touch them, suck them, worship them. everything intensifies. I am aroused by their desire, their hunger, their way of worshipping them as if they were sacred. And I enjoy giving them, offering them, feeling them surrendered in another mouth, in other hands. My tits are provocation and promise. They are soft and heavy, yes, but they are also powerful, expressive, playful. They are part of my erotic language, part of my identity. I like to wear them, show myself with them, enjoy them without shame. And I've learned to celebrate them. Playing with them I recognize myself, I excite myself, I affirm myself. They are mine. They give me pleasure, they give me strength, they bring me back to the present. And in that game that I start alone, but that I sometimes share, I never tire of exploring all that I am.