Ben's Ghost, My Release (L)

The rain hammered against the windows of the old Victorian house, mirroring the relentless drumming in my chest. It had been six months since Ben, my Ben, had slipped away, leaving behind a hollow ache in the center of my being. The scent of his aftershave still lingered faintly in the air, clinging stubbornly to the worn velvet of the sofa, a cruel reminder of the life we’d built together. I’d come back hoping for a semblance of peace, a way to numb the raw edges of grief, but the silence of the house felt more like an accusation than a comfort.

I sank onto the sofa, burying my face in my hands, the familiar tears hot against my skin. My mind replayed our last moments, the way his hand had rested on my lower back as he’d told me he loved me, the last time I’d felt his warmth, his strength. It was then that I realized, I hadn't moved on. I hadn't even attempted to fill the gaping hole he’d left behind. Shame burned in my throat, mingling with the sorrow. I deserved this loneliness, this agonizing reminder of what I’d lost.

As the rain intensified, I rose and made my way to the bedroom, a room filled with ghosts of our shared intimacy. The bed was made, pristine and untouched, a stark contrast to the chaos that had reigned in my heart. Alicia and Trey, bless their helpful hearts, had done a thorough job cleaning up after the funeral, erasing every trace of Ben’s presence, but they couldn't erase the memories.

I headed to his closet, running my fingers along the hanging shirts, each one a tiny shard of a happy past. There, on the shelf above his clothes, sat a small wooden box, holding the remnants of our shared fantasies. I pulled it out, my hands trembling slightly, and opened it to reveal a collection of handwritten notes, two VHS tapes, and his personal toys. The photos, scattered amongst them, were a painful spectacle – shots of Ben in various states of arousal, some with a full erection, others limp and vulnerable. There were also pictures of me, nude and unapologetically sensual, capturing moments of passion and pleasure that now felt like a cruel joke. A bitter smile twisted my lips as I picked up the photos, their glossy surfaces reflecting my own haunted face.

I returned the box to its place, the weight of the memories pressing down on me. Beneath the bed, I found another box, smaller and more discreet. My heart pounded in my chest as I pulled it out, hoping desperately that Alicia and Trey hadn’t unearthed its contents. Inside lay my own collection of delights: "Mr. Jolly," "King Dong," and "Frank," my personal dildos; a rabbit vibrator, a strap-on clit stimulator, and a ben-wa-balls. Alongside them were several more photos of Ben, some showing him erect, others flaccid, capturing every inch of his body. The sight of him, even in these intimate moments, sent a fresh wave of longing through me.

The scent of arousal filled my senses as I retrieved “Frank” from the box, setting it on the bed. The rubber felt cool and smooth beneath my fingertips. Slipping off my blouse and bra, I felt a surge of primal desire, a desperate need to reconnect with the physical sensations that had once brought me so much joy. The thought of Ben, his touch, his passion, ignited a fire within me, pushing back against the grief and loneliness.

As I ran my hands over my breasts, stimulating my nipples, the first signs of arousal began to take hold. My body responded instinctively, my muscles tensing, my breath quickening. The photos of Ben, scattered around the room, served as a potent reminder of our shared intimacy, fueling my desire even further. I felt the familiar pull of lust, a powerful force that threatened to consume me.

I retrieved the picture of Ben fully erect and brought it to my lips, licking and sucking on his image, savoring the memory of his pleasure. My pussy began to swell with anticipation, the wetness spreading quickly. The scent of arousal intensified, clinging to my skin, intoxicating me.

Rising from the bed, I slipped off my panties, my movements deliberate and sensual. The cool air on my skin heightened my awareness, intensifying my desire. My body moved with a newfound confidence, driven by the raw need to experience pleasure. As I approached the bed, I felt a strange sense of liberation, as if I were shedding the weight of my grief and embracing my own sensuality.

Lying back on the bed, I spread my legs wide, allowing my body to fully submit to the sensations. My hands moved slowly, exploring every curve and crevice, teasing my sensitive skin. The memories of Ben, the touch of his lips, the heat of his body, flooded my mind, intensifying my arousal. My hips began to sway gently, responding to my touch, as my pussy grew wetter and more responsive.

“Oh God, I'm so close!” I whispered, my voice choked with emotion. As my fingers massaged my clitoris, the throbbing pain quickly escalated into a burning pleasure. My breathing grew shallow, my body convulsing in response to the escalating intensity. I closed my eyes, lost in the moment, letting go of the pain and grief that had held me captive for so long.

The orgasm hit me like a tidal wave, a rush of pure sensation that washed over me. My legs locked together, trapping my hand between them as my body writhed in ecstasy. I cried out, a primal scream of pleasure, releasing the pent-up tension and longing that had been building within me. The rain continued to pound against the windows, but inside the room, there was only pleasure, only release.

As the afterglow subsided, I felt a sense of peace, a feeling of being truly alive. My body was spent, but my spirit was renewed. Looking at the photos of Ben, I realized that he had given me the greatest gift of all – the freedom to embrace my own sexuality. I had denied myself this pleasure for far too long, letting grief and sorrow dictate my actions. Now, I knew that it was time to move on, to reclaim my body and my spirit.

With renewed determination, I retrieved “Frank” from the box and placed it between my legs. The cool rubber provided a welcome sensation, a tangible link to the lost love that still lingered in my heart. This time, however, I wouldn't let the pain consume me. This time, I would allow myself to experience pleasure, to find solace in the touch of my own body. As I began to explore my arousal, I knew that I was not just seeking physical release, but also a way to honor Ben's memory, to keep his spirit alive within me. The rain continued to fall, but inside the old Victorian house, a new kind of storm was brewing – a storm of pleasure, desire, and self-acceptance.

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