Pulse Point Secrets

The rain hammered against the windows of my small apartment, each drop a frantic drumbeat mirroring the restless energy thrumming beneath my skin. It had been three days since you left, three days of hollow silence and the insistent ache of your absence. "I’m turned on," I whispered to the empty room, the words tasting like ash and longing. It wasn’t the kind of turn-on you might think – not the quick, explosive pleasure of a new encounter. This was a slow burn, a persistent heat that clung to my bones, fueled by the memory of your touch, your scent, the way you made me feel completely and utterly consumed. "I wish you were here," I added, my voice barely audible above the storm. The thought of you, even just the ghost of you, was a physical pain, a desperate yearning that threatened to swallow me whole. "I miss you," I finally choked out, the words clinging to the air like the rain outside. They didn’t even begin to convey the depth of the void you’d left behind, the tangled mess of emotions swirling within me. Twisted up, I was, a knot of desire and regret, desperate to unravel the threads of our connection.

I rolled over in bed, pulling the covers tighter around me, seeking some semblance of comfort in their familiar weight. My gaze drifted to the small, worn photo on my nightstand – you, laughing, sun-drenched and carefree, a stark contrast to the storm raging within my heart. It was a cruel reminder of what I’d lost, what I craved. My attention shifted downward, drawn by the insistent pull of my own body. Panties rubbing against the silk sheets, a primal urge demanding release. I shifted again, my hips sliding against the mattress, the movement a desperate attempt to find some kind of solace. Squirming, I felt the heat building, a feverish anticipation that bordered on panic. Thighs rubbing, a frantic rhythm mirroring the frantic beat of my heart. I couldn't settle myself down, not yet. There was an itch, a deep, insistent need that demanded to be scratched, a need that only you could satisfy.

My fingers, trembling slightly, traced the curve of my breasts, my nails digging lightly into the delicate skin. My nipples sprang to attention, sensitive and vulnerable, begging for attention. I cupped them gently, feeling the warmth radiating from my body, the sensation traveling down my chest, igniting a fire within me. Squeezing them, I felt the familiar tingling in my milk ducts, a delicious pleasure that threatened to overwhelm me. Milk beading on my nipples, glistening in the dim light, then dripping down my breasts in a slow, seductive cascade. I pulled out my phone, my hands shaking as I snapped a few pictures, capturing the raw, vulnerable beauty of my body, the desperate plea etched on my face. Choosing one, I crafted a message, a silent invitation, a desperate hope that you would receive it, understand the depths of my longing. I sent it, a digital release, a small piece of my soul hurled across the distance.

The act of sending the picture only intensified my arousal, feeding the fire within me. Continuing to play with my own breasts, involuntarily, my labia squeezed tightly together, a physical manifestation of the tension building inside me. Tingles spread throughout my body, a symphony of sensation that left me breathless and weak. This gaping hole inside me, this desperate need to be used up, this primal desire to give you the gift of enjoying my sensitized body – that’s what I meant when I said I was turned on. This desperate wish to have you here, to feel your touch, to lose myself in the depths of your pleasure, that's what I meant when I said I wish you were here.

I rubbed my nipples more hungrily, feeling the heat intensify, my body trembling with anticipation. My nipples stood tall, erect and sensitive, a beacon of desire in the darkness. A shiver ran down my spine, a wave of heat that spread through my entire body. Every time my finger grazed my nipple, my pussy responded, twitching and contracting involuntarily, a silent invitation to explore the depths of pleasure. The thought of your hands, your lips, your entire body exploring every inch of me, filled me with a delicious, almost unbearable anticipation.

I squeezed together and released, a slow, deliberate action designed to prolong the pleasure, to savor every sensation. As I did, the thought of you, of your cock, invaded my mind, fueling the flames of desire. I wanted to squeeze it, to feel its weight against my body, to lose myself in the rhythm of your thrusts. I wanted to nibble on your ear, feeling the sensitive skin beneath my teeth, drawing moans of pleasure from your lips. I yearned to feel your cock twitch inside me, then to feel your release, the explosive rush of pleasure that would send shivers down my spine. I imagined nuzzling your face in my bosom, shading you with my body while you rode the waves of your orgasm up into me, feeling your heat, your passion, your love.

I bite you harder, drawing a small bead of blood, a dark, delicious offering to the gods of desire. You make me sticky, your sweat mingling with my own, a testament to the intensity of our shared pleasure. We're even, a strange equilibrium found in the heat of the moment. It’s messy, undeniably so, but there's a perverse satisfaction in it, a feeling of wholeness that transcends the boundaries of cleanliness and propriety. It’s a lovely thing, if not plain Christian, to take your husband’s cum in you – his seed, his energy, his manly efforts – to let him work you over until he is tired and can sleep well; then to be his fully stuffed, swollen pillow, with the sweet scent of your love-juice cocktail slowly being released from your honey pot. The thought brought a wave of pleasure so intense that it bordered on agony.

This story that I'm writing for strangers to enjoy when you're not here to bring it to life – that's what I meant when I said I miss you. It’s a desperate attempt to hold onto a piece of you, to keep your memory alive in this desolate landscape of loneliness. It's a testament to the enduring power of desire, the primal urge to connect, to lose oneself in the pleasure of another. And as I continue to write, pouring my heart and soul onto the page, I cling to the hope that you'll read these words, feel my longing, and perhaps, just perhaps, find a way to come home. The rain continues to fall, but now, it feels less like a lament and more like a rhythm, a heartbeat echoing the desire that burns within me, a constant reminder of the love that awaits us, if only we could be together again.

Did you like this story? Pulse Point Secrets look, but like these, here Mom sex stories.