My days are full of trying. Im might need a break before i go to farxxxxxxx
This afternoon I was meant to spend time at home… I’d even planned to use the cucumber again. But I was called in to help at the church, arranging flowers for an evening gathering.
I feel safe in church. I always have. There’s a stillness there that settles me, makes me feel grounded. At first I was just enjoying being there — humming quietly as I worked, the smell of fresh flowers filling the space.
And then I saw it.
A candle, thick and solid, sitting unused on a side table. My mind stalled for a second. I don’t even know why the thought came to me so quickly, but once it was there, it wouldn’t leave.
I slipped it into my pocket, heart hammering, and went back to arranging flowers, pretending nothing had changed. But the idea wouldn’t stop building. I started looking for somewhere… somewhere I could be alone.
It turned into a kind of desperate search — down quiet corridors, past dusty doors, up the narrow stairs. Every creak of the floorboards made me freeze, but I kept going, more determined with every step.
Finally, I reached the bell tower landing. The space was small, quiet, and locked from the inside. My pulse was wild.
I slid my shorts and cotton panties down together, hesitating with them bunched around my knees before pushing them away completely. The cool air on my bare skin made me pause, just for a breath. Then I knelt, placing the candle between my knees.
I lowered onto it slowly, the first push making me tighten instinctively. The shape of the melted wax wasn’t smooth — each ridge caught against me in ways that made me gasp. I gripped the base, holding myself there, letting the feeling spread.
And then my mind betrayed me.
I saw faces. Not strangers — people from here. The man who opens the doors on Sunday. The older woman from Bible study. Even one of the choir men. In my head they were standing right there, watching as I sank further onto the candle.
The thought made my whole body shiver.
I started moving — slow at first, rocking my hips just enough to feel every ridge. My breath came quicker, my thighs tensed. In my head, those imagined eyes followed every movement, every sound. The thrill of being seen — even if it was only in my mind — made me lose the rhythm and grind harder.
The heat built fast. I pressed down, circling, riding it like I couldn’t stop. My legs shook. My mouth opened. The release hit all at once — sharp, pulsing, overwhelming. I clutched at the candle’s base, trying to steady myself as my body erupted around it, wave after wave leaving me weak and dizzy.
When it was over, I stayed there for a moment, breathing hard, my knees on the cold stone floor. The dust clung to them in faint grey smudges.
I slid off the candle slowly, hands still shaking. I examined it — the faint shine, the shape I’d been riding. I lifted it to my lips, tasting the wax and the heat I’d left behind. It made me lightheaded all over again.
Without thinking, I took it into my mouth, letting my tongue trace over every ridge, slow and deliberate, before easing it out again. My lips still tingled.
Then reality returned.
I pulled my panties and shorts back on — the fabric warm from my skin. I returned the candle to where I’d found it, careful to set it exactly in place. My knees still showed faint marks from the dust, but I brushed them off as best I could.
And then I went back to arranging flowers, as if nothing had happened.
To my readers — I don’t know if this is for me, or for you. Maybe both. But I know I’m not the same girl I was when I started writing here. And that thought both thrills me… and scares me.
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