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The hum startles me so much that I almost drop it.

I turn it off immediately and set it down with exaggerated care.

This is ridiculous.

I’m a full-grown woman. Most twenty-six-year-olds have had multiple partners. This shouldn't be such a mystery. It shouldn’t feel so embarrassing.

It’s not wrong to want to know what this feels like.

I was taught to wait, but no one ever explained what I was waiting for. Only that wanting was something to be ashamed of—something to hide, not explore.

But I don’t want to wait anymore. I don’t want to live the life they planned for me; I want to live for myself.

And maybe that starts here.

I press the button again.

The device hums quietly. There’s a faint pull where the opening flares, a rhythm that seems absurd at first—like a mechanical heartbeat. I turn it off again.

I should clean it first. The instructions on that were clear: warm water, mild soap, circular motions, dry thoroughly.

I carry it into the bathroom after making sure there was no one in the hallway. I follow the steps one at a time. When I’m done, I dry it with the hand towel and bring it back into the bedroom.

Before getting back into bed, I lock the door and turn the knob to make sure the lock works.

I sit at the edge of the bed for a while, the device resting beside me.

Okay, I can do this.

I take off my sweats and panties because that seems like the right thing to do, and slip under the blanket. The mattress shifts beneath me, and every sound feels too loud. Do they know what I’m doing in here? God, I hope not.

The light through the curtains has dimmed a little, casting soft shadows along the walls.

I try to remember everything the instructions said. How to angle it. Where to hold. What not to expect right away. Maybe I should read through the instructions again, just one more time. But, instead, I screw up my courage and press the button again. That low vibration returns.

I hesitate, then shift slightly and let it settle against me. The first touch doesn’t do much for me. It feels like it’s in the wrong place. Too high. Too far left. I adjust, pausing between each attempt to breathe. My hand starts to cramp from holding so still. I move again. Slightly lower. A little toward the center.

There. I feel something.

It’s faint—barely anything at first. A tiny pulse that pulls at something deeper. My thighs tense. Not out of pain. Not even pleasure yet. Just...awareness? Anticipation? A part of me I didn’t know how to listen to, suddenly making itself known.

I hold steady, but the angle’s still wrong. I tilt the device, adjust again, this time slower. The hum changes pitch slightly. The suction tightens. A heavy breath slips past my lips.

Heat prickles low in my stomach.

The sensation builds in small increments, climbing with every shift. I don’t want to lose it. It feels fragile, like a thread I’m not sure how to hold onto.

Then something clicks.

I find the right spot. My body stiffens before I can stop it. I gasp and immediately worry someone may have heard me.

I press harder. Then the rhythm catches, and I forget how to think.

My hips twitch forward. My heels dig into the mattress. I can’t hold still, but I don’t want to move either. Every small adjustment increases the sensation. I don’t stop. I can’t.

It comes on like a wave with no end. One moment I’m holding it together, the next I’m somewhere else. Everything sharpens. Then blurs. Pressure builds and breaks, and when it does, I have to keep myself from crying out.

I don’t know how long it lasts.