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Women who like to jill off together

We seek it not because we are broken, but because we are unseen. The act is a search for a judgment-free reflection of one's own raw need. In indifferent eyes we finally see ourselves without the distortion of societal expectation. We are not loved or hated for our desire; we are simply witnessed. And in that witnessing, there is a kind of salvation.
 
The house was sleeping, but Chloe was not.

Sleep was for the satisfied, for people whose bodies didn’t hum with a low, persistent current of unmet need. At 3:17 AM, the master bedroom was a stage set for a play that never started. The king-sized bed stretched like an arctic desert of high-thread-count Egyptian cotton: her side a tangled, damp mess from another restless night; his side a pristine, undisturbed plane. He was in Chicago, or maybe Tokyo. She’d stopped checking his itinerary two months ago. It was easier that way.

At the foot of the bed, Montgomery let out a soft, dreaming sigh, a warm, furry anchor in the sterile chill. His presence was the only living thing in this house that greeted her without reservation, asking nothing but a scratch behind the ears.

The silence was the worst part. It wasn’t peaceful. It was a heavy, suffocating blanket woven from the quiet hum of the Sub-Zero downstairs and the frantic, sterile ticking of the bedside clock. Each tick was a nail driven into the coffin of another sleepless night.

Her laptop, a slim wedge of light in the oppressive dark, was her only escape. The forum was a digital back alley of shadows and confessions, where people whispered the things they couldn’t say in daylight. Her profile, **SilkChains**, had been a ghost in the machine for months—lurking, reading, never writing. Tonight, the passive observation felt like pressing on a bruise just to feel something other than the dull, omnipresent ache.

She scrolled, fingers moving with the detached numbness of the truly lonely. The posts were a predictable bazaar of the same three tropes: domineering billionaires with secret hearts of gold, naïve students discovering themselves, werewolves with eight-packs and instalove. It was the kind of sex people *thought* they were supposed to want, not the raw, messy, desperate need that lived in your bones.

And then she saw a new post by **FeralScript**.

The username alone made her pause. It wasn’t a fantasy; it was a diagnosis. The post was titled *“The Psychological Mirror.”* No heaving bosoms, no throbbing manhood. Just a short, brutal, brilliant dissection of taboo desire.

> *We seek it not because we are broken, but because we are unseen. The act is a search for a judgment-free reflection of one’s own raw need. In the indifferent eyes, we finally see ourselves without the distortion of societal expectation. We are not loved or hated for our desire; we are simply **witnessed**. And in that witnessing, there is a kind of salvation.*

Chloe’s gaze flicked to the sleeping form of Montgomery. The indifferent eyes....He was always just… there. A warm, non-judgmental presence in a life that felt like a constant performance. The words vibrated at the exact frequency of the ache in her soul. A judgment-free reflection. That was it. That was the nameless thing she’d been starving for. Not just sex, but to be seen.

On an impulse that felt more like a seizure than a decision, her fingers flew across the keyboard. She typed, deleted, typed again. Finally:

> **SilkChains:** *Your post… it’s like you’re describing the feeling of being starved in a room full of food. I get it.*

She hit send. The message hung in the digital void like a flare.

She snapped the laptop shut, plunging the room back into darkness, the screen’s afterimage burned onto her retinas. She lay back, the cotton now rough against her skin, the ticking of the clock suddenly louder, mocking her.

And then, a soft chime cut through the silence.

Her body moved before her brain could protest, flipping the screen open. A new message. From **FeralScript**.

> **FeralScript:** *Starved in a room full of food. Yes. I know that hunger. Tell me what it tastes like tonight.*

A gasp escaped Chloe’s lips. She felt seen. Truly, deeply seen. The words weren’t just a response; they were a confirmation. This woman understood the language of her emptiness. Her fingers, no longer trembling, flew back to the keyboard.

> **SilkChains:** Bitter. Metallic. Like licking the inside of my own skull.

> **FeralScript:** Perfect. Where’s your hand right now?

> **SilkChains:** Between my legs. Already soaked.

> **FeralScript:** Don’t be gentle. That clit’s been loyal. Punish it. Reward it. Tell me exactly.

> **SilkChains:** Circling slow. Hard little nub. Thighs shaking.

> **FeralScript:** Faster. Tell me what you want to be seen doing.

> **SilkChains:** Want someone to watch me come apart. Want them to *know* how empty I am.

> **FeralScript:** I see you. I see the hunger in every letter. Let it rip.

> **SilkChains:** Circling faster. Fuck, it’s building.

> **FeralScript:** Good girl. Tell me when you’re right there.

> **SilkChains:** Right there—oh god—

> **FeralScript:** Come for me. Now.

Her hips lifted off the mattress, chasing the pressure. The circle tightened, faster, merciless. Then—*release*. A sharp, silent clench that left her gasping, thighs trembling in the dark.

She lay there, chest heaving. The laptop screen dimmed. A moment later, Montgomery stirred, padded up the bed, and rested his heavy head on her stomach—warm, breathing, **present**. The silence wasn’t suffocating anymore. It was *complicit*. She had broken something tonight. And for the first time in months, the pieces didn’t cut.
 
AngieGZC said:
The house was sleeping, but Chloe was not.

Sleep was for the satisfied, for people whose bodies didn’t hum with a low, persistent current of unmet need. At 3:17 AM, the master bedroom was a stage set for a play that never started. The king-sized bed stretched like an arctic desert of high-thread-count Egyptian cotton: her side a tangled, damp mess from another restless night; his side a pristine, undisturbed plane. He was in Chicago, or maybe Tokyo. She’d stopped checking his itinerary two months ago. It was easier that way.

At the foot of the bed, Montgomery let out a soft, dreaming sigh, a warm, furry anchor in the sterile chill. His presence was the only living thing in this house that greeted her without reservation, asking nothing but a scratch behind the ears.

The silence was the worst part. It wasn’t peaceful. It was a heavy, suffocating blanket woven from the quiet hum of the Sub-Zero downstairs and the frantic, sterile ticking of the bedside clock. Each tick was a nail driven into the coffin of another sleepless night.

Her laptop, a slim wedge of light in the oppressive dark, was her only escape. The forum was a digital back alley of shadows and confessions, where people whispered the things they couldn’t say in daylight. Her profile, **SilkChains**, had been a ghost in the machine for months—lurking, reading, never writing. Tonight, the passive observation felt like pressing on a bruise just to feel something other than the dull, omnipresent ache.

She scrolled, fingers moving with the detached numbness of the truly lonely. The posts were a predictable bazaar of the same three tropes: domineering billionaires with secret hearts of gold, naïve students discovering themselves, werewolves with eight-packs and instalove. It was the kind of sex people *thought* they were supposed to want, not the raw, messy, desperate need that lived in your bones.

And then she saw a new post by **FeralScript**.

The username alone made her pause. It wasn’t a fantasy; it was a diagnosis. The post was titled *“The Psychological Mirror.”* No heaving bosoms, no throbbing manhood. Just a short, brutal, brilliant dissection of taboo desire.

> *We seek it not because we are broken, but because we are unseen. The act is a search for a judgment-free reflection of one’s own raw need. In the indifferent eyes, we finally see ourselves without the distortion of societal expectation. We are not loved or hated for our desire; we are simply **witnessed**. And in that witnessing, there is a kind of salvation.*

Chloe’s gaze flicked to the sleeping form of Montgomery. The indifferent eyes....He was always just… there. A warm, non-judgmental presence in a life that felt like a constant performance. The words vibrated at the exact frequency of the ache in her soul. A judgment-free reflection. That was it. That was the nameless thing she’d been starving for. Not just sex, but to be seen.

On an impulse that felt more like a seizure than a decision, her fingers flew across the keyboard. She typed, deleted, typed again. Finally:

> **SilkChains:** *Your post… it’s like you’re describing the feeling of being starved in a room full of food. I get it.*

She hit send. The message hung in the digital void like a flare.

She snapped the laptop shut, plunging the room back into darkness, the screen’s afterimage burned onto her retinas. She lay back, the cotton now rough against her skin, the ticking of the clock suddenly louder, mocking her.

And then, a soft chime cut through the silence.

Her body moved before her brain could protest, flipping the screen open. A new message. From **FeralScript**.

> **FeralScript:** *Starved in a room full of food. Yes. I know that hunger. Tell me what it tastes like tonight.*

A gasp escaped Chloe’s lips. She felt seen. Truly, deeply seen. The words weren’t just a response; they were a confirmation. This woman understood the language of her emptiness. Her fingers, no longer trembling, flew back to the keyboard.

> **SilkChains:** Bitter. Metallic. Like licking the inside of my own skull.

> **FeralScript:** Perfect. Where’s your hand right now?

> **SilkChains:** Between my legs. Already soaked.

> **FeralScript:** Don’t be gentle. That clit’s been loyal. Punish it. Reward it. Tell me exactly.

> **SilkChains:** Circling slow. Hard little nub. Thighs shaking.

> **FeralScript:** Faster. Tell me what you want to be seen doing.

> **SilkChains:** Want someone to watch me come apart. Want them to *know* how empty I am.

> **FeralScript:** I see you. I see the hunger in every letter. Let it rip.

> **SilkChains:** Circling faster. Fuck, it’s building.

> **FeralScript:** Good girl. Tell me when you’re right there.

> **SilkChains:** Right there—oh god—

> **FeralScript:** Come for me. Now.

Her hips lifted off the mattress, chasing the pressure. The circle tightened, faster, merciless. Then—*release*. A sharp, silent clench that left her gasping, thighs trembling in the dark.

She lay there, chest heaving. The laptop screen dimmed. A moment later, Montgomery stirred, padded up the bed, and rested his heavy head on her stomach—warm, breathing, **present**. The silence wasn’t suffocating anymore. It was *complicit*. She had broken something tonight. And for the first time in months, the pieces didn’t cut.
Click to expand...
oh my yes, please and more angie
 
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