It starts so simply.
I'm undressing, the same way I always do, the quiet rhythm of the day settling around me. The lights are soft. The air moves gently. I'm not thinking of anything when I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror.
I don't look away.
My hands pause at the hem of my top. I lift it slowly over my head, my eyes fixed on the glass. The soft curve of my stomach, the gentle roundness of my breasts – small, but enough to press softly under the fabric of my bra. The faint line of my ribs, the way my hair curls loose over my shoulder.
I breathe. I watch.
I lower my gaze – the shape of my hips, the cling of soft shorts stretched over my thighs, the way the fabric presses between my legs. The outline there is subtle, but it draws my eyes. Framed by softness. A place that stays hidden, but not tonight.
My fingertips drift without thought. Down over my side. Over the soft slope of my hip. The outside of my thigh. No plan. Just... seeing.
I let my hand brush between my legs. Just once. A light press over fabric. The warmth stirs immediately, gentle but real.
I exhale, barely a sound.
It's nothing – barely anything. Just the faintest pressure. But I watch myself. The way I shift. The way my breath catches, low and soft.
I let the image linger as I pull on something soft and settle into bed. No rush. No chase. But the thought stays.
I know I'll come back to it.
And I do.
The next night, I find myself there again – standing before the mirror without quite meaning to. My breath is soft. The house is still.
The reflection holds me. My fingertips drift lower – past the curve of my belly, brushing the soft skin of my inner thigh. There's no urgency. No plan. Just the weight of the moment, the quiet curiosity blooming beneath my ribs.
My palm hovers, then settles. The thin barrier of fabric between my hand and my skin makes the contact feel distant, soft, but the pressure is real. I press a little, drawing a slow, careful circle. Then another.
The warmth spreads – gentle, insistent, but still mine. My breath hitches. My hips shift subtly. The softness sharpens into something richer, something I can't quite name.
My other hand lifts without thinking, brushing up over my ribs, over the swell of one breast. The shape of me. The realness of it. My fingertips trace the faint line of softness there as my breath comes faster, the motion of my lower hand deepening, pressing just slightly harder.
The mirror catches it all – the rise of my chest, the color in my cheeks, the way I tilt into the touch. The warmth climbs until it catches, curls tight, and finally spills – softly, carefully, not wild but full.
I stay still for a moment after. Let the air settle. Let the quiet return.
And when I pull back, when I dress, I do it slowly, still carrying the warmth.
The quiet after settles differently this time.
I sit on the edge of the bed, still in soft clothes. The air is cool. The warmth inside me is slow and steady, no longer pulling sharp at the edges.
I let my hands rest lightly over my lap. I breathe.
The mirror catches me again when I move. Not accidental. Not unthinking. I meet my own eyes and something shifts there – something soft, but not uncertain.
I like this.
The thought comes easily now. I like the way my body feels under soft layers. I like the weight of it. The quiet pull. The way my hands move. The way my breath changes.
I don't need to rush it. But I can feel it growing. A curiosity, slow but present.
I touch the inside of my thigh lightly – bare skin now. The thought flickers:
*I could shape this.*
Not harshly. Not cruelly. Just care. Attention. The idea of being even more myself. Of shaping softness into something stronger. Of learning how to carry this body differently, not for anyone else, but for the way it feels to me.
A smile pulls at my mouth before I even realize it.
The thought stays as I pull the covers up, the weight of the blankets pressing soft over me.
I know I'll come back to it.
I always do.