You can see the wet spot I left behind on the bed after playing with myself

The sheets tell the whole story before you even look up. A dark, damp circle pressed into the fabric — evidence of exactly how long she'd been there, how deep into it she'd gotten, touching herself with no audience and no agenda.

You trace the outline with your eyes, piecing together the buildup from that single mark. Her fingers, her rhythm, the moment she stopped holding back — all of it soaked into the linen like a confession.

She's not embarrassed showing you this. That's what makes it hit harder. The wet spot isn't an accident. It's a trophy.