The Toy of Our Memories

​

She left two weeks ago. My roommate. The one I loved, deeply. One-way ticket to Lisbon. A fresh start. A new chapter. And me? I stayed in our apartment. Surrounded by walls filled with memories, laughter, a few moans… and a lot of shared orgasms.

​

Before leaving, she gave me one last gift. A small discreet bag, left on my bed. Inside: our beige lace kimono, the one we used to fight over playfully, and her one and only toy, a beautiful transparent glass dildo with a rosy tip. So elegant. So smooth.

​

“To remember me when you need warmth… or chills,” she whispered, with that signature smirk of hers.

Today the apartment is silent. Too silent. Just me, a ray of sunlight across wrinkled sheets, and this wild craving to reconnect. Or maybe… to reconnect with her. I slip into my burgundy lingerie, her favorite, and let the kimono slide over my shoulders. It still smells like her. Sweet vanilla, with a faint trace of desire we never dared to name.

​

I lie down on the bed, heat already building between my thighs. I keep the kimono on for a moment longer, like a final touch of her skin against mine. Then slowly, I let it fall. I tease the straps of my bra, sliding them down one by one until my breasts spill out, tense, trembling. My fingers explore. Gently pinching, teasing. My breath quickens. A hand slips under the lace of my panties, tugging them down over my hips. I want to feel every spark. And now, fully naked, bathed in the golden light of day, I close my eyes.

​

I start touching myself. Slow. Deep. My mind drifts back to those nights after the club, tipsy, lit up from the inside. We couldn’t even take our heels off before our hands found each other. She loved tearing off my top, laying across me, making me moan before we even reached the bed. That same energy floods back. My hips begin to move with my hand. My clit is swollen, desperate, pulsing under constant stimulation. And when my fingers are no longer enough, I reach for her toy.

​

Cold. Hard. Erotic.

​

I slide it along the inside of my thighs, across my hot stomach, between my breasts. I lick it. Slowly. Like I’m honoring her. Like I miss her. I want the toy to carry my saliva, my scent, my need. I roll it over my tight nipples. My body shivers.

​

Then I bring it closer. Let it graze my lips, just to feel the contrast in temperature. It’s intense. I gasp. My legs fall open. I press the toy in, slowly. Deliciously. I stifle the first cry. But then it’s too much. I moan. Louder. I moan your name, Lydia, so loud I swear the walls of your room across the ocean must be trembling.

​

Your dildo moves in me like magic. In, out, deeper, harder. My other hand hammers my clit, while I thrust with the rhythm I know you’d use. My hips rock. My legs stiffen. My stomach clenches. The pleasure climbs, wild and unstoppable. I come. Hard. Back arched. Breath shattered. A muffled cry stuck in my throat. I orgasm thinking of you. Of us. Of that last night when we clung to each other like it was our final goodbye.

​

I lie there, breathless. The glass magician still inside me. Then, weak-kneed and shaking, I rise and step into the shower. Hot water flows over my still-vibrating body. I take the handheld stream and let it roam over my breasts, down my belly, between my thighs. I touch myself again. Softly. Just to make it last a little longer.

​

As the water glides over my skin, I smile.

​

You may be far away now. But I still have this. Your toy. Our memory. This burning secret that still makes me come, again and again.