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I don’t recall the date. It was a couple of years ago, a little after one in the morning. I do remember the glow of the digital clock that faced me. I don’t remember what spark had sent me down the self-pleasuring route, but I was lying on my right side, slowly stroking myself with my left, thinking about… I don’t recall. I fantasise about so many different things, so many different faces, past, present and future.

I stroked myself, my body almost completely still, only my left arm moving. It was a warm night, and I’d pushed the bed covers away. The sensations were building, and perhaps that combined with the lateness of the hour, had dulled my awareness of the world about me. When MW reached over my hip with her left hand, I was caught completely off-guard.

Her lips were right next to my ear when she whispered, “Do you need a hand with that?”

Before I had the chance to even stutter guiltily, she had overlaid my hand with her own, matching my movements as I stroked myself. Any shame I might have experienced at being caught was quickly obliterated by my excitement at MW’s intervention. This was virgin territory for us. Not wanting her to feel superfluous, I quickly relinquished control to her and drew my hand away. -- The Link