Sometimes, all I needed to become putty in your hands was a quick glance. You know, the one when I looked over without consciously realising why, but both seeking and finding reassurance in the way you looked back at me.
I didn’t expect it, that slip of your skin against mine as we walked, the summertime heat leaving your palm warm. Just the slightest of touches set a spark inside me, igniting my blood; it was the way your fingers encased mine leaving me simmering with desire and an anticipation I dare not express, even to myself. You were just making sure I was safe, weren’t you? Did you know that even the smallest brush of your skin against mine set my emotions in turmoil?
There’s something about every room I wander into that excites me, makes me aroused, just as if the softest of paintbrushes was running over my flesh, brushing the tips of my nipples with its tender sable. I have to slip my hand beneath my top and touch them through my bra to check, the feeling is so convincing. There they are, erect and willing me into each room, this feeling of arousal spreading, brushing my belly into knots and transferring the feeling between my legs as I realise what it is that affects me so: it is the smell of you.
My aunt died very recently. I have very strong memories of her. She was often present in my childhood, and, apart from my mum, she(read more…)
She felt the Devil, long before he asked her to dance. Vivid dreams left her writhing, waking and finding herself on her stomach, breasts rubbing against the sheet, fingers already straying between her thighs. He took her in these night-time visions, claiming her, from her burning lips to her fiery cunt, growling against her flesh she would always be his, her desire the flames that licked his feet in supplication. She always awoke as he penetrated her – with his cock, his eyes, his dominance – and it left her dripping with molten need.
The silk trails up the side of my neck and I offer myself up to its motion. Over my throat, and up against the side of my face, fluttering over my forehead until I hear my own moans at its touch. The aroma of his shower gel fills me as his hand brushes my face, and my eyes close as his skin brushes my lips. They chase the touch, not recognising that the silk has covered my eyelids until it pulls tight round the back of my head.
I don’t want to make an idiot of myself, but my chest is lurching. I don’t know if I can cope with it; not knowing, not seeing. His chest presses up against my shoulder blades; his cock is hardening inside his jeans, pressing against the top of my backside. The thought of it makes my heart bang. The movement of his cock is so mesmerising to me that it takes a moment to notice he has my arms up above my head.
I lay on the bed, half wet, half dry, still trying to calm my breath. I couldn’t manage to make myself come in the shower, so I’d played with every vibrator near to hand the moment I’d got out. And now, here I am, phone in hand, wet hair that he loves splayed out all over the duvet, as I click the camera and take a picture of my flushed face, neck and chest, together with my fingers having a cheeky pinch at my left nipple.
It was starting to become excruciating. The clock in the corner of the arrivals board told me I’d been sitting here for almost three hours – that was four minutes longer than the last time I checked. I just couldn’t stay in that room, waiting any longer. I wriggled on my chair and smiled. The love egg was nestled nicely inside. He promised to let me know he’d landed in his own special way.