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…)
“I’m absolutely terrified of being tied up.”
“The thought of a blindfold can make me physically sick.”
There: two things that only a very limited number of people know about me, and even less of them understand, or try to understand. Very few have watched the change in my demeanour and behaviour if I come into contact with items specifically designed to restrain, or the way I burn up and my eyes fill with tears at even the mention of a blindfold coming anywhere near me or, by extension, the very mention that it might.
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.
I keep meaning to contribute to more memes, and I’m determined to attempt as many as I can, as often as I can, from now on. As I hardly ever write about myself (in a non-fiction manner) on my blog, this is one of the more challenging memes for me. This is my first TMI Tuesday; I’m hoping to be broken in gently!
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.