No pressure

Your fingers are light.
Butterfly touches on my skin
No pressure.
No being jerked around, no roughness. Not yet. Not until it's for me as much as for you.
I feel so free. To move, to leave, to push into your touch. I can discover where my body is being pulled because I'm not being pushed, because I feel
no pressure.

I want to lie in this feeling forever, so light, so free, a starting point for a thousand adventures.
I want to push back against your touch, to feel you, to invite you in, to be touched and touch back.

When there is no pressure, I breathe, so deep and slow. Each breathe is my own. I am complete, I am still. Your touch part of that stillness. "I am here". For me, with me. To be part of this stillness. So still that every breathe is a eruption, every shiver an earthquake, every bump on my skin that your fingertips catch is a mountain, a peak of pleasure and excitement and always a promise of more.
Always a promise of more,
Only when you're ready.
No pressure
But when I push back, your fingers sinking soft into my skin, my muscles twitching, my breath quickening.
You match me, pushing back against, it's not just pressure, it's desire and excitement . And I'm pushing back harder still, my words, my eyes, my body screaming yes. Your fingers paint my skin green. The mountains have become erupting volcanoes. It's a dance, every twirl, every spin, every wild move, so fast I should be scared of misstepping off the world. But with every step you squeeze my hand, a reassurance and question all at once.

I've never felt so safe spinning out of control.

Never pushed, only existing where I am comfortable.

"I don't want to make you
uncomfortable.
You are good.
Don't worry,
It's OK,

No pressure."