Touch Me.

  Touch me.

  Fingers on skin, the lightest gentlest touches. The caress of a hand on my arm. The feel of someone's knuckles lightly down my cheek. The brush of fingertips on my lips.

  Touch me, caress me, play with me, find those little spots that make me and whimper.

  Make me gasp,

  and writhe,

  and purr.

  and...

  *sigh*

  Such pleasure, such bliss, my brain checks out for a while, hardwiring my touch sensors to my pleasure centers on it's way out the door.

  I can soak it up for ages.

  Laying there, writhing against the bedsheets, or on my knees, head arched back to present my neck to the one I'm lucky enough to have play with me.

  Touch so strong, so overwhelming that if one plays with one piece of skin too long it overloads, neurons start to misfire and the pleasure turns to confusion and itch, and oddness.

  So keep moving, keep exploring, keep chasing trying to find which spots are extra sensitive today.

  They move,

  they change,

  they make me gasp and buck and whimper when you find them.

  And while it makes a glorious and wonderful foreplay, it doesn't have to lead to sex.

  Sex has to end, with gasping and panting and wonderfully fun afterglow.

  But the touch, the touch can go on until both are too tired to continue.

  No need to play with my cock, when the inner thigh will reduce me too quivers.

No need to suck on me, when biting my shoulder will leave me open mouthed and staring unseeingly, brain too overloaded to form a response, while my being screams out 'MORE! MORE! Always more!'

  And the touch is always there. No matter how loud I am, or how 'on stage' how out there.

  The touch is always there, waiting and hoping.

  A brush from the right fingertips and I am suddenly down, quiet, docile, and submissive

  and waiting,

  hoping

...


touch me again

...please?