Untouchable

'Hello there – how's it going?'

I looked up from other thoughts, mostly to do with jiggling the new key into a position where it would do some good, my smile surfacing to acknowledge hers as I nodded back.

'So, are you fully settled into your place?' She'd slowed now on the broad stairwell's landing before my flat's door. In the two weeks of tenancy here, I'd seen her only once before, coming down the stairs from the loft apartment above mine – then as now, she'd seemed quiet, friendly and also shy with a glint of boldness, peeking at me from behind a partial curtain of long hair. But that could be just the effect my shaven head has on folks, until they get to know me.

I must admit to having noticed more about her on that occasion, caught in a glance as she looked downwards with what I'd assumed was that shyness I'd mentioned – petite, slender and with the fullest young hips I'd seen on a woman in a long while; hips made to endure hours of slow, intense sex. Her breasts were in part hidden by hair and open jacket. I did not feel bad for so casually eyeing her up like that, for her own glance had gone straight for my crotch. A smile covered the memory signal, of my having slowly masturbated with her in mind that night.

That same look of shy boldness played about her features now, so I could not help wondering what it was she'd been looking at this time. By then she'd come to a stop, and I needed to order my thoughts back toward the now.

'Yeah, all's good now thanks. I like the place, and how it's been done – how long now since the renovation, six months?'

Her look shifted along with her eyes, focusing up and out onto a special distance, as if able to see the past there.

'Yeah, 'bout that.' Her belated nod confirmed the statement, giving certainty to her expression in a way that I found quite endearing. 'I'm Sara by the way.'

Her hand was stuck out uncompromisingly, time went slow:would my obvious surprise at such unexpectedness, mask this brief hesitation in responding straight away, like for like?

I came out of it: 'Hi – I'm Curt.' Smile broadening to cover clenching teeth before contact.

I felt the charged tingle preceding that sensory rush - it always came over me when there was any physical contact between myself and another. This time it was certain to be worse, with bare flesh on bare flesh...

Even prepared, I was caught by the blast as it came in an incredibly strong rush, so I concentrated underneath that unstoppable surge of emotional conduction, centring my attention on our hands calmly going through the whole perfunctory up and down bit of shaking and being shaken. I also was aware through the suffusing flood of contact, that a bit of the charge must have leaked back, as her pupils dilated noticeably – there had been a lot of juice in that touch.

I'd like to think that I showed no such overt signs myself, except for a possible slight flare of the nostrils, my lungs involuntarily spasming under the impacting shock.

I'm usually more careful about avoiding contact, especially the flesh-to-flesh variety – but this time I had no real choice, not unless I wanted to cause an awkward moment, which from experience I know is never truly explainable to the other's satisfaction. So I'd taken it, trusting to my years of experience in getting these hits, to mask the signs.

With pupils still widening, she broadened her smile in continued slow motion, possibly misinterpreting my own reaction as some subliminal, ancient animal response of deciphering her scent for readiness to mate.

A belated flush started to colour her face, and as real-time reasserted itself, she quickly pivoted away, giving a slight wave of trailing fingers as she started back on her way up the last two flights of stairs.

On automatic myself after taking that emotional surge, I turned and got myself inside somehow, under a haze of aftermath – that last sight of her taut, rounded behind climbing the stairs, hypnotically rolling, not helping matters with my erection already trying to rip its way out of my combats.

Once inside, I leaned the door shut and stayed there a moment, concentrating on calming breaths.Damn, but that discharge had been really heavy. A shock from someone so young!

By now, I can imagine that you dear reader, might well be quite thoroughly confused concerning what the hell I'm talking about...

...Well, I doubt you've heard of us, because of all the various documented and speculated upon psychic attenuations, you won't find ours amongst them. My own take upon it is, that we are extremely rare, possibly there are only a few of us in the whole world, I'm sure of it as I've been researching on the quiet for more than two decades, without encountering signs of another – although signs would be unexpected.

Staring with the fact that all things are proportional in nature, and with the world population growing the way it has been, there will be an increased chance for others amongst that number. History has hidden our predecessors, but lateral consideration of the facts, will bring you to surmise all this too, after all, most people seem to accept the related versions of this ability to some degree, even those which may not truly exist.

You will probably remember the filmUnbreakable, where a touch is sufficient to impart a link to past emotional charges of dishonesty, from the one responsible for the act(s), to the one...gifted.

My hesitation was for a reason – but more of that later, I wouldn't want to spoil the story-flow.

The point under scrutiny here, is that the recipient can see and feel a past event experienced by another, directly, all through a touch. Such a contact also leaves no chance for lies or misinterpretation to colour judgement. Like Mr. Willis' character, I can do the same, but unlike him, it isn't the signatures of dishonesty that I receive, but levels of sexual bliss.

I'd make a great sexual counsellor, if I could stand the load, or the state of humanity's mind – but again, I'm going off the path, and I'm sure you didn't start reading this, to hear about all that.

At base level, the intensity of sexual release determines how much charge comes across in any contact; I can see the lot, but the strongest contacts do tend to come still from furtive pleasures taken. Great sex often comes from doing something forbidden, ergo furtively undertaken, and that creates guilt in most, to some degree or other – and this in turn enhances the act, boosting its psychic load to something unique. Like I said, I get the lot, but the strongest images and charges come from these upper guilt-pleasures, stored closer to the surface.

If you don't believe me, then draw from your own experiences and consider the times when you have had to slip away to the toilet, alone or together sometime during the day, or when out in a bar, going there to relieve that sudden and all absorbing pressure from being with someone, seeing some stranger or something happen that really turned you on – whatever the stimulus, it went straight for the hind brain, and left you with little choice. That orgasm reached furtively, stayed with you far longer and stronger than any other attained whilst alone.

There's no use denying it, I know they do, because when my arm brushes yours, I feel and see them there as peaks of bliss on your sexual psyche map – and I get this from both men and women.

That was exactly what I'd picked up, cresting the surge that poured into me from Sara just now – the most recent in a powerful collection of sexual moments – an intense orgasm had on the sly while at work, and stored there as psychic static under her skin.

I've no idea how she carries herself so calmly with all that inside her, charged and waiting, tingling under her skin for days, until it slowly dissipates under slow contact with others. All people vary in how much sensitivity they have, most are imperfect conductors for this charge, maybe just experiencing her touch as a mild sexual thrill upon contact, explicable only by the fact of contact with an attractive young woman. As a perfect conductor, her charge flipped polarity upon contact, discharging into my mind - which is why I'm staggered that she can walk around like that, without being constantly wet and not showing it. The melee of images from her now crowding my mind, tell me that she masturbates lots.

Above all that, the most recent...episode, sat there in every detail, lodged within me as if her body was mine, letting me see again and again, it as if I'd experienced everything myself. It can get confusing at times, but I am never short for a fantasy from this broad spectrum of sexual stimuli – I can be any gender or orientation I want.

And that brings with it problems that are as unique as the situation. Even after these moments of intervening calm, my erection is still granite hard, pushing without relent for release, first from all constriction by clothing, then from the imparted sexual tension, made worse by the knowledge that the fingers of the hand that had touched mine, had been slipping in and out of the wetness between her legs so readily, only an hour or so earlier.

Moving forward, I shed coat, keys and bag onto convenient surfaces, my combats already open in readiness as I dropped back onto the sofa. Inserting the same hand carefully, I encircled him with slow relish, delicately extricating him from his burrow down my trouser leg, drawing him out to stand free and ready, naked to the world of my front room.

Even though I knew she'd washed her hands of all evidence, I imagined that by proxy, her wetness and scent could be transferred by touch, and my hand could become something else of hers, that which I'd prefer to be sliding down over my penis.

I pulled back from the thought, needing to let the imagery from her own masturbatory fantasy unfold to conclusion first, before releasing mine – I found that doing this after such a contact, exorcised the charge from plaguing me all day and night, like a healer flicking the drawn negative energies away, out through their hands. I also knew that it wouldn't take much for me to come, as the tingling and tightness of imminent orgasm was all over, without adding further stimulation.

In her memory, I found the initial swell of pressure blossoming inside, a focus carried and maintained in the diamond-form sexual circuitry of mind, nipples and crotch, racing from point to point and refusing to die down.

Her need was a tangible thing, and wanted something similar in return.

The office and desk around her began to dissolve as details within resolved, focusing around a compact association of brief, sensory impressions that would not go away. She must have been daydreaming, her mind drifting back to a current fantasy, and now at her desk, body turned at work, triple beacons of heat lit her mind, blinding her thoughts from all else, as clothing slid and excited with each twist or turn.

Her thighs every movement against each other, had the weight of glacial pressure, and parting them just made the associations far worse – her mind was afire with all concentration gone.

Then she was walking quickly down a corridor, her full-bladder cramped gait showing urgency – a wider stride would have let the juices flow in a trickle down her legs.

Brief images of doors, harsh sounds of heels clacking on tile flooring and the give of a hard toilet cubicle door against the flesh of her hand as it swung inwards.

Upon calmly locking it behind her, continuity re-established itself, she turned and slid panties down carefully, feeling the slow peeling away sensation of wet fabric from wet, sensitive lips - stifling a gasp, not knowing if anyone were in the other cubicles to hear her, she rolled her skirt up high, sat, then opened her legs deliberately wide.

Leaning back slowly as her hand went down between them, body coming back up in an arch as questing fingers slid alongside her clitoris, brushing the swollen nub and flaring an orgasm loose across belly, sending a jolt directly up through her nipples.

This time her gasp got out, but she no longer cared, nor was the one orgasm enough, I could feel her need rising in response to a wash of montaged confusion, flooding her mind in successive waves, echoing the ripples through her body.

Hot wet silkiness under her fingers, oozed in a stream while time adjusted to capture the images that has fired her up, and she continued to spread it in broad, tight paced strokes over lips and around a clit now stood fully clear of its retracted hood, hard as her nipples and pulsing to the same beat of fired blood.

My own erectile tissue, grown ready and hard from that same root, throbbed in sympathetic need – this was the beautiful part of being someone else for a few moments. I knew all their intimate touches, and had instant memory of how it felt when others touched them. In this way, I had shared sex with thousands of partners, both male and female, gay and hetro – it was something else, and possibly the thing that kept me going during the times when the downside became too much.

Stretching herself more open, Sara inserted three fingers and began to slip them uncompromisingly in and out, her thoughts becoming clearer as the object of her desire took form in longer snippets of imagery. It still had the sparsity of cohesive detail common to fantasy, but at least there was a focus in the swirl of emotional atmosphere.

I saw piercing eyes contacting with hers, cutting through the blur of irrelevance that was a party full of sketchy mannequins around her – then came a slow sequence of held moments, capturing a slim male body, from all the angles that mattered – taut belly glimpsed under his shrouding, loose t-shirt, his hand moving under it, over smooth skin – his firm ass moving in slow, suggestive gyration to the music – then an arm stretched, muscular in a naturally wiry way, combining with shoulder and back in a twist that she could feel herself wrapped into, her legs clamped around his waist as he thrust himself into her.

Sara's glanced down at her fingers moving rapidly in and out between her thighs, the wet sucking sounds of what she was doing clearly audible in the toilets' quiet. She did not care, just angled their thrust upwards to catch her ready g-spot.

Back in her mind they were naked and on her bed in the same posture, but now she was on her back, him in her arms, and his hard, long dick filled her deep inside. All the while he gyrated himself against her clit with unstoppable motion.

The imagery dissolved into a flurry of past sensations, specifics that caressed all her buttons with sweet urgency.

On the toilet seat, she sagged, stomach flexing in undulation after undulation as the orgasm washed her clean of all tensions.

Like a struggling pilot of old, I was gripping my cock like the joystick I was unable to control, shuddering while fighting to keep it upright, and therefore the sperm pumping out from flying everywhere.

Joystick...? My thought coming from total stage left, dominated the moment, as it had a habit of doing at inappropriate times.Is that then where the term came from, a simple euphemism?

I mulled over that for the moment it took me to clean up, walking penguin like to the bathroom towash-up. I hated leaving it all until everything had cooled - I just couldn't help it, not after all the images I'd seen of flaccid penises, a curl of sperm congealed and forlorn, leading across the body directly to the scene of the crime – and that was it, invariably the trousers would still be tangled down around the ankles, crumpled and looking like there had been a struggle. Those moments always reminded me of the Police photos taken after they'd found the body, suggesting a story you were not sure you'd want to probe into any further.

Clothes readjusted and back on track, I poured myself a clinking juice from the fridge, and focused instead on the fantasy store behind the one involuntarily just shared by my new neighbour. Young Sara certainly had a wealth of sexual highs to pull her orgasm inducing images from – not only did she play with herself a lot, but she also seemed to find time for a multitude of lovers, both male and female.

Sensuous black women had licked her to a frenzy, guys of all sizes and types had held her hard and pumped themselves dry inside her, in all the available places. The cocks and cunts she'd sucked and nibbled, the piercings she'd toyed with, the places she'd done all these things, fast fucks in lifts, and all the toys she'd used, alone or in company.

I felt too exhausted to explore all that in much more detail just now, knowing I'd be horny and masturbating all night if I did – it could wait, the main charge had been safely dissipated for now. The secondary charge from all her other activities, wouldn't start bothering me for a day or two yet, so I had the time. It should not have surprise me though, the libido of a youthful generation grown up under other mores, though it invariably did –she is lively, in her early twenties, and living in a city with opportunity in plenty, on all sides – so why not?

Even after the juice, I was still feeling sleepy, and was already contemplating a short sleep to bring me whole through the evening, yet I knew that wasn't a viable option as I had things to do – and with no coffee in the place, I'd need to go back out and get some soon. Masturbating always did this to me, although it hadn't apparently affected Sara, she was still full of life after those two strong orgasm had over an hour ago.

Pouring another juice, I sat back, wondering if she had some secret remedy for this. Of course I didn't find any, my curiosity, despite the above, lead me deeper into her via the surface links of that most recent experience.

After a bit of interconnected roaming, I saw that she had been as busy with her thoughts, as with her fingers, she was currently unattached, and had indeed been playing with herself a lot, more so than could be accounted for by the burgeoning spring season. It wasn't record-breaking stuff, I had encountered others who masturbated far more, nevertheless I felt myself stirring again. I suppose I can't help it, but I like the feeling of being within another's private thoughts, although not for the reasons that most would suspect.

It isn't the simple fact that watching a woman touching herself turns me on, because it does – most of the porn I have centres around that, and I know a lot of other people like it too – no crime there. But the 'gift' – there are those inverted commas again – this gift that I have, gives a different slant to it all.

Through it, I can see and feel that which is denied me as an individual – I can be someone for a moment, a person who has only their own thoughts and feelings running around in their head, and that engenders a coziness that for me is unique. It must be like how a telepath might crave silence in their head, something only reachable through regular, heavy drinking. At least I attain moments of release from the multitude in mine, without needing to resort to such drastic measures. So that is why I enjoy these sojourns – sure I get off on all the women working themselves off alone, but that is just a bonus to me.

There is of course the down side that I mentioned earlier, the bane and thing that keeps me single, and perforce an outsider – this also comes from the 'gift'.

I have had relationships, although few, and none with someone who knew of my ability – the witch-burner in us all is something barely suppressed, and I am no fool. Maybe I will one day grow too weary to care, and try to tell someone whom I like enough, but that person will have to be an intrinsically honest soul, if it is to work beyond a simple unburdening of what this gift brings.