Monday, 13 August 2012

Contours

The instant my hand touches her back, there's a small static spark. At least, that's what it feels like; two fingers cause the charge, which settles down as I lay my whole hand down: all four fingers (plus one thumb), heel and palm, every joint, flat against her shoulder blade. This, in turn, generates warmth, her muscles shifting to accommodate the feeling of my hand there, a contentment that rarely manifests making its presence felt.

All this happens in less than half a second. I intensify the pressure, only slightly - probably more for my benefit than hers - and begin to slowly drag my hand downwards, her back laid out for me, like a vast plateau of smooth, unspoiled skin - freshly washed, cleaned, dried, and now mine to play with, to pleasure. I tug gently at her skin, the rough callus of my guitarist's fingers sometimes catching slightly and turning a stroke into a light scratch. Every second, my fingers inch downwards. Her derrière is in view, but I don't want to touch it. Not yet. I will... but it's not time yet.

I feel my hand swoop across and through the curves of her female body. I let my other hand join in, both thumbs working in unison to explore the dips and recesses that I find particularly appealing. At several points, I elicit a low, thrumming sound of pleasure from her mouth. I can't ignore her mouth. Kiss, then back to the exploration.

This goes on. Seconds turn into minutes, and minutes melt into a time in which time is largely irrelevant. A phrase runs through my mind as both hands press firmly against her gluteus medius: "All of space and time... follow me."

I follow the curve, my hands finally moving downwards. And I've just started.

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