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Pressure. It start with a look. That look. You catch it, roll it about on your tongue, and return it. It's the heat in your eyes but you throw a skirt over it with a smile, and a g-string of a giggle. They eat it up like it was liquid candy but cool it so the fire doesn't burn you both. Sliding over you both slide into the ritual, licked lips, finger slid through hair, a head tossing laugh and that sly smile under it all. Conversation is laced and tied if you know the game. Doesn't matter whose house but when you make it there you both still play cordial. But cordial falls under the raging dragon of hormones. Hands find their way, fumbled or sly, doesn't matter as long as they find the grips. Lips brush, tongues seek the heat buried deep inside. Clothes are suddenly an obstruction instead of the signal, but they're still fun. They slide on top top of you as you submit into a couch or bed or floor...or shower. Jean clad hips grind into your slit of a dress and you can feel the beast uncoil into your lungs. Now the ungarbing is more desperate and bare flesh can only take a shutter inhale before it meets another's flesh and the heady wave of desire. Everything spins, shuttering to goosebumps and the heaves, pushing you farther into the intoxication for more. They lie their body on yours. Berserk. For Pressure.