(no subject)
Maybe it's something in the phase of the moon, synapses in the brain releasing differently, causing our desires to do a complete turnaround and our needs to suddenly shift. There are nights where there isn't anything more perfect than slow; my hands need to feel every inch of skin under them as they pull off a piece of clothing; my mouth needs to taste each new space that's uncovered. Her wrist smells different than her neck; my lips could differentiate between a hip and a shoulder blade without fail, blindfolded. There's something in the leisurely, almost painfully slow pace that does almost as much for me as the actions themselves. It's much like unwrapping a gift - also known as pleasure delaying: the longer it takes to get to the best part, the more you enjoy it when you finally do (or so says the theory). Personally, the same applies when it comes to testing out each different place on her body to illicit a new sound from her throat, slowly, slowly working our way toward stars and fireworks. You always know that part's going to be wonderful, no matter what happens; it's getting there, waiting for the finale and enjoying the process that contributes a large part of the final result.
The briefest flash of skin under a t-shirt hem keeps my mind distracted for hours; when it comes to sensation, my fingertips know exactly what to do to ignite my imagination. There's something about the line of a hip bone subtly peeking out above a low-lying waistband that drives me insane; it's nothing but an invitation for my hands to slide over them and ... Wearing that beautiful dress, though, there aren't any lines like that; just the vee of the neckline, and the slice in fabric up the side of her thigh. The ones created by how the fabric falls and moves against her body with each step leave everything else up to the imagination to uncover till the hands get a chance. I can't quite establish whether it has to do with how she moves when she knows I'm watching, or if it's how the dress moves unbeknownst to her. Judging by the look in her eye when she catches me transfixed, it's at least a little of both.
The briefest flash of skin under a t-shirt hem keeps my mind distracted for hours; when it comes to sensation, my fingertips know exactly what to do to ignite my imagination. There's something about the line of a hip bone subtly peeking out above a low-lying waistband that drives me insane; it's nothing but an invitation for my hands to slide over them and ... Wearing that beautiful dress, though, there aren't any lines like that; just the vee of the neckline, and the slice in fabric up the side of her thigh. The ones created by how the fabric falls and moves against her body with each step leave everything else up to the imagination to uncover till the hands get a chance. I can't quite establish whether it has to do with how she moves when she knows I'm watching, or if it's how the dress moves unbeknownst to her. Judging by the look in her eye when she catches me transfixed, it's at least a little of both.