new post, many mistakes but your opinion always helpful
“Fingertips”
Long ago I felt the touch of his fingertips, each one tracing their way around my body and ever since I wanted to feel them again, have them wander the uncharted trails of the veins that wound around my flesh.
They walked across me the way he strutted down the hallway of our dorm: with confidence and precision. As we would lay next to each other, I would sigh as each finger, each point pressed down into me and slowly, teasingly moved down. A different man would rush, but he was the kind of man that knew that delay was the greatest aphrodisiac. He used this to his advantage, whispering into my ear as he lounged next to me with his legs thrown over mine. He had ensnarled and would never let me go, but it was an imprisonment of my own design. I had sought him out. I had roamed the dorm for him and when I had found him I had decided to surrender myself, my whole independent being so I could feel him trace me and draw me and objectify me with his fingertips because until then I had always been the observer and now had finally found the man that would turn me into the canvas.
Yet, after each time, as he dressed himself in his jeans and his t-shirt, I felt he had taken a little part of me underneath his fingertips. He had chipped away in the most pleasurable way not just my fears and my insecurities butalso my sense of reality and my good judgment. He had torn away all the little quirks I once exhibited They had been stripped away in order to make room for his caress, his hands around my neck and down the curve of my back. I knew that if I kept this up that one day soon I would be left blank. But in the meantime, I didn’t care because his fingertips were the extensions of his desires of me and until I knew better I wanted all of it. Every bit of pressure, every bit of the sensation, every bit of what he had to offer because one day there would be nothing left for his fingertips to walk on and he would walk away.