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wide awake, on tiptoe…

They are patient and wise, these barely-feminine hands of mine. They seek. They know truth before I do – this is the scent they follow.

I cup your beautiful face. My hands guide me as words get lost in your eyes, in the thick lump that forms in my throat. As I trace, my fingers taste you, your fear, your need and your hunger. Along your jaw, over your lips, around your ears, sliding down and around your neck.

Something about your skin cradled against mine heats me – my cheeks, the nape of my neck, my soft soft cunt-folds.  My caress guides us both to a resting place – a place beyond, sourced from a breath-like tremble.

I have been told that my hands are intoxicating but only when touching you, do I sense some of what that might mean. I’m almost afraid to touch you more – to learn you are less than you trust me to hold.

Already I feel the full force of being seen by one who will not fully choose me and in that same breath, I defy the shadow of all we cannot be.

wide awake, on tiptoe

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i see like you hear…

i hear like you seeYour slightest touch gives me shivers. The barest-of-caress on my palm makes me moan in secret.

I try not to arch with pleasure.
(I can’t give myself away.)
I curl my toes and squeeze my knees together instead.

I look at our hands entwined.
I watch my fingers
spread and splay,
wrapped inside yours.

This is a luxury – your attention.
So tender sweet.
I swoon.