Without words, I gently wash away the salt and sea from your face, I raise first one arm and then the other and the warmth and softness of the cloth sensitises each pore. Then each leg gets the same treatment from thigh to tip-of-each-toe. I raise you up a little in the bath and your shoulders and collar bones receive the same tender touch. You lie back down and arch your back a little, now breasts and stomach have their turn of softness, until the warm, soft cloth makes its way down below your belly – down and further down until its softness meets your softness and you shudder with the sensation. And you are clean. My hands have done all of the work, but you haven't yet felt my skin on your skin. I help you out of the bath and you smell simply lovely. I have a towel warm and waiting for you and I wrap you in it and make sure you are dry.
Silently, I lay you face-down on the still-sunlit bed. You are warmed to the core. NOW it is time for the featherest of touches. I start on the nape of your neck – you know my hands are there, but the touch is almost imperceptible. Shoulders next – grazing the skin with my fingertips – down each arm – goose-pimples raising marking out where my fingers have nearly somehow touched you. I turn my attention to your feet now – the same lightest of touches – and up from calf to thigh and up and up and... not quite yet. Those feather-light fingers are up and down your spine, over and across your back, and that special place between rib-cage and hips at the tender sides of your torso – "it tickles", you giggle; but I repeat for a little while. Before it becomes unbearable I move down to your glorious buttocks – each pore seems to transform into a nerve-ending until I am gently parting your thighs and grazing (am I really?) your most sensitive place. I do not ask you to turn around – I am not that cruel!!
Now it is time for the shock of cold oil that quickly warms under firmer touch. My hands are into your skin now and playing with muscle, firm and hard and unrelenting, easing out the tension of your busy life. They journey all over your body until they come to a standstill at the last crevice of your buttocks. They pause for a moment until my fingers gently prise you apart and my thumbs graze your outer lips. NOW is the time to turn you over.
You comply, of course, and I have all your splendour on view. I take my time, drizzles of oil in all the right places, just at the right time until you are completely alive, completely wanting. Your breasts both melt and tighten under my hands – your nipples feel like they have never felt before. Your legs lighten under my touch and your thighs seem to have a mind of their own. You start to reach out – to touch my hardness, you grasp my belt, my zip, anything – just to force a hand into my jeans (you know I never wear anything underneath). I place your hand firmly but gently back by your side: "this is all about you", I whisper. And then my well-oiled fingers are in you, on you, around your wetness – and you want that, more than anything in that moment – you want me inside you. It is just fingers for now, until you are writhing and clenching and biting back your shrieks of delight. I slow, we stop.
