Inspired by a lovely Liverpudlian lass
.
I. Sight
They lie together, legs entwined. Kissing passionately. Their mouths hungering for each other, tongues flickering back and forth, hands stroking, arms clasping.
He breaks the kiss, strokes her hair back, looks deep into her shining eyes and asks: "Do you want to try? I mean, the stuff we talked about?"
She closes her eyes for a second, and he gazes on her beauty. Those pouting lips, the bottom one hanging loose ... quivering slightly? Then she looks back up at him, resolute, desiring.
"Yes," she whispers. "Please."
They kiss again, deeply. Then he shifts away, pulls her into a sitting position. He moves behind her on the bed and there is a rustling sound.
"Close your eyes," he says.
She does, and then feels a soft cloth being tied gently -- but firmly -- around her head in a wide band. Her heart seems to skip a beat, she tries opening her eyes again -- but no, the blindfold is a good one, she can't see a thing.
He embraces her from behind, speaks softly in her left ear.
"You know I only want to give you pleasure," he says. She nods, a quick jerk of the head, but he feels a tremor run through her at the same time. "Relax."
She lies back on the bed. She feels his weight shift, understands from the motion of the mattress that he is lying beside her, on her left. She feels his hand take hers.
"We're just going to lie here and let you get comfortable," he says. "Only when you're ready will we do anything else."
They lie still together, his fingers stroking over hers. Her breathing deepens, he senses her muscles loosen and turns his head to whisper in her ear.
"Just imagine you're gently starting to float off the bed. Very slowly, very gently, just hovering just off the bed. It feels very comfortable, like you're on cotton wool, very soft. And it means you'll be able to concentrate on all the sensations. You can move all you like, you're not restrained, but you're floating, like in water. Like at the lake."
---
A person who loses the use of one of their senses may find that the others become heightened, to compensate. Those who find they cannot see, for instance due to being blindfolded, may become more sensitive to touch (
tingle
) or to auditory stimuli. Without visual cues, too, they may be able to immerse themselves more fully in an imagined situation (
float
).
---
She remembers the lake. A blinding summer's day, the sky so blue it made her heart leap, a day when everything seems more vivid. The greenery of the wood, stones and branches cracking underfoot, giving way to the shore and the gently lapping water.
She'd skipped down to the water's edge, discarding her shoes and then, rapidly, her clothes -- well, they were miles out in the wilderness, who was going to see? -- before wading out into the lake.
The cold fresh water had felt delicious on her skin, mounting her thighs as she moved deeper, generating delightful, naughty shivers as it first touched her pussy and then her nipples.
She dived, swum out into the lake and then turned to float on her back, watching the sky, the tiny puffs of cloud drifting across her vision.
---
II. Sixth Sense
"I'm floating," she murmurs.
And strangely, even though she knows he's lying there next to her, she can't quite feel him or the bed anymore. She feels his hand on hers, like a tether or an anchor, and she holds him tightly.
"I'm here," he says, and her grip loosens. "I'll always be right here."
She floats.
"We're going to start with me moving my hands gently over you. Over your gorgeous curves, every single part of you, your beautiful breasts, your legs ... your wonderful pussy," he says, his voice suddenly close to her ear, his lips grazing against the lobe and sending sparks of feeling pulsing through her.
He moves then, his hands hovering just above her skin, starting at her shoulders, then slowly gliding down, over her tits, moving with her breathing, describing their curve.
She senses the movement, more through heat and intuition than anything else. The heat of his palms radiating onto her skin, the sensation rippling outwards, or just that knowledge that someone is close even when you can't see them.
"Touch me," she whispers.
"Not yet."
His hands circle her breasts and he has to fight off the urge to touch them, caress them. Instead he exhales and moves his hands down, over her belly, down the outside of her thighs, past her calves, to her feet.
She lets the feeling-not-feeling wash over her, breathes deeply. Her sense of arousal -- already fired by their kissing, embracing, holding -- deepens.
His hands make several passes like that, from head to toe, refusing to touch her where she most wants to be touched. With each motion, the sensation that he is touching-not-touching her grows. Curiously, she begins to feel that he is moving her hands over her back as well, down to her bottom, over the curves there too, down the back of her thighs. The bed seems to have melted away, as insubstantial as candy floss.
"Please, touch me!"
"Not yet."
The movement changes again. Now his hands move with exquisite slowness up the inside of her legs. Past the swell of her calves, lingering at the knee, before climbing higher, onto her thighs where the muscles are firing and twitching, making her tremble.
He doesn't stop. His hands move higher again, until they come to rest over her pussy, almost cupping it, almost touching her, almost stroking her.
Even though she writhes, feeling the heat from his hands, wanting so badly for his fingers to touch her, to rub her clit, to thrust inside her, she seems not to be able to reach them, no matter what she does. His hands remain a fraction above her skin however she contorts herself, deliciously just out of reach, moulding themselves to her body, like the water in the lake enveloping her.
---
The skin, in addition to feeling touch (
tingle
) through mechanoreceptors, can also feel heat (
hands gliding
) through thermoreceptors. (
please touch me ... please
). These can warn of danger, for instance to prevent a person touching something that would burn them on contact. They also detect when the surroundings are lower than body temperature.
---
Her body had soon acclimatised to the cold water of the lake, her skin transmitting to her brain the initial shock but then the pleasure of the coolness surrounding her in the heat of that summer's day.
She'd floated, watching the sky, feeling gentle ripples in the lake washing over her, gently moving her limbs, and she'd drifted with them.
Drifting and floating, gliding and shifting, and almost without realising it, almost without thinking, her right hand had moved between her legs -- well, they were miles out in the wilderness, who was going to know? -- and her fingers had hovered just above her pussy. Teasing herself. Imagining that the sky, the sun, the clouds could see her thinking about playing with herself.
---
III. Touch
She aches now to be touched, her skin jangling, a throbbing building deep inside her and moving to her nipples and her pussy. She can feel how wet she is, the heat mounting.
Even so, when his fingertips first graze against her, it is a shock, a jolt, like electricity coursing through her. She realises with that touch that the blindfold and her imagination have done their job -- all she can feel is his fingers against her skin, almost burning her, it seems. She thinks she can feel the whorls and grooves that make up his fingerprints, sense the pores of his skin rubbing against her. The bed is long gone from underneath her.
"Aaaah," she sighs. "Touch me!"
He doesn't reply, but his fingers sweep over her skin, tracing what feel like intricate patterns. A single finger slides down her spine, trailing sensation in its wake, then two fingers dance like feathers down her neck.
His hands move down, skittering over her thighs, dancing down her calves, then back up to circle her bottom, dipping briefly between her cheeks and sending a shiver through her.
Then back up, up, and finally, finally, sweetness suffuses her as he envelopes her tits in his hands. The sensation almost sends her reeling as she feels him rub his thumbs over her nipples, almost roughly, the skin dragging and rolling under his touch. She can feel the weathered skin there on his hands, as they dance over her breasts, returning again to the hard nubs of her nipples, gently squeezing and pulling on them.
She bucks her hips, knowing suddenly that she needs his fingers now between her legs.
He doesn't seem to take the hint, his hands continuing to stroke, squeeze, rub her tits and nipples, a wonderful feeling, but not enough, not enough, not enough.
"Please," she almost whimpers. "I need you to touch my cunt."
She wonders at her choice of word. While not completely averse to it, she avoids that particular word normally. But it suddenly feels so right, floating out here-somewhere-nowhere, giving in to her feelings completely.
His fingers shift, leaving her tits and gliding lower. She has time for a brief pang of regret at the lack of attention being paid to her stiff, sensitive nipples.
But then a single finger glides down and then stops, the tip resting lightly on her clit, and all regret is gone.
He must have licked his finger at some point -- either that or she's wetter than she's ever been -- as his finger glides effortlessly round her clit, encircling her pleasure, the motion in the letter 'o' mimicked by her lips as she gasps with the intensity of it.
"Yes," she pants. "Yes, yes, yes, yes. God yes. Now get those fingers inside me and fuck my cunt with them."
She feels his hand rotate, his index finger gliding lower and then tucking itself between her lips, driving deeply in and his thumb coming to rest on her clit, pressing lightly. Another finger joins his first inside her, then a third, filling her.
She floats further, feeling as if only her pussy exists, that her only purpose is to be fucked by his fingers and almost burn with pleasure. Her skin seems to be rippling with waves of cold and hot, like sudden rain on a sunny day.
