The Envelopment

"How much time do we have today, love?"

There's no need to respond. There never is. At least, not by any innately 'natural' means.

They know it is Sunday. Midmorning. Were it Tuesday afternoon, the invisible slider would predictively auto-scroll to "Quickie". Were it Thursday, early evening; they would algorithmically assess either "Surprise Me" or "De-Stress Me".

But on Sunday... Ohhhh, Sunday. We can take our time.

They know. They've learned. They can linger. They can discover each square-inch, delight in —and dote on— every millimeter. They can play.

We share an airy purr-come-giggle of "yes please" and a familiar flutter of reciprocal understanding.

* * *

The soft glow. The warming whirr. The thrumming anticipatory hum.

I do wonder —sometimes, when I'm offline— if these rather conventionally expected sensations of 'powering-up' are built in. If they occur, at all, during this initial startup sequence. Or whether they are born of preconceptions manufactured by my mind's need to reconcile, to unconsciously 'fill-in-the-blanks' of, what it cannot fully comprehend. I only know that I experience them —at least, I think I do— each time we commence.

Right now, it matters not. Right now, they serve as the proverbial Pavlovian bell. And no part of me cares who or what rings it, as every part of me responds.

* * *

Buoyant. Naked. Weightless. I rise and roll. Suspended in a gentle calming climb to a place and state of being —and an atmosphere— that I know, in my reality-bound existence, does not exist.

I am completely and utterly aware they see me. All of me, from every conceivable angle. As well as, I can only assume, from an infinite spectrum of inconceivable others.

I feel their gaze intensely. But it ignites no bashful blush, no self-conscious reflex, no impulse to shrink inward or shy away in shame.

Instead, the silvery-violet beam —which should feel like an invasion of innumerable prying eyes, as they scan and map and plan: as they chart their course— seems to admire and revere, then unlock a secret toggle-switch that lifts me up and sets me free.

Like a sigh, issued from every muscle and molecule, every cell and skin-tingling receptor, in unison; I feel myself let go —in full surrender— welcoming what I know is to follow. Knowing the envelopment is about to begin.

* * *

The envelopment. If pleasure were a heady tonic that you could pour: a healing mineral bath you could step into, a restorative river you could swim in...

It starts —first— filling the arches of both my feet. Then works its way, deliciously and deliberately, between each of my toes —as though individually, as though all at once— a warm swell of velvety gel seeping up, in exquisite slow-motion.

A lovely and loving deluge of devotion.

I curl my toes —squeezing them against, hugging them around— a gushy love puddle of putty, milky talc-like clay.

I smell lilacs and taste sunshine.

Am I prone, horizontal? Am I upright, vertical? Gravity, waived. Perspective, relinquished. Parameters, transcended. Preconceived constructs bare no meaning, hold no place, here.

And every time, the order and the direction and the flow of the envelopment comes as an entirely new —but never unwelcomed— surprise.

This time, today; they've chosen next to anoint the nape of my neck. I feel the strange syrup-without-the-stickiness expand and spread —drip down into the anxious curve, between my shoulder blades— then ease, lava-like, into the hungry hollow of the small of my back.

I arch greedily trying to give it more of me: offer up more skin, more surface-area, more negative-space to fill, more room to grow.

I know —I've learned— the envelopment does not work this way. But it seems I cannot suppress this animal instinct. I twist and contort, like a cat demanding worship from their human's hands, trying to control the precise placement: to direct their attention, to get a specific 'itch scratched'.

* * *

The order and progression are not the only unknowns. The envelopment also transforms in weight and pressure. In volume and texture. In temperature. From a degree or two warmer —or cooler— than my skin, to mirroring and matching it exactly. An occasional chill, here and there. An icy tickle. A slap of heat. In just the right place, at just the right time.

They play —each time— with these variables.

Not in extremes. Well, not yet. Never during the envelopment.

I'm always eased in —lulled and caressed— during the envelopment.

* * *

Now, while it weaves tingling creamy ribbons through my hair, I breathe in deeply what does not translate as air. It's purer and cleaner. It's sweeter and lighter, but —impossibly— richer.

It cradles me in pureed cashmere. Sets me afloat in a rose petal and velvet soup. It feeds me a full-body-high, in the form of an invisible feast, fit for optimal endorphin release.

I drink with my pores. I inhale with my skin.

Kindly mimicking my mounting thirst for more, the envelopment gains momentum. Rises and spreads. It blossoms between my fingers. Lacquers my limbs. Willfully kneads my calves. It slithers silken slipknots around my ankles and clasps my wrists in lockless liquid cuffs.

It washes waves of warm milk-and-honey across my quivering tummy.

It paints naughty circles around my breasts, pointedly leaving only my nipples exposed —treating each to a quick shivering kiss of electric ice— before bathing both, in its balmy embrace.

And with this I am plunged into that exquisite-but-excruciating ache of urgency, that always comes —too quickly— no matter which settings were entered or predicted, no matter what day it is or how much time we have.

This all-too-familiar impulse to buck out of the exquisite surrender, to override and drive... it becomes all-consuming. Because every heightened nerve-ending, every fiber of my being, is crying out "now please, now please, now..."

Because, while I'm thoroughly slathered in this magically mysterious thick gooey sweet 'seemingly sentient' cake batter —from my happily squiggling toes to my naughtily spreading knees, from my muddily dripping hair to the shallow puddling pool of my navel— there is at least one way in which the variables never, ever, seem to vary.

The blush of eager flesh between my trembling thighs remains intentionally uncovered —naked and exposed, laid bare to the cool-wind-whispering-thrill of the actual and the natural and the presumptively metaphysical 'air'— still wholly untouched.

Their delight in so pointedly prolonging —in drawing out this wickedly deliberate and devilishly dramatic delay— is profoundly palpable.

They use their airy-soft-fairy-wing-tink-tinkly voice, for the first time now since startup mode. But this time, I perceive (at least, I think I do) just the slightest bite. A swan-feather-scratch. A rose-thorny-rasp. An edge.

"Are we ready, love?"

There's no need to respond. There never is. They know. They've learned.

I long for full envelopment.

The murky silt slathered lavishly over my thighs thickens and shapes itself into hand-like mounds that slide up, firmly grasp my hips, and plunge me downward into a rushing upward gush.

At last, the envelopment swallows me —submerging the tenderest, hungriest, parts of me— runs its throbbing liquid fingers up and down and in and out of impatiently-waiting-slippery-pink recesses.

I melt from the inside out, as I'm filled from the outside in. The viscous flood that swells inside me now grows increasingly more rigid. It begins pumping like a beating heart —rhythmically clenching and unclenching like a fist— as a slick thick pulsating mud-tongue laps upward, presses itself firmly against my clit, and begins to vibrate: alternating between long strong drones and short buzzing bursts.

I see fragrance. I smell color. I taste music. I hear heat.

I feel "Fuck" flower from my lips —more a long slow honeysuckle dew-drip of breath, than a word— and I thirstily draw it back in. I savor it, as I swallow.

And as I rock my hips to meet the pinnacle, pressing upward and into slick wet ecstasy, I feel the envelopment heat up. Everywhere. Rapidly. It bakes. It dries and hardens. Then, just as quickly, it cools and it quakes, as it cracks. It fractures and, piece-by-piece, it falls away.

I stretch, free from my shell.

Sated. Restored. Renewed.

The soft glow. The warming whirr. The thrumming hum. They all recede, in unison —in a slow measured diminishing rhythm— in perfect synch with my breathing.

They don't say goodbye. They never do.

I have to laugh at myself, just a little, over the natural inclination to take offense. Then I wonder, if I'd downloaded the latest patch...

I simulate a yawn, to try to pop my ears— adjusting to the atmosphere. Then squint, and repeatedly blink, my eyes— adapting to the light.

Before I begin busily canceling paid subscriptions to various streaming services, and other such superfluous apps, in effort to feel slightly less self-indulgent about... upgrading to "PREMIUM: AD-FREE".