'Hello there – how's it going?'
I looked up from other thoughts, mostly to do with jiggling the new key into a position where it would do some good, my smile surfacing to acknowledge hers as I nodded back.
'So, are you fully settled into your place?' She'd slowed now on the broad stairwell's landing before my flat's door. In the two weeks of tenancy here, I'd seen her only once before, coming down the stairs from the loft apartment above mine – then as now, she'd seemed quiet, friendly and also shy with a glint of boldness, peeking at me from behind a partial curtain of long hair. But that could be just the effect my shaven head has on folks, until they get to know me.
I must admit to having noticed more about her on that occasion, caught in a glance as she looked downwards with what I'd assumed was that shyness I'd mentioned – petite, slender and with the fullest young hips I'd seen on a woman in a long while; hips made to endure hours of slow, intense sex. Her breasts were in part hidden by hair and open jacket. I did not feel bad for so casually eyeing her up like that, for her own glance had gone straight for my crotch. A smile covered the memory signal, of my having slowly masturbated with her in mind that night.
That same look of shy boldness played about her features now, so I could not help wondering what it was she'd been looking at this time. By then she'd come to a stop, and I needed to order my thoughts back toward the now.
'Yeah, all's good now thanks. I like the place, and how it's been done – how long now since the renovation, six months?'
Her look shifted along with her eyes, focusing up and out onto a special distance, as if able to see the past there.
'Yeah, 'bout that.' Her belated nod confirmed the statement, giving certainty to her expression in a way that I found quite endearing. 'I'm Sara by the way.'
Her hand was stuck out uncompromisingly, time went slow:
would my obvious surprise at such unexpectedness, mask this brief hesitation in responding straight away, like for like?
I came out of it: 'Hi – I'm Curt.' Smile broadening to cover clenching teeth before contact.
I felt the charged tingle preceding that sensory rush - it always came over me when there was any physical contact between myself and another. This time it was certain to be worse, with bare flesh on bare flesh...
Even prepared, I was caught by the blast as it came in an incredibly strong rush, so I concentrated underneath that unstoppable surge of emotional conduction, centring my attention on our hands calmly going through the whole perfunctory up and down bit of shaking and being shaken. I also was aware through the suffusing flood of contact, that a bit of the charge must have leaked back, as her pupils dilated noticeably – there had been a lot of juice in that touch.
I'd like to think that I showed no such overt signs myself, except for a possible slight flare of the nostrils, my lungs involuntarily spasming under the impacting shock.
I'm usually more careful about avoiding contact, especially the flesh-to-flesh variety – but this time I had no real choice, not unless I wanted to cause an awkward moment, which from experience I know is never truly explainable to the other's satisfaction. So I'd taken it, trusting to my years of experience in getting these hits, to mask the signs.
With pupils still widening, she broadened her smile in continued slow motion, possibly misinterpreting my own reaction as some subliminal, ancient animal response of deciphering her scent for readiness to mate.
A belated flush started to colour her face, and as real-time reasserted itself, she quickly pivoted away, giving a slight wave of trailing fingers as she started back on her way up the last two flights of stairs.
On automatic myself after taking that emotional surge, I turned and got myself inside somehow, under a haze of aftermath – that last sight of her taut, rounded behind climbing the stairs, hypnotically rolling, not helping matters with my erection already trying to rip its way out of my combats.
Once inside, I leaned the door shut and stayed there a moment, concentrating on calming breaths.
Damn, but that discharge had been really heavy. A shock from someone so young!
By now, I can imagine that you dear reader, might well be quite thoroughly confused concerning what the hell I'm talking about...
...Well, I doubt you've heard of us, because of all the various documented and speculated upon psychic attenuations, you won't find ours amongst them. My own take upon it is, that we are extremely rare, possibly there are only a few of us in the whole world, I'm sure of it as I've been researching on the quiet for more than two decades, without encountering signs of another – although signs would be unexpected.
Staring with the fact that all things are proportional in nature, and with the world population growing the way it has been, there will be an increased chance for others amongst that number. History has hidden our predecessors, but lateral consideration of the facts, will bring you to surmise all this too, after all, most people seem to accept the related versions of this ability to some degree, even those which may not truly exist.
You will probably remember the film
Unbreakable
, where a touch is sufficient to impart a link to past emotional charges of dishonesty, from the one responsible for the act(s), to the one...gifted.
My hesitation was for a reason – but more of that later, I wouldn't want to spoil the story-flow.
The point under scrutiny here, is that the recipient can see and feel a past event experienced by another, directly, all through a touch. Such a contact also leaves no chance for lies or misinterpretation to colour judgement. Like Mr. Willis' character, I can do the same, but unlike him, it isn't the signatures of dishonesty that I receive, but levels of sexual bliss.
I'd make a great sexual counsellor, if I could stand the load, or the state of humanity's mind – but again, I'm going off the path, and I'm sure you didn't start reading this, to hear about all that.
At base level, the intensity of sexual release determines how much charge comes across in any contact; I can see the lot, but the strongest contacts do tend to come still from furtive pleasures taken. Great sex often comes from doing something forbidden, ergo furtively undertaken, and that creates guilt in most, to some degree or other – and this in turn enhances the act, boosting its psychic load to something unique. Like I said, I get the lot, but the strongest images and charges come from these upper guilt-pleasures, stored closer to the surface.
If you don't believe me, then draw from your own experiences and consider the times when you have had to slip away to the toilet, alone or together sometime during the day, or when out in a bar, going there to relieve that sudden and all absorbing pressure from being with someone, seeing some stranger or something happen that really turned you on – whatever the stimulus, it went straight for the hind brain, and left you with little choice. That orgasm reached furtively, stayed with you far longer and stronger than any other attained whilst alone.
There's no use denying it, I know they do, because when my arm brushes yours, I feel and see them there as peaks of bliss on your sexual psyche map – and I get this from both men and women.
That was exactly what I'd picked up, cresting the surge that poured into me from Sara just now – the most recent in a powerful collection of sexual moments – an intense orgasm had on the sly while at work, and stored there as psychic static under her skin.
I've no idea how she carries herself so calmly with all that inside her, charged and waiting, tingling under her skin for days, until it slowly dissipates under slow contact with others. All people vary in how much sensitivity they have, most are imperfect conductors for this charge, maybe just experiencing her touch as a mild sexual thrill upon contact, explicable only by the fact of contact with an attractive young woman. As a perfect conductor, her charge flipped polarity upon contact, discharging into my mind - which is why I'm staggered that she can walk around like that, without being constantly wet and not showing it. The melee of images from her now crowding my mind, tell me that she masturbates lots.
Above all that, the most recent...episode, sat there in every detail, lodged within me as if her body was mine, letting me see again and again, it as if I'd experienced everything myself. It can get confusing at times, but I am never short for a fantasy from this broad spectrum of sexual stimuli – I can be any gender or orientation I want.
And that brings with it problems that are as unique as the situation. Even after these moments of intervening calm, my erection is still granite hard, pushing without relent for release, first from all constriction by clothing, then from the imparted sexual tension, made worse by the knowledge that the fingers of the hand that had touched mine, had been slipping in and out of the wetness between her legs so readily, only an hour or so earlier.
Moving forward, I shed coat, keys and bag onto convenient surfaces, my combats already open in readiness as I dropped back onto the sofa. Inserting the same hand carefully, I encircled him with slow relish, delicately extricating him from his burrow down my trouser leg, drawing him out to stand free and ready, naked to the world of my front room.
