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By (user no longer on site) OP
over a year ago
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He liked this part: the anticipation of touch. Stood just one step behind her, there was an absence of contact that, when she couldn’t see him, may as well have been a mile. He was essentially invisible and able to appear on her body at any spot he chose, assured that it would elicit surprise and draw 100% of her focus.
He chose her wrist.
She stood facing forward with her eyes closed, waiting. The soft, thin skin of her right wrist came to life just where it met her palm. His fingers were moving, very gently, in a soft flutter of constant movement. The touch was so gentle it seemed to make contact and disconnect almost continuously. Although he stayed in the same area, she could feel the nerves lighting up all the way along her forearm. Her entire arm was sending a low-level sensation to her brain – buzzy – like a mild electric current, or that feeling just before a storm is about to break.
His fingers stiffened into a rigid shape of hardened points, and as he dragged his nails up the inside of her arm, that mild electric feeling became something else. Her back suddenly straightened and she readjusted her feet, trying to offset the energy of the long, slow scrape. His fingers softened, appeared again at her wrist and slowly moved along her arm to the inside of her elbow, drawing brief, rapid patterns of tiny overlapping circles on her skin as he did.
His hand disappeared and she was left to float.
She stood with her eyes closed. Again, he was invisible, again she waited.
She felt the back of her top stir slightly and as he lifted the fabric with one hand, and the other slid under, making contact with her soft, warm skin. His fingers began the same gentle, rapid pattern drawing across her lower back, before his hand dug in harder and the nails pulled along the skin, drawing four long lines that began as white and then filled out pink as the blood under the surface rushed up to them.
As the four stinging strips came to life across her lower back, her mouth opened and she breathed out a low, involuntary ‘haaaaaa’.
He nodded to himself. She liked the soft touch, but she responded to the rougher. As he drew and dragged across her lower back, his other hand appeared on the back of her neck. She loved having her neck touched and kissed, loved the gentle feeling of sensuous contact, loved to – without warning, his fingers slid forward and wrapped around the front of her throat. At the same time, he took a step forward, his front making full contact with her back. His other hand slid around across her stomach. It braced and pulled her back into him, then dragged, the same four-lined scrape across the soft flesh, just above the line of her grey bottoms.
She felt the hand on her throat close – just a little. Not choking her, just letting her know it was there, and she could feel him leaning in against her. His chest and torso connected, covering her back, and she could feel the unerring pressure of his arousal - aggressive, insistent. He was fully hard, pointing straight up – it was like someone pressing a solid pipe flat against the softness of her ass cheeks.
If she could have thought (which in that exact moment, she really couldn’t) she might have mused how exciting she found it to make a guy so hard without laying a finger on him, without him having touched any of the ‘usual’ places that guys reach for. No. This was something else. This was his self-control, his delayed gratification, the total focus of sensation on one small part of her body. This was him being in charge. It was her eyes closed and him listening for the way her breath changed, his senses searching for the faint scent that would betray her – the scent that told him that her damp underwear was matted against her and starting to soak through.
As he pulled her back against him, scratched her stomach and pushed her throat in on itself, she let out a sound – a whimper – a sort of muted squeal from behind a closed mouth, and breathed hard through her nose.
He squeezed a little tighter, like a seatbelt trapping you - one hand on her throat, the arm up and across her chest, the other hand on her waist, and the arm connected to it flat across her, holding her in place. He kept her there, somehow simultaneously edging towards panic and arousal – a confusing combination of wanting to break away, but also wanting to see what this feels like with a little more time, with a little more pressure.
Her head began to fog a little, a dizzy buzz rising from her constricted throat. It wasn’t a lack of air – it felt like he was actually stopping the blood from getting up there. Her head began to feel heavy. She contracted her stomach, her hips tilted upwards, grinding her arse against his hardness. As she moved against him, she felt the muscles in his arms stiffen, holding her locked in place, unable to move or protest, before suddenly releasing, his arms disappearing, his body moving back.
Again, she was alone.
Again, he was invisible.
This was the game – at least the first part. It was like holding yourself underwater and then sharply bringing your head up, just long enough to get your breath back before your face goes under again. It was sensation, gentle, then sudden and intense and suddenly nothing, leaving her standing there, breathing deep, her knickers wet, a dull throb emanating from just below her belt line, but feeding out into the whole of her lower abdomen. A warm, vague sensation she wanted to reach down and press on – that she wanted him to reach down and press on – to move over – to appease.
And yet, she stood there, arms outstretched, hands pressed forward, unable to move, unable to scratch that very particular itch, waiting for him to step forward again. |
