touch

It’s not all whips and chains, rope and pain. The goal is often to bring about a certain mental state—bliss, submission, deep release, relaxation, love, fear, whatever.

You seemed tense this morning when we woke up, faced with a day of trying to crack the puzzle of the faults in the stars, a project of increasing frustration and anxiety. So I took your shoulders and kissed your forehead and said, no. You must relax and take a break, at least for the morning.

Perhaps another day you would have brushed it off. But I saw how much you needed it.

I have you lie on your back in the bed. You need no breakfast, Sian serving an adequate repast as she burbles through your guts. The blindfold makes another appearance, but the mask is far away. You’re not even tied up. “Close your eyes, block out the world. Focus on your body. Be here with me, Raven. Fully present. Sensation is all that is required of you for as little while.”

You feel light headphones rest on both ears. Soft pink noise drowns out the incidental sounds of my breathing or the mattress shifting beneath you. With the blindfold leaving you comfortably in darkness, the result is that two senses are on holiday. Taste and scent are for now quite monotonous.

That leaves touch.

I don’t touch you for a minute. You focus on breathing deeply, slowly. Sleep tugs on the ragged edges of your consciousness.

My touch begins as a finger across your parted lips, like a gesture of silence. I’m warm and your lips are sensitive. All your attention is pulled to that one connection.

I linger there… then draw the touch across your mouth, then your cheek, curving parallel to your jawline. Feel the way it lights up your skin in the darkness in which you hang suspended. The pink noise fades, leaving an impression of the ocean. By circling across your forehead, down the other cheek, and back to the middle of your lips, I make your face a ship in a midnight sea.

More ship is discovered, or perhaps the ship runs aground and land is discovered: three finger pads on each hand splay out and find widening paths down your sensitive neck. Yes, it is definitely land. The caress sends seismic shivers down the unexplored territory of your body.

The explorers pool where your collarbones would be, were they not so buried beneath strata of fine fat. The explorers become miners, pressing inwards, seeking the submerged rocks. Slow pressure lights up the depth of your body: it makes moments for you to feel the roll of fingertips over your bone, and it feels like inches, yards of silky fat lie between your inner world and your skin. How large are you?

An island, confirm the explorers. They trek uphill, sweeping the soft ascent of your breasts. How deep they sink with even the lightest application. Are you flesh or air? The light of sensation circles your nipples, finding them by the low volcano of your belly rolled over to point separate ways.

Flesh, says my touch; not air. The light explorers are replaced with the deep pressure of warm palms seeking to encircle and compress your breasts. They fail: your mass is too great. You squeeze between the splayed lines of force, an excess of sensual flesh trying its best to capsize and swallow up the massaging hands. The danger does not warn them off: three times the deepness rolls over your breasts, bringing them to life, two awesome mountains in this sea of darkness.

It seems attention might turn south to your belly, but the explorers leave their digging and return to your skin. Feel them ring your nipples, closer and closer, so that they’re fully tense when the touch finally finds them. Do you move your hips? Do you inhale deeper, or sigh? Perhaps you do when those nipples are seized in soft vices, pinched and rolled like their tautness demanded punishment. Pain not the point of the caress, but it’s startling against the lightness and the melting luxury of the fatty handfuls.

Do we reach your belly yet? You angle your hips to push it forward. But when your nipples are left behind it’s East and West the expedition goes. Your arms are discovered, biceps and bingo wings coming to light. The insides of your elbows are remarkably sensitive, causing your lips to curl as they are traversed. Then your forearms, five fingers marching across them and camping at the wrists.

Your hands, skillful and slightly chubby, are so sensitive. It’s easy to take them for granted. But as your palm is circled you find your feet curling up in sympathy. Each finger is traced and encircled in turn. You remember how elegant your hands are.

The return journey skirts your armpits. You’re not shy about them, are you? You shouldn’t be, every inch of you is beautiful. Dancing on the edge of becoming ticklish goes the light of attention, quickly tracing alongside the periphery of your belly. You grunt in frustration. No attention lights that awesome peak. You crave it. But as the touch tracks onward you relent. It will come. You know this force that explores your body.

How alive to sensation, this line at the tops of your thighs! Fingertips dance over the crests of your hips, submerged ships beneath the waves, and follow the cease in a beeline towards the mysterious garden between your legs. You scarcely need attention there for it to be lit in your mind’s eye: it smoulders.

Damn the exploring touch! At the last minute it turns South, five tips broadening their path to explore the wide, pale expanse of your thighs. The inside track burns brightest, especially at the knee—

From nowhere, a gift of soft, building pressure on your womanhood. A kiss, almost chaste. The unparted lips circle a living wand of desire, sending sparks flying into the surrounding flesh. Some sparks set light, your poor, neglected belly responding in kind. From within that terra incognita rumble fearsome reports of avalanches and mudslides. Shockwaves echo up and down your body, from the bite of the lips that started all this, to your vulva which engorges and parts like a desert flower.

The kiss withdraws. Suspended in the dark ocean your body twists in protest.

Lines of light track your calves, which twist and squirm with the restless motion of your feet. Those feet are gripped and made still by the deep furrows of massaging thumbs, a sensation often welcome but which serves only to delay the service of that middle portion so far left dark…

The explorers vanish. Your body hangs in darkness, lacking its middle.

The ascent starts beneath your breasts. You exhale for what seems forever. Finally.

So much fat to wade through. That first touch of two palms drills deeper and deeper, so deep, before uncovering the profile of your ribs. It feels like metres of distilled prey, trapped beneath your skin, silent, warm and obedient.

The ribs end like a coral reef, leaving the exploring touch to dive deeper. Your stomach, that great merciless vortex, lies empty. It speaks in a croaking groan when disturbed: ~kg-grrrrrgn~ But even an inch (or a mile, you could be any size right now) finds the stomach eclipsed.

It must be your colon. Has to be. Illuminated beneath your skin, the knotted biological rope is stiffened by a supporting rod. That isn’t you. It is the thing that is explicitly not you, rejected following your utter destruction of Sian. And yet it is being crafted by you, moulded within your body, sucked dry and squeeeezed onwards.

Can you feel it, there beneath the broad pressure of a palm; the precise palpation of a fingertip?

Another shelf, this one into a nest of snakes, all feasting. Can you feel these? Sian’s remains slop through them the best of her being extracted in a hundred twists and turns. But the touch cannot distinguish. You are so soft. Your intestines are so soft, your skin is so soft, your fat is so soft. How can something so yielding tear apart and devour a human being? Yet it does. It has, so many times.

(Perhaps you can forgive a lone explorer tracking a path deeper South, further even than the glistening ravine of your pussy. It must fight through its way onward, the cheeks of your generously oversized arse being squeezed together by the angle of your thighs. Its approach then feels like a violation, but a successful one. The explorer lights up the sensitive bud, scarcely teasing it open, just bringing your attention to the final arbiter of what remains and what is expelled from the living miracle of your body.)

And now the main shape of your body is complete. Lit up in the mind’s eye. But that doesn’t mean the work is finished. Half an hour alone is spent worshipping the sedately industrious dome of your belly, shaping fat with the hands and tracing deeply submerged and chyme- or shit-packed guts. Your breasts hold fascination, being wondrous repositories of the lives you have taken, distilled and transmuted into the most gorgeous, feminine excess. Your lips are traced and relearned, and your teeth, and your tongue, which is incredibly dangerous.

And lost in your body, led and reflected by a most willing and attentive partner, your desires are echoed and excited until they are brought to fever pitch. There they are sustained. Pleasure fills you up as much as the sub you swallowed and digested yesterday, sloshing through you from lips to belly to arsehole to pussy.

When you are finally tipped over the edge… light. Light throughout your whole being, incandescent and burning. You can hear yourself through the headphones, you can see colour behind the blindfold, you can sense the final screams of Sian’s essence as it is incorporated into you.

Your skin, sheened with sweat, feels my touch. I trace a loving circle at the base of your throat, where your rapid breathing rises and falls. The blindfold remains in place. The ocean-neutral sound still plays.

Together we light you up again and again.