imaginary heft

My fingers are so light on your back that they are hard to pick out from the warm rain your shower casts down over you.

Let us try.

Feel how my fingers glide up from your hip bones, buried as they are. The skin they touch is firmer than anywhere else on your whole torso, only a little fat laid underneath. Up, down, up down, the contract drawing little shivers up and down your spine.

I get heavier as I go. Still, your skin only depresses so far. The prominences of your spine, smoothed over to the eye, are instantly palpable to the inquisitive touch.

You feel my lips press a kiss upon your shoulder. Your own hands tangle through your hair, building a rich lather of suds. I’m interfering, but you don’t mind.

Now feel my hands’ path broadening, stroking your flanks, firm enough they don’t become ticklish. The bottom of their range scoots them off your iliac crests, but your pelvis is far better hidden than your spine. I have to press quite hard to find bone.

The up-and-down stroking slows and stops by your waist. Now comes the exciting part. As my fingertips stroke forwards to your belly button feel how your skin, rather than being soft and relaxed, instead bears tension. The sheer weight of your natural fat pulls on structures deep inside you, but when you stand like this your skin also bears some of the weight. Only at the very summit of your belly, the circle around your navel, do competing tensions cancel out. Your belly button lives in a tranquil garden of soft fat, that chubby little mouth squished flat onto a deep line by what tension exists.

Water runs down your body, dripping from the overhang of you lower belly. I cup your flesh there in great, proud handfuls, and weigh you one hand after the other. You feel your guts get lighter from one side to the other.

Split directions now. Left hand travels upwards, where the shower-rain bounces off upward-turned skin. The right sinks lower, stroking both inner thighs at the same time where no thigh gap manifests. The side with the curled little finger presses against your crotch like I’m holding an imaginary tube of smarties. Oh yeah, you told me about last night.

“If you were male-bodied I’d be holding you right now,” I say, kissing your shoulder and the side of your neck. You freeze in washing your hair. “Here, feel me give you a squeeze.” When my fist tightens the curl at your crotch presses against you tighter too. Pressure disappears as I stroke your imaginary cock. It’s possible I forgot you didn’t have one for a moment.

The upward-bound left hand traces underneath your breast. The fat orbs flatten again the appealing shelf your stomach provides. They are by far the softest thing on your entire front. The one I heft swallows half my hand before it begins significantly to press flat against your chest.

“You’d be firmer here. The shower water wouldn’t bounce off your tits as hard” nothing to face upward."

The stroking of your imaginary cock complexes when I extend little and ring fingers to stroke your vulva. Now little sparks of pleasure accompany each rock. Murmuring just behind your ear: “I wonder if you can picture it clearly enough to feel it. I’d touch you. Suck you. Take you.”

The rhythm completely inverts: now my whole hand concerns itself with what you have now. Your thigh fat gets as much action as your warming pussy. Feel it rock forward and back, butter-soft and caramel-enveloping. How I adore this part of you.

“But I will always, always love your body.” The hand on your breast releases its deep hold. Down, down, now cresting the precipitous swell of your stomach. Within, downstairs’s foil tray shrapnel plays sole witness of a Chinese feast; a feast whose only sign of existence is to stretch your skin over a bulge below your ribs. Within, six courses intermingle with one another and with the messy juices your secret passages ooze into them.

Heat from the shower, heat from your digestion, heat from your pussy. You’re lightheaded with gently building pleasure. Leaning back against me you feel me stagger a little, ultra-careful not to slip. If you let your head fall back I’ll kiss your neck and you can whisper to be.

“Buy me a harness and something to fuck you with.”

I nip your neck to cover my blush. The hand on your stomach roves wantonly over your whole busy gut. Everything it touches is perfect. I touch all of you, present or imagined.