Skin

At a surprisingly early age, he’d realised, suddenly, that he enjoyed the softest of things within the world. Call it heightened senses, that majestic and mellow moment of touch, where his mind simply fluttered at the smallest of touches. He’d close his eyes, allowing the moment to pause, as he touched whatever was in front of him. Silk, leather, the laced garments surrounding his every single day, it did not matter as long as he explored.

He endured, learned, realising that the senses of the soul needed transparency. Needed restraint. Control. The people around him, of course, were oblivious to whatever realm his nerve endings resided within. Some enjoyed the various fragrances, the beautiful smell of the many, many, potions and lotions available to all. He found them to be satisfactory, an oral smile spoken by the many, as he bathed his body until it smelt of the most grandiose of moments. He learned. He explored. Yet, as always, it still fell to the desire of touch. That electricity of nature, the grounding of a person once connected to another.

He’d grown, explored all that needed to be desired, yet still found that one place where he wished to reside. To stay. To obey his wanton wishes and wants. He needed little, within his world, the accomplished place he called his own. Then, from nowhere, it all changed. The thoughts exploded, the craving increased, the desire within reaching a level that he’d never, ever, experienced.

She arrived. She understood. She understood all of him. Every, single, inch… of his inner thoughts. He’d never explored the way he’d explored with her. She brought his fear from within and denied its control over his basic meanderings. He’d smile, often, always, whenever she was near him. She knew. She damn well knew which buttons he needed to press.

Secrets, illusions, the masks within our basic tasks, all thrown aside in one glorious night of heightened, fire filled heat. It still sent shivers down his very spine, when he recalled the freedom upon that first night. The connection. That connection. Explored and up roared with such gusto that he could swear that he only barely survived. That touch of his, every fibre glowing with intensity, that he wished for it to never end.

She just enjoyed him, wanted him, allowed him to be whatever he wanted to be. No exclusions, reservations or scolding furrowed eyebrows of dislike. He’d simply, easily, just touch her skin. Again and again. Over and over, with his senses dancing to her very delight. Eyes closed, ears wide shut, he’d created that mental map of every single inch of her body. That joy, the expression of his very lips quivering with shocked splendour. He couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop, as long as she wanted him to do what he needed to do.

Years. The very years of silence of shame, gone. Vanished. Exposed to a person who didn’t judge, modify, classify or reject. She held him so very close, wanting him to be exactly what he wished to be. Each touch, reaching into her heart, embracing her desire to simply be wanted. He endured the bliss, as his fingertips gently glided upon her skin. Breathing, shallow, expressing his heart’s skipped beats.

Kissing her, as softly as he could, barely even a touch between them, made his legs feel weak and his emotions rise. Since that moment, his mind becoming used to the way they were together, his fingers remained as sensitive as they were on that first day. He smiled, as his curse and reality filled sensuality remained. She’d often call him, text him, asking how she’d felt upon that morning, or previous night. His body, responding, calling for her, he’d often raise his hand and imagine her cheek against his fingers. That imaginary moment where she was still in front of him, right there, allowing him to touch her in that sensitive way.

He’d smile, with each message, with each text, knowing, realising, that no matter the fabric or moment, nothing within his world would ever, could never ever, be as soft as the skin of the person you love.

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