Taste...

In the last three days, I've written two stories. Neither of them are my typical sort, but both of them are defintely in my caliber, and worthy of the Kanthra Adaire name. I'm remembering now what it feels like to sate that part of myself. How good it feels to take an idea, build a story around it and write it without any restraint. And how much I've missed that part of myself.

Which part? The part that feels and wants and fantasizes about things I very well *could* have.

A small taste of one....

Your hands slide apart, across the fabric to my sides and then down until they rest against my hips. They remain there for awhile, your fingers moving just slightly against the material and then slide a bit lower until they’re resting on the outside of my thighs, between the chemise and the hose. Your nails tickle my skin a little, scratching lightly.

I close my eyes. There is no point in pretending to watch ... whatever it is that’s flashing across the TV screen now. You’re teasing me, and maybe teasing yourself. I decide that I’ll let you.

Your right hand moves again, sliding under my leg and lifting it, dragging it so that my thigh rests over the top of yours.

I wait. And then ... nothing for what feels like a very long time.

Your left hand slides to my inner thigh, your fingers brushing over the skin softly. Your movements are slow, almost as if you’re not really thinking about it, but I know you are. Your index fingers runs across the outer edge of the g-string that matches the chemise, and then just barely reaches under it.

I moan again, my head turning just slightly toward the back of the couch. Your left hand reaches out in response and cups my mound in your hand, squeezing it in your palm. My body responds furiously, my hips pushing up against your hand.

I hear your growl as your left hand moves away from me and comes up toward my face. You cup it over my mouth, turning my head back toward the TV, and pressing it against me.

"I didn’t tell you to fuck my hand, did I?" you whisper in my ear.