wickedkat

You can't forget skin, his skin. His shoulder, his back even his face, was all silk in my hands. It was familiar and it was just like mine. His face was my face. His lips were my lips. Every inch was like clay cast. Something meant to have my hands on to polish and smooth out. But so unlike clay, he was. The warmth, he was real. My touch caused touches. His hands could touch me. I was his clay cast, he was molding me. His eyes had life. They moved; they danced. They played me like a violin. Who was being pulled by strings now? His hand would brush my thigh and I would be the victim, the puppet, the doll. I would fall into myself, into him. Fi