Sit still: an exercise in arousal, precision and patience

Guest art by the fantastic @hayleyglyphs

I sit still. Very still. So still I am almost holding my breath. I can feel the cool tile underneath my legs, his warm arms around my shoulders. My nipples are taut and hard. I can feel his erection pressing into my back, as I stare into the darkness and bite my lip. And I sit still.

With neat, precise movements, he touches me. Taking the edge of the fabric of my top between one finger and his thumb, and peeling it down to expose one breast. He pinches me gently, and I can feel him breathing right next to my ear. When he presses his head up against mine I can feel the pulse in his throat – or mine.

I sit still.

There is something I love about his precision. The careful, neat way he does things. Not everything – often he’s clumsy like I am. We trip and stumble through life together, occasionally bumping into ourselves or picking each other up. His greatest fear is an awkward trip that would see him plummet into an open drain or tumble in front of a charging horse. But in some things he is precise.

Where he cares, he takes his time. That is where we differ: I can never take time, or care. I am always in a hurry. I fumble and gasp and speak so quickly sometimes that I forget to draw breath, getting light-headed in my rush to get every word out before I lose my grip on the sentence. Very rarely do I actually…

“Sit still,” he tells me.

I sit between his legs, my back warm against his chest. Legs stretched out in front of me on the cold bathroom floor. One candle flickering in the corner of the room, everything else dark.

“Just sit very still.”

I suck at being calm, but I’m good at following orders, and so I sit on my hands to try and stop myself fidgeting. To my right I can hear the rustle of paper as he picks up papers, tobacco, other bits and pieces.

He invites me to lean back and repeats the command: “Sit still.”

So I do.

I don’t often get to watch him do things so precisely – I’m too caught up in my own things, fighting to maintain the breakneck pace with which I attack everything. But, so ordered, I’m still. And he lays out everything he needs to roll a smoke on my naked chest.

I watch his hands. They’re right in front of my face, so I can’t help it, but even if they weren’t I’d be mesmerised. He moves with careful precision. Pulling one paper out of the packet, laying it down on my chest. Picking up scissors to cut a roach. Precisely – deliberately – touching my skin with the edge of the metal, making me want to shiver and squirm.

But I sit still.

I sit still as he pulls tobacco from the bag. I sit still while he teases it out in exactly the right quantity. I even sit still as he touches me in between movements – pinching one of my nipples or rearranging my top to frame my tits better.

The candlelight makes flickery shadows of his hands, yet he keeps them hovering perfectly in the air as he taps the small green flakes onto the top of the tobacco. My heart is hammering, and his erection is pulsing steadily into my back.

But I sit still. I stay still even as the sight of his hands and fingers starts to make my head hurt. I hold my breath, and the very act of stillness makes it more apparent when my cunt starts dripping wetness through my knickers and onto the tiled floor.

Everything he needs to roll a joint is laid out in front of me. On me. And it’s all I can do not to squirm. To hold my breath and wait while he pauses to touch my tits. Holding my breath, worrying that I might sneeze and blow everything onto the floor.

That’s why he does this, of course. He wants me to do the one thing I won’t do if I’m ordered to: be mindful of the moment, and enjoy the simple act of precision, touch and arousal. To slow down for long enough that I can feel the exact pinprick tingles on each nipple as they grow hard in the cold air. To hear the actual pace and pitch of his whispered words as he talks me through the movements.

To make me nervous. To turn me on. To slow me down and make me savour things.

I will never be precise like he is. I will never roll the perfect joint or print neat words instead of a scribble.

But later that night, when we fuck, I will savour it. I will feel things more strongly, and I will come harder. And maybe I will even cry.

Because for a brief moment before we began, he held my attention with precision and patience.

And he managed to make me sit still.


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