We’re sitting at opposite ends of the sofa, legs entwined. There’s something chill and easy on the telly and I’m enjoying the sensation of his hand stroking up my thigh. He moves his palms in measured, predictable strokes. From my bare knee, up and over the fabric of my shorts to the top, and then back again. My skin tingles and my cunt starts to ache.
Up and down, from knee to thigh and then back. Over and over. Languid, purposeless. Just touching for the sake of touch.
I’ve missed this, I think. I don’t know that I’ve truly understood what it means to be ‘touch starved’ until recently. The ache for arms around your waist or lips against your neck. The steady, relentless rhythm of being stroked from knee to thigh.
I sigh a little with pleasure, and he – eyes still on the screen, pretending he hasn’t heard me – presses a little more firmly on the next run up my inseam.
I open my legs a bit wider, the thighs now forming a wide, obtuse ‘V’. On the next journey, instead of turning back when he gets to the apex, he continues. Brushing his hand lightly over the crotch of my jeans and then down the opposite thigh.
There’s a thrill as he conquers new ground: the nerve endings of my skin on the opposite thigh, the ones which have just been stroked, now shiver with a need to feel that way again. Get another ripple of sensation that will satisfy this steady-growing itch.
He strokes back. From right knee, up the thigh, gentle brush over my crotch, then back down the left thigh to knee again.
And again – back and forth. Over and over. The rhythm of it is so measured and careful. Each aspect of his touch is predictable. The pressure. The pace. The fact that he will maintain a steady gaze at the TV, as if doing this isn’t causing me to writhe and squirm.
Because yeah, I’m squirming now. Just gently. Every time his hand reaches the top of one of my thighs, I buck my hips slightly for a little extra pressure as he sweeps his palm down over my pulsing crotch.
Perhaps it’s because I am touch-starved that everything he does feels more powerful than usual. Maybe he’s not just rhythmically stroking my legs, he’s waking up a part of me that I’d packed away and ignored for too long. Or it could just be that he has very firm hands and an instinctive way with teasing.
He knows I’m aching for him to do more. Understands that I want him to pause when he reaches my cunt – put the heel of his hand there so I can grind.
I must look like such a needy slut right now.
As he strokes my legs, up and down, I start to push myself upwards into his hand at an angle that screams ‘desperation.’ The regularity of his rhythm means I can predictably fuck upwards to meet him, guaranteeing those shuddery little thrills when each stroke brushes past my clit.
It’s only when he notices my breathing getting heavier that he starts to change his movement. No longer stroking with flat palm, but balling his hand into a fist.
Now, the strokes on my legs feel more like massage. More importantly, he pauses as he gets to my crotch each time, allowing me a half-second to grind against his knuckles before he moves on.
Something about this is both humiliating and compelling. He’s not actively trying to get me off, just recognising that I have an urge and allowing me to use his hand to sate it.
Fist pressed lightly against me, so I must arch my back to get the firmer pressure I’m craving.
Up one thigh… pause while I hump like a desperate puppy… down the other. Big sigh. Up… hump against the knuckles of his fist so the ridges press against my aching clit through jean shorts… down again. Small moan, perhaps a whimper.
That ache.
My cunt fully hurts with the need to have him in me, but by the time he stops stroking my thighs and settles his fist directly against me, I’m half-convinced I might be able to come just like this. Just by grinding hard on his knuckles, and watching his feigned disinterest as he keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the TV. Revelling in the sensation of being touched, and the borderline humiliation of how wet I am for it. The knowledge that I’m such a hopelessly horny slut that he can control me completely with just a slight twist of his hand or a little more pressure…
I grab his wrist now.
Both hands clasped around it, holding it still as I buck my hips and squirm on him. He turns away from the screen and grins at me, which would have been helpful in giving me reassurance that he was into this… if I didn’t already know. If I hadn’t already taken note of how fat his cock was growing inside his shorts.
Holding his fist rock-solidly against me, he stares at my crotch, and then my face, and then back again, until the flush of shame burns my cheeks and causes me to close my eyes. As if by not seeing him I’ll be able to dodge that sensation of being watched. Inspected. Scrutinised.
I go back to my grinding, and now I sense how damp my knickers have become. Just absolutely soaking. The skin on my thighs is still zinging with sensation where he touched me, and the throb in my clit has been nudged upwards in intensity as I knead myself against his knuckles.
The ache in my cunt is growing too. There’s a tightness there. Anticipation, urgency. The throb of my pulse in my veins and between my legs is matched by my breathing, which becomes faster, deeper, louder. My body is begging him to fuck me even though I refuse to plead with my actual voice.
He starts to turn his wrist now, this way and that. Making me chase the sensations. Sometimes delivering a little more intensity than I was ready for, other times pulling away just as I fuck up to meet him, causing low sighs of frustration and the occasional mewl of need.
All the while his own pulse pumps more blood into his dick. It’s tenting his shorts now, in a way that’s so promising that when I briefly open my eyes I can’t tear them away.
“Fuck,” I pant, as he presses his fist tight against me once more. “I’m so close.”
He nods, a gentle expression on his face. Calm dominance, no rush. He knows exactly what I want but I think he’ll make me ask for it.
“I just need…” A bit more grinding. He twists his wrist, running the bumps of his knuckles up and down over the small patch of denim that covers my cunt, the part that’s now dark and damp, despite the thick fabric. He raises his eyebrows in a question: you need what?
“I need…” It’s hard to focus, and hard to ask. Something about the contrast between my urgent desperation and his commanding tranquility makes it feel more shameful to ask.
But that, in turn, makes it all the more hot.
So I take a deep breath, grip his wrist more tightly in my hands, and bear down on his knuckles as I tell him:
“I need you inside me.”
He grins, nods, withdraws his hand. Beckons me to come with him so he can give me what I desperately want.
As I follow him to the bedroom, my knees threaten to buckle with every step.