(a writing prompt and too much of a tease)
Such a small point of contact. One place, one touch, tracing a small part of me.
That is where it starts, your fingertip instead of those calloused hands, lightly tracing up my arm, headed up, then in my mouth before heading downward.
I know where it leads. I want more, though. My body is reacting before you even get to the heart of me.
Leaking thinking about what you will do to me.
Throbbing, wanting to be filled, knowing one finger is not going to cut it.
I want all of you, and I don’t know how long I can wait as you play this game with me.
Lisa Gray 