vignette: oil

We began with me on my back, my head pressed against the thin unforgiving pillow. Any discomfort about being naked and exposed to a strange woman vanished the moment I felt her fingers press against my back. Her touch was firm yet oddly soft, engaging my skin and muscles in a pattern of give-and-take.

I lost all sense of time, trapped between the eternal moment of pressure and release, a repeating pattern of rhythmic motion, as if my skin had surrendered all intimate knowledge of its secret aches and places to her fingers and palms.

I realized then that the scent that enveloped me was oil - thick and cold at first but dramatically rendered airy and warm by her conversion of her touch. I could not form a single coherent thought, instead reduced to embarrassed moans, all with the half-life of a shy moment.

When she moved her fingers down my back, I counted each vertebra as she coaxed them into feeling, fighting the urge to forbid her any further trespass. She paused then to pour more oil onto the small of my back and the curvature of my buttocks, denying the liquid any routes of escape by quickly rubbing it into my skin.

Against my will, I felt myself growing hard, as she sought deep muscle in tight focused circles. I tried to shift position to relieve my hardness, but her fingers rode my motion like old seafarers sailing in familiar oceans, adjusting, adapting, never breaking our union of skin.