The Fifth Sense
By Debbie

In the public sphere, she is very closed and self-contained. She reaches out to no one.

In private, with me, she is a master of touch. She not only drinks it in, she also returns it in full measure.

I think it might have to do with her upbringing. Nacedo was so cold; by his own admission without human emotions. Tess once confessed to me that he had never hugged her or shown her any comfort at all. She grew up without the benefit of touch.

But she's making up for it now. Her touch gives new meaning to the term sensuous. It's not hurried and frantic, but slow and deliberate. She has taught me to slow down too, to linger and appreciate. What I once took for granted has become an awe-inspiring gift.

Last night she came to my room again, using her powers to enter when no one else would see. I don't know how long she waited, but she was already there when I got home -- I came upon her sitting quietly, gazing out my window. My hand reached out to graze over her back. Slowly, delicately, my fingers traced a line down her spine, and she froze, holding still to revel in the sensation. After a few minutes I brushed aside the golden curls that graced her head, moving them to expose the nape of her neck, and I bent my head to press my lips to the soft skin. Just a feather touch at first, then firmer pressure. I could feel the little hairs on the back of her neck, another texture under my lips. Whenever I touch her, I feel like I'm trying to memorize every inch of her skin.

My fingers trailed up and down her arms before reaching around to cup her in front. I love the feel of her breasts -- they fill my hands perfectly, a smooth weight. But it wasn't enough -- I needed to feel her marvelously silky skin against me. My hands wandered under her shirt, gently but firmly gliding over her ribs, cupping her breasts again. I savored the feel of her satiny surface as it gave way to rippled skin near the tips, and explored the added texture as her nipples hardened under my fingers. I bent my head again to flick my tongue along her neck, trailing it up to her ear where I traced the outline of her earlobe, spiraling around and around her little pixie points.

She twisted to face me, capturing my mouth with hers and I gloried in the feel of her soft lips against mine. The delicate tip of her tongue began to trace around the rim of my lips, and soon that velvet warmth invaded my mouth. It's familiar to me now, this dance of give-and-take, to feel her beneath my hands and lips and feel her as she stimulates me in turn. Have you ever stopped to appreciate the tiny textures, how a tongue can be rough and smooth and slick all at once? That you can be aware of your own skin just by touching someone else's? It has taken this girl, so deprived of touch herself, to awaken my senses so completely.

It wasn't long before she had me stretched out on my bed. My shirt was unbuttoned, my bra unclasped, my breasts bared to her masterful touch. In everyday life they're just there, silent appendages to my body. Under her ministrations they came alive -- the mere touch of her fingers as she caressed me left me gasping...when her warm lips closed over my aching nipples, I almost lost it. She has awakened connections I didn't know existed, and these simple gestures cause every nerve to come alive. My fingers registered the slippery feel of her golden tresses under my fingers, but she twisted out of my grasp when I tried to return her sensuous attentions. "It's your turn to feel," she had whispered against my belly. All I could do was lay back and accept the gift.

Soon I was lost...drowning...all other senses shut down. Her touch filled me and I was aware of nothing else but her lips to my breasts, her tongue swirling wet paths across my stomach, her fingers working their way past my tight curls to the dampness beneath, plunging into my depths, stroking and rubbing, feather light and firm, feelingtouchingfeeling until the sensations could no longer be contained and I exploded beneath her. I felt her, and I felt me. All was touch.

And even when I came back to myself, my first awareness was of touch -- her silken head resting on my shoulder as she stretched out beside me, the feel of her soft breath on my cheek, the delicate rosepetal caress of her lips as she gave me a final gentle kiss. She asked for nothing in return last night, but I made a silent vow that soon we would repeat the dance of touch, and it would again be her turn to receive the gift.

The last thing I remember was the rise and fall of our breathing as we drifted to sleep, surrounded by the caress of velveteen blankets.


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