Have you ever had a cat? A well-fed, well-petted and loved housecat?
That’s how I feel when you touch me. The way a cat rubs her face against your hand when you stroke her, eyes closed, concentrating on the feel of your fingers against her whiskers.
You hands on my thighs, your fingertips tracing my arm – I find myself closing my eyes, shutting out everything but the sensation of your touch.
You reach for me whenever I am within arms’ reach, simply to touch me, feel me. You draw me in, hold me, your hands roaming over my back, my ass, into my hair.
I feel like a cat that weaves itself around your ankles, wanting you to stroke its entire body.
From the first time you kissed me, tentatively, exploring, seeking to find if it felt as easy and natural as talking had been. And it was. Smooth, velvety, tongues curling around each other as perfectly as a kitten laps up cream.
When you slip your hands into my clothes, to stroke my thigh or gather a breast into your hand, it feels so perfect, I want to wrap myself around your hand, I want you to never stop touching me.
Your fingers find their way between my legs, sliding into the wetness there, and I feel myself squeezing, you are somehow both gentle and demanding, your mouth over mine. I just feel it, just enjoy the sensation.
And after you have made me come, I feel as content as that cat that has had its food, and is curled up in a puddle of sunlight streaming through the window. I am content to bask in the feeling the endorphins flowing through my body, the satisfaction of being well fucked. I stretch, sleepy, full, happy.
But, as we all know, a cat is never completely satisfied. You fed me, and I will be back.