Sometimes, words just aren’t necessary


It must look ridiculous, my arm flailing as I try to find a way to touch Him, but in those moments I don’t care.
I need it.
I need to feel, not on an emotional level, but on the physical.
I need the physical to complete the connection.
How I look is irrelevant, it isn’t something I even consider.
My mind is occupied elsewhere.

I’m hot.
And sweaty.
My brain is trying to make sense of what He’s doing to me.
I’m aroused.
Very aroused.
I cannot speak.
I can barely breathe.
Coherent thought is simply not possible.
So much to process.
So much to take in.

Adrenaline is surging through my body.
I’m starting to float away.

The language of touch is my anchor as my hand comes to rest on His arm.
I can feel it now, the extraordinary exchange of energy.
It’s invigorating, breathing life into me.
I smile at the deliciously dark irony in that fact.

My hand begins it’s journey, starting from the crook of His elbow, continuing down in sporadic bursts of movement, finally tracing the outlines of His fingers, taking in as much detail as it can.
Synapses spark at sporadic intervals as my brain receives messages haphazardly communicated by my fingers, trying to complete the imagery in my mind’s eye so that I may lose myself to the experience in it’s entirety.
Connected syllables tracing invisible patterns on His skin.

I’m still there in the moment, but only just.
Touch is my last link to Him as consciousness hangs precariously by a silken thread.
He controls every single ragged breath I take, His fingers pressing insistently either side of my throat as I grip His wrist, and hold on.

During exchanges like this, where His power over me is so absolute, where all I’m aware of is Him, where my submission is so keenly felt, it’s the wonderfully expressive language of touch that keeps us so deeply connected.
No words are necessary when all I can see, and feel, and know, is Him.