Your Couch Is My Couch Tonight

Look, I get it, we have been doing well so far. You did well, allowed me for months to feel comfortable and safe, welcome in your home and welcome on your couch. In here I can relax, leave the outside where it belongs, just be myself and you be you.
I get all that, but honestly, tonight, I feel we might have gone too far in that direction, too used to playing things safe. Other nights, I come here precisely for that, your patience with me and your comfort zone that stretches right to foot massages and not an inch further. I come here to get my share of harmless touch, to look you in the eye, devour that friendly smile with one eye closed and my thoughts in every direction. You lead me on, but also lead me through whatever state it is that I’m currently in.
It never fails, and never fails to amaze. I spend an evening on your couch, then at some point we have both had enough, talked enough, touched enough, and I walk home. If I don’t send you a text when I arrive, you send one asking if I arrived home safe. You make some kind of joke or just a nice word to send before I fall asleep, then have the decency to not be up in my business the week after. You know I will be back, at some point, some time.
You have not made a single move in my direction, not a single transgression. It took you weeks before you ever touched my arm, weeks longer still before I could place my feet in your lap without scaring you. Or no, that is not right, I never once saw you scared, you aren’t like that.
You are simply well aware that there is a woman on your couch, well aware of the possibilities, and yet it’s not my body that you’re after. You let me in not so that I can let you inside, but rather to explore the depths of my mind. You make good conversation, make it feel fluent, seamless as you ask me about my day, my week, my hopes and struggles. You draw so much with so little effort, know more about me than I know about myself. You push me to follow up on my plans, you motivate me to speak and then to do.
And never once did you act as if you’d suddenly had enough, as if now was the time for you to get what you deserve and take anything from me — not even what I’m willing to give freely.
Like my body, my mind, you could simply lean in and take my breath away and make it yours. Your lips on mine, your lips on my neck, my breasts, my stomach. I wear comfy clothes, easy to take off, easy to push aside if you were ever in a rush. I wear my hair loose, easy to run your fingers through, grab the back of my head and pull me into you as I get lost in your eyes.
I would so kiss you with my eyes open, just so that I could look deeper into yours. They see so much, so much more than others do. You probably see my hunger, see my struggle, see right through the facade that I put up. You smile calmly, erode my patience and every bit of composure I have left.
I start to beg, if not with words yet, knowing you understand my desires just as well. You treat me well, you think you know me, that I just need to be brought through. It’s just a phase, a moment’s confusion, bound to quickly fade away. You’ve seen me like this, it always passed; but somehow not here, tonight.
I will not leave, will not go home, I will just stay here if you permit it. Of course you do, the weather is not such that you would send a lady into. You say not to worry, to make myself comfortable, to tell you if I need anything at all. The words sting deep, I want to answer, my mouth all dry and I just nod. Wiggle my toes in your hands, hoping that they know Morse code better than my brain. SOS is all I know, but maybe I can at least attempt to spell out s-e-x. Or naked, undress, anything that you could decipher.
What is it that you need from me, to break this spell we have chanted together for so long? What could I possibly do to communicate that it’s okay for you to overstep some boundaries tonight? I already moved in closer, my feet no longer in your lap but pressed against your stomach. Your hands are already on my ankles, I leave you no other choice. What keeps them there? There is nothing to be found at my ankles, yet so much to explore further up. Come on, you know your own thoughts as well as mine, you know all there is to know about where your fingers could travel or even just map out their route.
That’s good, that’s a start. In fact, that’s a knee. You shuffle your weight around, move your body a little further up. No way for my legs to stay pressed together, my ankles now wrapped around your hips. Do you see me protest?
No, you don’t, you see the same thing that I do. And you don’t even look at me asking, you look at me answering. Your thumb trails up, digs into my thighs, pushes the fabric around. Why am I still wearing these pants, comfy as they are? Because they offer no protection, not from your eyes, thoughts, fingers. They pose no hindrance to your plans, your efforts, no, your effortless advances.
You move right past my hips, your fists pressed into the cushions to steady your weight. Your lips move right past mine, leave a burning sensation on my forehead. My cheek, neck, all those places I want them to touch — later. I want you to kiss me, to devour me, heck, I want you to take what you want from me. I don’t want you nice, caring, exploring my body, I want you to turn me around and shove me into the pillows. You are already on me, why aren’t you inside me? Why can I still reach up to your neck to pull you in, why aren’t my arms locked behind my back in your strong, merciless grip?
How do you still have the patience to run your fingers through my hair, just like I wanted you to earlier? How can you smile instead of grinning, how do you manage the strength to push that strand of hair out of my face?
God, you finally understand what I’m silently saying, don’t you? That look in your eyes, it changed. It lost that patience, much like I am already lost and have been for a while. You broke through whatever it was that was holding you back, whatever it was that kept your fingers out of my pants.
For the love of god, do you not see, hear and feel how close I am, how little time you have to even get your dick inside before I lie here, exhausted, unable to even complain as you get what I’m so willing to give? You don’t have time, not for that slow, methodical pace, nor for that absence of dick inside of me. I don’t have time, not for those twists, nor for that thumb that touches me right where it belongs. I have nothing more to give, and yet you keep on taking, just not me. You push me over the edge, so expertly, so uncaring of your own desires, not even bothering to loosen a single button on your shirt while I’m spread out here in a shambles. I linger for a moment, then come crashing down, tumbling down that cliff you pushed me over.
I close my eyes, lost in the moment, wondering what else there is to come. There is a void inside my mind, I’m lost in thoughts that I can’t finish. Where is what I need, what I can’t find, a reason to regret a single thing?
Why is there the faint touch of a kiss on my cheek, why is there a smiling face whenever I open one eye? How in the world can you be so composed, so relaxed and yet watching me like prey? Or maybe that is just how I feel, like a harmless doe in the eyes of a mountain cat.
Where did the ceiling go? Why am I seeing fabric, why is there a pillow under my hips? Why can cold air reach my butt cheeks, why do I feel that kiss on my spine? What are those hands wrapped around my hips, why do I hear a zipper’s sound?
****************************************
Also read my blog on sex ideas & tricks here: 365sexmoves.com