Touched

We lay curled up on the bed watching TV. His hand makes periodic raids on one's breasts... groping, pinching and squeezing. It is a sensation that sets the teeth on edge and He know it. A hand reaches out and strokes the hair. Now that sensation one just loves. It is short lived... a finger reaches down to stroke the eyebrow the wrong way. It moves further, down the bridge of the nose tickling as it goes, and on to explore the tip of the nose which evokes a strong urge to sneeze.

It is a game He plays to get a response. And it usually gets one. No matter how many times He does it one cannot just lay there and take it. Soon there will be a physical retaliation and one will turn round and swat the offending hand. It never ends well and one always loses... yet it never changes the outcome. Poke, poke, poke... retaliate.  It sets the teeth on edge just thinking about it L

Bastard!

See touch is a strange thing. Humans do not do well without it... apparently. There are times though that one craves to be touched in a nice way. Round here it rarely happens. For a while there He used to hit whatever was conveniently to hand the minute one bent over. And it is scary how fast that man is on his feet. It wasn't hard or violent, yet after a while one still flinched when He came near.

Over time it made one skittish and hyper vigilant. And very reluctant to pick anything up. It was like the time one had pneumonia and the collapsed lung, and He tried to take advantage of it and ended up with a trained cough response... which is still there for the record. See the body has ideas about what is good touch and what isn't... and at this stage they don't seem to coincide with His at all.