There is no finer surface than naked skin. It’s a beautiful blank canvas befitting makeup, tattoos, piercings, tribal paint and overall adornment. In its virgin state, skin is color-coded to lead your eye to the body’s pleasure centers like bulls-eyes painted on a target. I cannot set eyes upon naked skin without wishing to kiss it, bite it, or trace its alternating sharp and soft contours over the human frame. It’s ground zero for all sexual desire.
When I see my lover turn her head and the skin simultaneously stretches tightly against her collar bone, jugular and jaw line, I usually fall upon her neck like a strung-out junkie. There, with my lips upon her skin, her scent seizes my brain in a pheromone deathgrip that makes it impossible to tear myself away. Then it becomes a feeding frenzy\’my lips and teeth and tongue circumnavigating her globes until I land south of the equator at the sweet spot right between her legs. And that’s about the time my intellect shatters and my animal brain takes over, tonguing an unspoken language only her clit\’the crowning glory of all skin–understands.
Her skin tells me everything I need to know about the progress of her pleasure–from the flush in her face to the hardness of her nipples. She presses her most sensitive spot deeper into my mouth as it swells against my tongue–a burning hot cherry about to burst out of its skin. Then she shivers, muscles taut under the skin, silently telling me she’s about to come. And the moment after she explodes–her heated skin, slick with sweat, relaxes back into its beautiful sleeping contours until the fever begins again.