The curve of my arm, when matched with the straightness of my side, creates a kind of portal. Once y

The curve of my arm, when matched with the straightness of my side, creates a kind of portal. Once you’ve slipped through it, and once you’re resting on my lap, everything above your waist ceases to be.  I’m just concerned with what’s below. That beautiful bottom. Your legs. What's between your legs. I compartmentalise like a champ at the best of times, but this is something altogether different; the physical dismissal of an entire part of you, caring only about that lower half, and what I can do to it.  I hear your moans, of course. I feel you squirming against me. But it’s a question of care, and the answer is that I do not. My hand comes down, and I revel in the rosy heat that my palm brings. I don’t care that you cried out, or if you didn’t. I slip my hand between your legs, and I know whether you enjoyed it or not. That’s the only information I care about, right now.  Eventually, you’ll come out of that portal, and I’ll care about that top half again. You’ll rub your bum, and I’ll laugh at the pout on your lips. You might even ask why I didn’t stop when you started really crying out. And you’ll know the answer to that, because it’ll be written all over my face. A few words might be on yours, too.  Because, dear girl, you were still getting wetter.  -- source link

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