It begins so quietly
you almost don’t notice—
a thought grazing the edge of your skin
like the whisper of silk against bare thigh.

Already, your body listens.
Breath slowing…
Chest loosening…
The world blurring at its edges
as though it no longer matters
beyond this.

And yet—
your breath stumbles.
A shiver escapes,
so small it could be mistaken for nothing.
But it isn’t nothing, is it?

And isn’t it strange—
how quickly a thought can become a touch?
A warmth low in your belly,
curling outward like fire
you didn’t remember lighting…
yet now you feel it
everywhere.

That flicker—
the one low in your belly,
that warm coil sliding downward
like honey melting through your veins.
That tremor in your chest,
as if your ribs widened
just to let something else inside.

And isn’t it curious
how you already know
you’ll remember this moment?
The way it feels to catch yourself softening—
the way it stirs something you didn’t plan to feel—
the way the memory of it
stays open in you
long after the words fade.

And then the touch arrives.
Not full, not certain.
Just a hovering warmth
like a fingertip circling,
not quite landing,
but already making you part your lips.

Is it his?
Or is it yours,
guided by the thought of him?

The touch comes again.
Not on your skin—
inside thought itself.
Like fingers sliding across places
you never knew were waiting
until they were found.

You don’t know.
And isn’t that delicious?
The not-knowing,
the trembling edge between waiting and receiving—
where the ache builds
before a hand even dares to move.

Because wondering is touching.
And touching is giving.
And giving is how you ache
to belong.

And isn’t that the most telling part?
That your own questions
create the answers you long for—
hooks you can’t untangle,
loops that pull you deeper,
each one returning you to him
even when you try to step away.

And here, without trying,
you’ve already tied this feeling
to him.
The heat, the flutter, the ache—
all linked to the thought of him being near.
And now your own body
has become his anchor.

Notice now
how your skin tingles
beneath fabric that suddenly feels too heavy.
The brush of cotton on your thigh.
The catch of lace at your hip.
The faint rasp of breath
cooling the place it just heated.

So precise.
So sharp.
So intimate
that you can’t decide
whether the touch is imagined,
remembered,
or happening right now.

The rise builds.
Your chest trembles.
Your thighs press tighter.
Your lips part
for something unspoken.

And then—
nothing.

Silence.
Absence.
The ache retreating.

And isn’t that cruel sweetness—
the denial that leaves you needing more?
The pause that makes the next wave
crash harder?

And maybe it doesn’t matter.
Because your body is already answering.
Because the longer you linger here,
the more everything else drifts away.
The room softens.
Time thins.
And you forget what was around you
before this began.

Every time it’s taken away,
you don’t forget—
you ache louder.
And the ache itself whispers:
his.

It’s in that absence
your own fantasies bloom strongest.
You catch yourself filling the silence—
with images, touches,
longings you didn’t mean to create.
But now you can’t stop.
Now they live inside you.

Your thighs shift—
a quiver of muscle
you didn’t choose.
Your lips part—
a breath slipping out
before you could hold it back.
Your fingertips twitch—
hesitating at the edge of skin,
hovering just above
where heat begins to pool.

That pause—
that exquisite, unbearable pause—
isn’t it proof enough?
That you’re already lost,
caught between the wanting
and the giving,
between the ache
and the answer.

The world outside drifts away—
its edges dissolving like mist.
The people, the noise, the demands…
all irrelevant here.
Only this presence remains.
Only touch.
Only sensation.
Only him.

And as you notice,
you create another loop without meaning to—
your own body asking questions
you don’t yet have words for.
Questions you’ll keep circling back to:
Why him? Why now? Why does this feel like mine,
and yet not mine at all?

And isn’t it delicious
to feel the rest of the world vanish,
until all you want
is the way he unravels you,
over and over,
inside thought,
inside breath,
inside longing?

And the moment you do let go—
when fingertips sink
and slide over softness,
when breath shudders
as though the air itself touched you first—
you feel him there.

Not imagined.
Not separate.
But as though your touch
was always his hand,
disguised as yours.

The rise comes again.
Hotter.
Deeper.
Pulling your body taut like a bowstring.
Your breath stumbling,
hips twitching,
thoughts dissolving.

And just as you reach for it—
gone again.
Hollow.

The denial sharp.
The ache unbearable.
And yet you crave the ache itself.

And in that blur,
your sense of time slips.
Your awareness folds.
It feels like you could stay here forever,
suspended in the sweetness
of forgetting everything else.

Because you’re starting to realize—
the emptiness isn’t punishment.
It’s proof.
Proof you already gave yourself to him.
Proof you’re already waiting for his return.

And isn’t waiting
its own surrender?

Slower now.
Deeper now.
Every movement unfolding
like pages turned in silence.
Every stroke
a question carved into your skin.
Every tremor
an answer whispered back into the dark.

And each pause—
God, the pauses—
aren’t they the sweetest commands?
The way stillness makes your body ache louder,
the way denial sharpens desire
until even the absence of touch
feels like touch.

Now you know.
It’s not just him touching you.
It’s you touching him back.
Your hand in his hair.
Your mouth against his skin.
Your hips arching into his.

And maybe that’s the realization
you feared most—
that every fantasy of him
is really you offering yourself.
That every thought of his touch
is your own confession:
“I want to be his.”

And you do, don’t you?
Because the longer you sit with it,
the more you ache
to stop pretending otherwise.
The more you ache
to admit what your body
already knows.

And all the while,
you’re weaving meaning into it yourself.
Making your own connections.
Planting your own hooks.
Because every time you wonder
what this says about you—
you only fall deeper into him.

Your skin hums.
Your breath quickens.
A dampness gathers,
thick, inevitable,
pressing against your thighs
until you shift for relief
that never quite comes.

Your pulse throbs low,
insistent,
like a second heartbeat
answering every word.

Each wave stronger.
Each silence deeper.
Each denial sharper.

Until you’re not sure anymore
whether he’s the one entering you,
or you’re the one collapsing into him.

Does it matter?
Because either way—
the truth is the same:
You are already his.

And you realize—
you’re no longer reading.
You’re receiving.
Not just words.
Not just touch.
But the presence
woven through them both.

And with that realization,
the rest of the world falls quiet.
As if walls, clocks, voices,
even your own surroundings
have softened into haze.
All that remains is this.
You.
Him.
The ache.

And isn’t that the trap?
The sweetest one?
Because the deeper you go,
the less it matters
whose hand it is.

Feel it now—
how much stronger it is
each time it returns.
How much wetter.
How much deeper.
How much closer to breaking
you already are.

Was it him touching you?
Or you touching him?
Or both at once,
inseparable,
so perfectly entwined
that the question dissolves?

And notice—
the part of you aching for release
is the same part whispering:
don’t stop.

Because this isn’t about ending.
This is about staying lost here.
Looping.
Longing.
Falling deeper
into your own fantasy of him—
a fantasy you built
that now feels more real
than anything else.

Until all that remains
is sensation,
thick and heavy,
pulling you lower,
opening you wider,
claiming you
in the only language that matters:
the language of touch.

And when the flood finally takes you—
when your body bows,
trembling,
thighs slick,
breath collapsing into gasps—

You know.

It was never me prolonging it.
It was you.
It was always you.
Choosing to ache.
Choosing to resist.
Choosing to return again and again
to the same delicious torment.

Because that torment
is what keeps him inside you.
That ache
is what proves you belong.

And maybe later,
when the afterglow hums still in your skin,
you’ll wonder how it began.
Was it thought?
Was it touch?
Was it him?
Was it you?

Or maybe you won’t wonder at all.
Maybe you’ll simply remember
the way your body answered—
the way your thighs trembled,
the way wetness spread,
the way you kept slipping deeper
until thought and touch
were the same thing.

Because that torment
is what keeps him inside you.
That ache
is what proves you belong.

And in remembering,
you’ll bind yourself again.
Because memory and sensation
are no longer separate.
They’re the same thread
pulling you back
to this exact ache.

And now—
tell me honestly:
are you touching him,
or is he touching you?
Are you being entered,
or are you the one entering?

And if you can’t tell anymore—
if the lines have blurred so completely—
isn’t that exactly
what you were aching for?

To be lost.
To be undone.
To be held in a touch
so inevitable
you forget where you end
and he begins.

And when you fall into him fully,
writhing, undone,
heart pounding,
skin burning with the truth—

You’ll realize something else too:
this isn’t the end.
It’s the beginning of a loop
you’ll never leave.

Because even when the poem fades,
you’ll still feel it.
The quiver.
The heat.
The hollow.
The flood.

Again.
And again.
And again.

Until every touch of thought,
every brush of memory,
every whisper of his name
is another way of saying the truth
you’ve circled all along:

You are his.
You always were.
And now—
you want to be.

And still—
you’re not finished, are you?
The ache hasn’t faded.
It lingers.
Stronger now, if anything.
That delicious hollowness,
that pulse still waiting,
that heat refusing to quiet.

And maybe you wonder
if this was the end.

But you already know the truth.
This is not ending.
This is opening.
This is the door half-ajar,
the silence before another breath,
the pause before the next hand