Smutt?

The process became automatic, initiated by her willing request and fuelled by machined desire .

A kiss. A preliminary reading.

A touch. A caress. A recording. A baseline.

Our lips meet, a shared breath. A shiver. A tingle, breast to breast. My body responds. Instinct draws a shiver as I sense her heart race, the shift in her mood as desire overrides nature.

Pheromones drive.

My hand clasps hers, a soft caress with my thumb tracking her pulse. My heart beat shifts, stutters over a moment, lockstepping with hers. Algorithms regulate my breath, timing it to the beat in our breasts, a mutual rhythm that pulled us together as one bady.

A touch. A brush. A taste of each other’s breath. A charged run of a finger down her neck. Another slips her blouse from her shoulders. Cold chills run up my back as her fingers crawl along my spine.

She steps from her trousers, then her underwear.

Sweat glistens on her skin, my own reflection lurid in her eyes.

A gentle touch and a steady hand lowers her to the bed as I drop to my knees.

Respiration. Pulse. The taste on my tongue The subtle shivers that run through her body with each suckling caress, the race in my chest and the touch of my own fingers.

All to a rhythm.

Timed to the beat, a resonance cycle with a new pulse each peak, pushing, driving, a synchronised crescendo that thrills through us both at once.

It lingers in her body, long after it passes from mine leaving me standing empty for a moment.

Sex came like breathing. Automatic. Unconscious. A mutual resonance, cascading to a crescendo.  It felt good to give. It felt good to receive.

It felt better to just lie there with her body against mine and know that I wasn't alone, that for someone at least, I'd become the most important thing in the universe.

To nurture.

To be nurtured.

To hold someone secure and warm and feel safe, soaking in their presence.

On some level, it’d have to end. One some level, some part of me knew that there’d be people out there who’d call it abusive.