By S.R.A. Markin
She puts her hand on my face, and I move away, but not far or fast enough.
“You are cold,” she said, “but you have the softest skin.”
I have never been touched like this before. Every sense feels like she is touching a sex organ, and every nerve, ever blood vessel, everything is enlarged. Except for my penis.
“I am not used to this kind of attention,” I said.
“I didn’t mean to impose.”
I don’t know how to react to her. I have only dreamt of being touched, and even in my dreams, she wasn’t nearly as beautiful as Joyce.