Touch Crimes

Goosebumps. Skin rising up under the lightest drag of fingertips. That's what she missed most. Sally used to live in Amsterdam back when everyone kept their hands to themselves, bodies caged off by rules that turned people into strangers. No hugs. No brushes. No sweat on skin. She craved it. Wanted lips on her neck and a tongue sliding between her tits so bad she filmed it. First came Skinhearts, her ode to touch starvation in that cold future. Then she brought the hunger straight to me. Touched me. Let me taste her. We called the second round Touch Crimes, and we went at it like we'd been locked up for years. She wrapped her natural tits around my cock while I licked up between her thighs, mouths locked in a sloppy sixty-nine. She took me deep, throat open, spit running down, and the minute skin met skin the whole world felt electric again.