I can think of so few things that make me wet anymore. It’s like my nerves have forgotten how to appreciate erotic touch. Everything either registers as unpleasant or soothing. There’s no room for sexy. No matter where I am stroked, if it’s done with any artfulness, my body collapses in a hammock of relief. I feel I’m being fed water after days without a drop. I think I need Temple Grandin to invent me a machine for this so I stay sane. I love to have hands laid on me, although I forget to seek it out as I once did. I used to demand it, not as foreplay but for reassurance and relaxation. It’s been months since I asked someone to touch me.
Windows by Nightmare Brunette
Nightmare Brunette fulfills the first half of her nom de plume, writing with a disconnected darkness and posting pictures of solitary, waify women in cold, inhuman poses.
Recommended.
PS: Meanwhile I embody the second half of my name: immature, puerile, senseless.