The secret dance

I guide my hand to the parts of me that tingle, to a secret place of tender graze. A gentle touch of pleasure like soft whispers in a hazy way of soft sleep. Tingles begin to grow with each finger that dances beneath a touch of pulsing desire blooms. The softness fades into a rhythm, deeper with each dance of the moment, until that pulse starts to race a storm of my own making of pleasure.