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ENGULFED
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I still remember the first time I watched a partner slip into subspace. As their muscles relaxed and eyes glazed over, their eyes softened. The tension I’d built came to a head as they slipped under the spell of my control. You could feel the tide of subspace engulf them from the tips of their toes to their crown, and as much as I had read about the concept of “swimming” in subspace, seeing it, drinking it in, was another thing entirely. The way the cheeks flush, the skin becomes more malleable, and the eyes fog over with desire; how the breath hitches each time my fingers glide over the flesh … your flesh, mmhhh PEP Lover …
Over the phone it’s different of course, but even though I can’t see you, I can hear when you slip under, when the wave of subspace takes you, when you float in the ether of our connection and fixate on my voice. When you’re in subspace with me, everything else in the world ceases to matter, and your world becomes us. Our connection. My voice feels so close in your ear, you could swear that I am right behind you, with my warm breath flowing down the back of your neck, raising those angel-soft hairs in anticipation of what will come next. Goosebumps rise along your chest and arms, and you ache to dive through the phone line and into my wicked hands. You press your ear into the receiver as if you could close the distance between us and slip through those delicate wires.
That ache started as butterflies in your belly, as a tingling from navel to groin, then up to your nipples. Suddenly, you are hyper aware of the sensitivity of your own fingertips along your skin. I tell you to brush them against your collarbone and along your ribs. You dip down to touch between your legs, but I stop you. I can feel you. I can feel your deep, unending, throbbing want, but I say no, no pleasuring yourself just yet. I want to make these waves of desire last as long as possible. I want every single minute to be excruciating and ecstatic.
I can hear when you’re so close to the edge, you nearly tip over into oblivion, but I don’t let you. I roll us back into a sea of bliss before we climb back up to the crescendo you’ve craved … for hours. Weeks. A lifetime. The peak of release calls your name like a siren, but I might not let you have it. Yet. My most beautifully trained lovers get to taste that slice of heaven, absolutely, but if we’ve only just gotten started in our time together? The wait will be worth every frothy, desperate moment, as your hands feel heavy and your skin burns with sweat, as you taste your own salt on your upper lip. That panting tells me that you are starving. That you feel deprived. You beg, you stroke, you obey … and finally, I release you. You become the waves, the rocking sea, and you pour like a fountain … safely in subspace, securely with me in your ear, thirst finally quenched … for now.
I want you to feel every single nano second, PEP Lover, of our intricate synchronicity. Nothing less will do. Call me. I want to train you.