Fingerprints down your stomach. Fingertips walking, two by two, on a meandering path between navel a

Fingerprints down your stomach. Fingertips walking, two by two, on a meandering path between navel and the waistband of your panties. That frilly little lace line like a border crossing, something to be overcome and surpassed before you can really let loose.

But that little path has its own allure, its own purpose. The stomach is a beautiful thing, that wide expanse of flesh, punctuated by that single dot, that tiny little divot that must be there, or that would be simply too much uninterrupted flesh. It would be unsettling.

But it is there, and so, it’s not. But there’s always going to be a vulnerability to the stomach, no matter how toned, or strong, it is. It doesn’t have the ribcage to defend it, nor the central strength of the spine to support it. It’s just… flesh. A wide expanse. I’m a little in love with that, and the vulnerability that goes along with it. 

I’m a little in love with the softness, a little in love with the fact that it’s so easily tickled, and so readily devoured. Kisses and bite-marks, planted all over it, with a mixture of laughter and moaning. It’s a heady mixture, for sure. And, of course, I’m a little in love with the fact that it’s so easily turned into a super-highway south.