Two Steps Back You could accuse me of being a touch emotionally detached. You wouldn’t be

Two Steps Back

You could accuse me of being a touch emotionally detached. You wouldn’t be the first, and, the way I’m going, I doubt you’d be the last. It carries over into my scening, too, even if only vestigially. I move like a scientist or a doctor, with an active curiosity. My movements are deliberate, but I’m not sure you could claim they had grace. 

I have a goal, and I have an interest in achieving it. I want to see your reactions. I want to see what happens if I pinch your nipple, but I also want to see how quickly I can make it stir from soft and adorable into hard and eager. I want to twist it after I pinch, see if that gets a different reaction. I want to see how your face looks with my fingers lodged between your lips. 

I want to know how you sound when you come. I want to understand how your mind processes all of this, where ‘fuck yes’ descends into unintelligible pleading, somewhere between 'no’ and 'yes’, but nowhere near 'stop’. I want to find out if you’re the kind of girl who’ll kiss me first, or if you’ll start from my neck, or my shoulder, and work your way up to my mouth. Adjusting your aim a little each time, until you hit your target.

I fuck like a scientist, searching for the Higgs Boson. I screw like a doctor trying to cure Ebola.  I pound you like a therapist desperate to give you a break through, thinking that one more thrust and you’ll descend into cathartic sobs, weeping with joy at how simple it all suddenly is. 

It’s not so much emotional detachment as emotional investigation. I want to know how you feel; my own aren’t quite as pertinent to me.