There was something sweet and unassuming about her touch. It couldn’t be resisted or rebuked for fear that she would never choose to bring the broad, plump, fleshy tips of those soft fingers into contact with the recipient again. They may have been unwilling but their senses welcomed her touch.

After, feeling. Feeling like one lucky enough to have enjoyed that trans-sensation. It had an appeal that ignored the nature of gender. When her hands were laid upon the person, their humanity responded, moved in spite of themselves, in a deep seated way. Drawn instinctively towards their benevolent provider.

She ran the trickling warm fluid like fingers, comforting and pacifying, along the forearm of another woman. Stroked gracefully, with long sweeping, tender movements from forearm to shoulder, to lower neck of another female. Melting at once the physical divide between sexes and sexuality.

They did not always like the physical nature of her direct manner but they were dumb struck by the feelings evoked. Rich, real, reassurance founded within desire. A flash, a cool blue flame at core and then white with heat. A sensual revelation. Freedom, refreshing, a tingling where a spine must surely be. A mood that distorted moral, and pushed hard against the beliefs of strong women, men. Whilst shying away from being handled in public, they feared where these emotions may lead them in private. Questioning their own ability to refrain from offers or interactions.

Men weeped before, during and after she had made that immeasurable degree of contact with their souls. They wanted her to avail them of her secret. To take them in, to calm their hearts beating fierce and in contrast raise their pulse rate. Standing before their doom. Charmed unconscious and at the mercy of. Sweeter, for an instance, than life itself. To try (fry). All the subject of her touch.