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233 stories found
Subject exhibits 145 BPM heart rate. Skin is flushed, damp with perspiration, responding to manual stimulation with rhythmic pelvic thrusts.
I watched my own reflection in your lens, a pixelated version of a woman who forgot she had a pulse until you touched the zipper.
The cooling wards in this place are a joke when you’re looking at me like I’m a cold beer after a July ruck.
The rain in Paris doesn't fall; it colonizes, turning the limestone gray and making the humidity feel like a second, heavier skin.
The salt didn’t just sit on his skin; it felt like it was trying to cure him, like a piece of country ham hanging in a smokehouse.
The flour on her thumb looked like a smudge of chalk on a chalkboard, a mark of something being erased or rewritten right there in the steam.
Claire watched the spittoon and wondered if there was a polite clinical term for the way the girl’s thumb was tracing the rim of Julian's glass.
I’m in the third row of the keynote, watching your pulse thrum against your collar. I’ve never hated a lanyard more.
Caleb tasted like expensive rye and ten years of things we didn't have the guts to say while Elena watched us with that hungry, terrifying smile.
I am tracing the blue-black ink of the runes on your forearm and wondering if the ROI on this mistake is worth the fallout.
I can feel the exact moment the ice hit your tongue because my own mouth suddenly tastes like bitter gin and cold iron.
He had that way of standing, you know? Like he was part of the boat's architecture. Steady. Immovable. And I just wanted to see if I could make him tip.