A quick glance around the work office shows nothing remarkable. An overweight, broaching middle-aged woman, sitting, focused on her computer, unconcerned with the conversations around her. She seems awkward in the space her body occupies, clumsy and shy… little do they know.

My lips. It’s like all the nerve endings in my lips are buzzing, hyper-aware. I make a slight pout, imperceptible to anyone around me, and my lips ache for contact. I am aware of them in a way I never would be about my nose, or my ears. If I blink, an image flashes in front of me… not even an image, more a sensation.

That incredible sensation when you know that a highly desired kiss is almost within touch. That slight draw in of breath because you sense how close they are, the anticipation of that initial soft contact. A slight brushing. An overload of sensation. And then, as my lips become familiar with his, they begin to explore, to lick, to suck, to probe. For the moment, my lips seem to have taken on their own desires, oblivious to my surrounds, and they crave. I gently brush my finger over my bottom lip, lightly circling around and over the cupid bow, smiling to myself at their precocious sensitivity.

My mind would wander, now to the skin on the back of my neck, with imagined lips grazing my nape, and strong fingers tracing around to the soft vulnerable skin at the base of my throat. If I closed my eyes, I could lean back against his sturdy chest and feel him trace his hands down my arms, my waist, brushing against the sides of my breasts.

My body yearns for contact. It is made for, tuned to, the touch of skin… responsive, eager, knowledgeable, keen.

A quick glance shows nothing remarkable. Just an overweight, broaching middle-aged woman, focussed on her computer.