Beating Around The Bush

He is gripping the skin on my thighs — not hard enough to leave marks, but with enough pressure that it is not a ‘light’ touch.

Left, right. Squeeze, squeeze.

Slap.

My legs are not splayed but I am not exactly in a ‘ladylike’ position, hot but not sweaty, seeking comfort from the August heat, panty-less in gap-loose sleep shorts against cool sheets. I feel cool bursts from my ceiling fan and the moving air ruffles exposed tufts of pubic hair.

And he is there, next to me, reaching over to grip the uppers of my thighs, squeezing the outer muscle midway and then slapping the inside.

Looking askance with a raised brow, I don’t even have to ask “What are you doing?” before he answers.

With a nod to the center triangle of exposed fuzz at the apex of my thighs — the area he is not squeezing and slapping — he says, “I’m beating around the bush.”