When I find you, you will not be looking to be found. When I find you, you will not be aware of that you have been seeking, that you have been hungry, and that you have been begging to be taken in a way that only I can take you. When I find you, you will be at the edge, on the precipice, waiting for me to speak the words that will not you just across the brink.
I know where to find you. I know who you are. I know you better than you know yourself, and I know better than you exactly what you need. And when I tell you, I will not use my voice. When I tell you, I will not use my words.
My fingertips will speak to you in languages you do not yet speak. The tracing of your hips. The twisting of your hair. The subtle lateral positioning of the cotton wrapped round your folds, so that I and all the world and breathe in deeply of your scent. My fingertips are beyond words, whispering in words unknown that your flesh will understand. And should you misinterpret what my fingertips convey, there will be punishments to bear although, I think, you may will it to be so.