A Touch Of Cloth Novels & Stories

I understood how it was easy to move in that dress, but safety? My confusion must have shown on my face because Fiona grinned at me before touching the dress, her finger running over the fabric almost reverently. Following her lead, I too touched it, only to freeze the next moment. In the key areas of the gown, such as the bust, belly area and thighs, beneath the satin, there was a lining. Even without seeing it, I recognised the warmth of the gossamer-like material beneath it. Cliovace. A fabric so thin and soft to the touch that belied its magical property of repelling everything, including a bullet. Nothing could penetrate the material. It was so difficult to obtain that it was reserved f

His touch was surprisingly gentle. The other man was washing her body. He started with her neck and shoulders, his strong hands moving in slow, firm circles. He paid special attention to her breasts, not in a groping way, but as if cleansing a sacred object. He lifted each one, wiping the heavy underside, cleaning the sensitive skin where the cum had dried and flaked. He ran the cloth between them, over her belly. His touch was clinical, detached, which made it all the more arousing. She was an object being cared for, a tool being cleaned and polished for its next use.

I could hear the kettle rattling with simmering moisture, a gentle breeze escaping through the window, the sound of barely audible voices coming from the familiar Haunted Heart by Christina Aguilera TV show, Loretta— my neighbour’s dog— I thought, barking from a distance, and the almost perfect footsteps approaching. Almost. If not for the click-clack. “You’re awake,” There was an undeniable tinge of pent-up annoyance in her tone when she walked into the room. God, why did coffee and lavender-scented candles smell disgusting? I struggled to take a glimpse behind the heavy-weight of my eyelid and noticed the familiar apartment. I noticed the couch, the bathroom exit, the tables… My coat—still

he said quietly, but there was no gratitude in his tone—only possession. Clara’s smile curved into something wicked, her hand lifting slowly until her fingers trailed down the line of his chest, tracing every ridge and plane through the thin cotton of his shirt. Her nails scratched lightly over the fabric, teasing. “Do not waste it,” she breathed, before turning away as if she had not just set a fuse between them.

The thin cotton fabric was soaked, outlining my bud and pussy lips. I let out a jagged breath, pressing my head more into the pillow and looked at the ceiling as I teasingly run my fingers up and down my slit. I sighed, parting my legs further as the image of Haiden's face entered my vision. I pictured a smirk of a cat finally getting the milk plastered on his face like an award-winning grin as his head dips down to my thigh. I began to pant, fingers coming to the top of my panties to slip inside.

They went on, walking around the store. She got especially attracted to the clothing section. Who wouldn’t? Tiny clothes in the fuzzy fabric that surge yawns at the first touch. 100 x tinier than the buyer, which sometimes makes them wonder if it is made for a baby poodle. And those little ruffles and sweet wordings embroider to raise at the front. An industry that strives on cuteness. Sarah fell in love with one particular piece, a light, apple green socks with white dots. Her hand subconsciously extended to reach for it. Her soft thumb caressed over the material. It was extremely soft to touch that it made her smile.

The heat radiating from the cloth was inviting. Please. I didn't say yes. But I didn't run. He took that as permission. He laid the warm cloth over the bruise on my shoulder. The heat seeped into the muscle, loosening the knot of tension that had been there since 0500. He picked up the ceramic jar. He scooped out a dollop of green salve that smelled of mint and earth. His fingers touched my skin. I flinched. Instinct. He froze instantly. He didn't pull away, but he didn't push. He waited. He let me adjust to the temperature of his skin. His hands were rough, callused, but his touch was feather-light.

Sinful. He reached for a cloth, dipped it into the water, and wrung it out before brushing it against my shoulder. The first touch was gentle—too gentle. He moved with deliberate slowness, trailing the warm cloth down my arm, over my collarbone, and then around to my back. My breath hitched, but not because of the temperature. "You’re awfully quiet," I muttered, turning slightly to glance at him. He didn’t answer right away. Just continued wiping me down, tracing the cloth along the curve of my waist and then lower. When he finally spoke, his voice was cool. Distant. "Should I be talking?"

"If that is okay." There was a pause. “Do it." he said Her fingers held the cloth tightly before she stepped closer to him. The space between them got smaller, too close She could feel the warmth of his body. She could hear him breathing. She reached out to his shoulder slowly and carefully. When the cloth touched his skin she felt something. That feeling again. It was stronger this time. It went through her chest like a wave. It was not painful. It was deep. Her hand stopped for a second.

He watched with hungry eyes as Clay soaped a cloth and proceeded to slide it up and down my thighs. “Since it’s my fault your poor pussy is so sore, it’s only fair that I soothe away the pain.” Clay’s husky voice in my ear sent tingles straight to my core. He gently ran the cloth through my folds, the material a thin barrier between my sensitive flesh and his fingers. He circled my entrance with one cloth covered finger then dragged it up to my clit, already swollen and aching for his touch. My head fell back on his shoulder and his dipped to my neck where he left hot, open-mouthed kisses from my ear to my shoulder. His tongue swirled along my skin, leaving gooseflesh in its wake as he went.