He Taught Me How to Be Touched Again

We met on justmaturedating.com. I wasn’t looking for grand passions. I was looking for presence. Someone who would really see me. Someone who wouldn’t try to fix me — but simply get to know me.

From the very first message, Jaxon wrote differently. He didn’t force small talk. He asked with intention. And stayed silent with dignity when he had nothing to add.

After three weeks of talking, he suggested we meet. I stayed at his place. An autumn Saturday. His apartment smelled of coffee and sandalwood.

We talked for hours. We sat close, but didn’t touch — we didn’t have to. The tension between us was alive and warm, like fire in the fireplace.

Eventually, he reached for my hand. Held it thoughtfully, as if studying the texture of my skin.

- I want to touch you… truly. - he said.

I nodded. I felt a tremble — and full consent. He led me to the bedroom. Nothing was random. Soft sheets, the warm glow of a lamp, jazz playing quietly from the speakers.

- Let’s turn off everything… except you. - he said.

I stood naked by the bed. He looked — but didn’t touch.

- Beautiful - he whispered. - But tonight, I want you to feel it.

When his hands first touched my skin, it wasn’t a casual gesture. He brushed me with his fingertips — from my shoulder, along the curve of my breast, down to my hip. He moved slowly, drawing lines. As if memorizing me.

He didn’t undress right away. His body wasn’t a tool — it was presence.

He laid me on my back. Knelt between my thighs. And… looked. For a long time. Unashamed. I felt… exposed. But also wanted. Appreciated.

- Everything here speaks to me. - he said, placing his hand just above my mound.

- But I won’t rush anything.

His tongue was like a soft paintbrush. He touched me first from the outside — long, flat strokes. Then shorter, more focused ones.

I felt my body responding — slowly, pulsing. Every touch was like a wave. I wasn’t trying to fake anything. I didn’t have to. Jaxon wanted the real me.

When he slid his fingers inside me, it was tender — but assured. He knew when to pause, when to speed up. He spoke softly:

- Breathe… allow yourself… - And I did.

The orgasm didn’t come suddenly. It came like a sunset — slow, rich, all-encompassing. I screamed his name, shamelessly. He just held me tighter — as if he knew every one of my needs before I did.

Then he entered me. Not fast. Not rough. But deep. Every movement was a conversation. A language without words. Our bodies said it all. We locked hands. Looked into each other’s eyes. And in that gaze, I was seen. Not as a woman to conquer. But as a woman to honor… through desire.

I lay on his chest.

- I’ve never felt touched like this before. - I whispered.

- Because no one ever taught you that touch begins with permission. - he replied.

And that’s when I knew. It wasn’t about sex. It was about me.

About feeling, again, that I could be chosen. That I could say “yes” — and feel safe doing so.