Fiction: Slender Little Conversation

"Ah-ha. Oh. Do that again."

"This?"

"Oh, yes, that. I -- I really like that."

"Exactly. . . what about it. . . do you like?"

"The way it tickles and pri-- oh! -- prickles. . . at the same time. The way you run -- oh! -- run it. . . over my back. . . slowly then -- oh! -- quick!" The last word like a little squeak as the Wartenburg wheel traced it's way up alongside her spine, from hip to shoulder.

There was a slight pause in the darkened room. The tines of the wheel were like tiny sparks, reflecting the single candle on the bedside table.

Then, "More?" she asked, her voice small and hopeful.

"Yes," he said, "If. . ." He let the word hang there, more like a threat than a promise.

"If?" she prompted, unable to wait.

"Just that: 'if,'" he said. She could hear the grin. "Just agree to the 'if.'" He lifted the Wartenburg wheel from her shoulder. Her skin felt alive, exposed. She wanted that sensation again. She squirmed a little bit. He waited patiently.

"Okay," she said finally.

"Okay, what?" he asked.

"Okay, I agree to the 'if.' More, please? My darling?"

The tines of the wheel pressed gently into the back of her upper arm, just above the elbow, and made their way slowly on yet another path over the terrain of her skin.