The sense I love the most out of all of them isn’t one with a name, at least not one that I know of. Or, definitely not just one name; but it’s definitely one sense and with one source.
It’s the sense of warmth and comfort when I get changed after work, and pinch a pair of her satin pyjama shorts to wear under my pyjamas, knowing that she’ll be delighted and turned on when she discovers this later.
It’s the sense of ease when we’re lying in bed later, slightly buzzed; and I pause kissing her to go and put on the heavy silk kimono jacket; and when she asks why, there’s no hesitation or reticence in telling
her that it’s because I really wanted to feel the cool silkiness against my skin.
It’s sense of love I get when she melts slightly when we’re having our usual bicker about who loves whom more; and I tell her I know how much she loves me because she makes me feel so safe and open and supported to explore all of everything and she is with me; that I can put on silky stuff
just because I want to, and it make her smile and love me more.
It’s the sense of joy that I feel from her when she runs her hands over my cock in her satin shorts and I’m writhing on my back, so close to the edge, so desperate to hold back because I’m going out of my mind with the feelings and I don’t want it ever to stop; but I can’t maintain this forever; but I‘ll die if I come, my head and balls will actually explode; but knowing how good it’ll be; but – oh fuck she’s covered my cock in the shorts with lube and everything has just jumped tenfold, and she’s massaging behind my balls, and there’s no way I can stop now; but I keep riding this crest; but I swear I’ve never been this hard in my life; but now she’s fingering me (how many fingers? I’ve got no idea, I’m just a ball of sensation.); but how can I keep holding on, or back, or myself together; but then she slides herself on to me and everything ramps up another order of magnitude; but I’m still holding on, or back or together; but then we’re fucking and pounding and she’s bouncing and fingering me and I’m lying on my back, desperately holding on to the bed to stop myself floating away with the sheer fucking joy of the ocean of sensation and love; but then she grabs my nipple, and screws her pelvis that way, and curls her finger that way and I see stars; and I have no idea what else exists other than THIS moment, and I’m passing out; but I’m not; but the long, sustained chord progression on the biggest organ in the grandest cathedral in Christendom with the long, slow fade out; and the slow returning to awareness, who knows how long later.
It’s the sense of knowing that she knows me better that I do; that when I tell her that I was planning to wear the shorts to work tomorrow, but I can’t because she’s got lube all over the front and back of them, that she tucks my cock back into the leg of them and rubs her cummy cunt over the front of them, and whispers that it’s not just lube, that she squirted on them too, and that I’m going to be sitting in the office tomorrow, smelling like a long night in a brothel with these on, which is just what a slut like me should smell like.
It’s the sense of mischief in her eyes as I’m necking my coffee in the morning and I’m getting ready for work, and she unzips my trousers to make sure I’m actually wearing them, and the twinkle in her eye as she
stroke me to hardness and tucks me away and points at the really fucking obvious bulge in my trousers and warns me not to get to daydreaming too often in the day.
It’s the sense of excitement and badness and anticipation when I’m aware of her satin shorts and her cum and the lube and my cum and wondering if I can actually smell it and realising that today is going to be a really long day and I absolutely cannot wait for her to get home tonight so I can snog the face off her and drag her upstairs and stick my cock back into get because that’s the only place I want to be and the only thing I can think of today.
What’s the word for that sense?