Some girls get them when they’re scared. That’s why they like to go to horror movies; it’s been proven that being scared is akin to being sexually excited. That’s not me; I don’t like being scared or horror movies. But I like you, more than like. I can’t define the feelings exactly. I don’t want to define them, it might compartmentalize them, lessen them. So I get goosebumps when I’m with you. Like last night…

            “Are you chilled?” you solicited.

            “No. More like thrilled,” I smiled and kissed you for the millionth time that evening.

            “I was going to cover you with a quilt, but…” you offered.

            “You give them to me,” I confessed honestly, “like when you say I’m pretty, or say my butt is sexy…”

            “I mean it,” you said.

            “I know you do.” And a whole new flock of goosebumps prickled my entire expanse of epidermis.

            Even though we determined that I wasn’t cold, you got an idea how to cure my goosebumps. You pulled my naked form across your nude lap on the couch. I didn’t resist. I assumed this familiar position more than willingly. You heated my hide, spanked my bottom and thighs. It made it so that there was a lot less room on your lap. You got a stiffy. You worked us up into a sweat, you made my eyes well-up, you made me wet. You chased away all my many goosebumps. You pushed your erection into my pussy and we fucked.

            “Thank you!” I whispered as we found our rhythm.

“What are you thanking me for?” you wondered.

“If I had a case of hiccups… and you startled me… and took them away… I’d say thank you…” I stutter-step in answer as you roger me deep. I couldn’t hold it back. I didn’t want to hold it back. I splooshed in an explosion of sweet orgasm. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” My goosebumps were a thing of the past.