Uncharted.

I had never known affection. I had known fury.

This body, however, remembers. Muscle memory, the skin tingling at the touch, the warmth, comfort seeping through the pores, into the blood, into the bones. It remembers.

For me each touch is new and sudden, explosion of sensation, electric impulses passing from neuron to neuron. It should offend, the reminder of how physical, how filthy, how human it is.

It does not.

The Slayer is fury. She despises the affection one might bestow on her, and yet she craves my touch, just as the shell craves hers. Her fingers move searchingly, and each touch is new, each feeling different, and even though this body knows all the feelings, remembers... it is always different, a venture to uncharted lands.

She gets inside me... inside this body, her fingers, her tongue, but beyond that, it's as if she was taking over me, inch by inch, neuron by neuron. Sparks. Chain reaction. Explosion, and warmth, and heat, and there is nothing, and there is everything.

This body remembers. I am learning.