People touch their romantic and sexual partners a lot. Family members can have more physical contact without it being weird. But western society expects friends to touch during greetings and goodbyes and thats all thats guaranteed. In straight women circles they engage in more platonic touching (as ive observed)

But i need something here. Its more pronounced because I have moved away from my friends and family.

I truly feel like my soul is going to depart from my body sometimes (or maybe thats just me posting this too late at night) but what I wouldnt give to put my head on someones shoulder, to brush someones hair or they brush mine, to cuddle on a couch watching a movie

My place.

My peace.

My fire.

My fantasies.

An image which really, should need no caption. Every detail is stark, cruel, immediately clear.

The thick, suffocating puffer suit in the glass box in the summer sun against the breathable office wear.

The sticky, crawling sweat, the gagged mouth against the clink of ice in the cup, the beads of condensation which drip.

The keys which jingle when she moves, useless to her yoked hands, clinking with each movement, just near enough that she can brush the key-ring with her fingertips if she strains and strains.

Why is she in the box? A punishment? Perhaps. She has done nothing wrong, she knows she has, but to them it makes no difference. Perhaps the other is the real culprit, here to rub it in. Sweet, gloating mockery.

She stares at the drink, but the woman (perhaps the real culprit), only smiles.

"Still haven't unlocked yourself? Silly girl."

"Mmmmmf!"

"Hot, isn't it?" She takes out a silken kerchief, wipes at the sweat between her breasts, lets out a satisfied sigh.

"Nnnnnnnmmmmgh!!!!" The maddening itch between her breasts has never gone away since the day they put her in the suit, though they'd said it was 'self-cleaning'.

"Sorry, dear, couldn't quite catch that." She giggles, a light, mocking sound, brings the cup right up to the glass.

Slow, sticky dripping of sweat. Please. Just a sip, even a drop, of cold water, of ice-cold condensation.

The woman swirls the cup, letting her hear every lovely clink of ice against ice, takes a long sip. A drop of sweat crawls, and another. A furious, gagged sound. The woman laughs, does it again.