Shy… well, shy is sweet – it’s so delicate, it breaks my heart, just a little. It makes me want to get right in his face, back him into a corner, and make that sweet shyness into excruciatingly uncomfortable, awkward, blushing, stammering and stuttering sink-into-the-ground self consciousness. And when he tries desperately to break the tension, with that half-joking, half-hopeful, half-smile that shy people do sometimes, I want to feel his embarrassment when it doesn’t work and see in his face his fervent wishing that he was anywhere but right where he is right now. Makes me want to grab and shove and push and wrap my fingers around his throat and kiss him so hard his head slams into the wall in that corner and his eyes open wide in shock. Makes me want to transform it, that shy, into something else… into something worse, and then into something much much better and be in his skin when he recognises that transition, and feel his heartbeat and his mouth and his breath and his thoughts and his cock when he surrenders his awkward, excruciating self consciousness to that surprising shock of pleasure, not sure if he should trust it, but wanting to, badly.
Shy… well, shy is sweet.