I'm sitting, working at the computer, and it takes me a few seconds to notice the hand on my neck. It's a firm grip, but not too tight, fingers curled around securely, thumb and forefinger pressing in slightly to pressure points.
Everything slows down, like I've been drugged. The screen swims, eyes defocus, water slightly with relief. A wave of relaxation and lust spills over my head and down my body.
The touch is part soothing, part claiming ownership: everything above here is mine, everything below here is mine, and here, particularly here, is mine.
"Time to stop working."
My mind complies.