I’m where the blade begins its bite, Where mountains taper into height. I’m also words that quietly slip, A hidden hint upon the lip. What am I?

You can sit on me, and ironically, I am a discrete word for what comes out of the part of your body with which you sit on me.

Portable minds that whisper with keys, their screens are windows to the world, connecting thoughts with a touch, they rest on your knees and travel with ease.

Change my first and I'm an enchanted drink. Change it again if you have no clue. Change it once more to move. Or keep me as is and I make your skin feel like new.

Spinning, spinning, spun, Rumplestiltskin twiddles his thumbs. Flaxen thread, from sheep most pliant, A staple of clothing against the cold most defiant. But we are looking for the orb material that cats love.