After so many days together, rediscovering each other's bodies, I know what I want. What I need.
This time, not to be fucked.
But to examine. To learn. To trust.
I have explained my cuntphobia as best I can although I know there is something more that remains repressed. Some memory as yet unsurfaced.
But, for this man, I will try to reach it and, thus, allay the demons.
We have been naked but for our gowns for days. Our life has revolved around F Words. Fucking, food and films. Fellating him before fucking once more. All orifices have been penetrated. I am his. A fuckthing. And he is mine. A pleasure giver. We have built this fragile intimacy where the slightest touch can signal the moments yet to come.
Looking at myself, naked in his magic mirror. Admiring my slender body that has survived the vicissitudes of pregnancy, the horrors of anorexia whilst still retaining such innate beauty that I could never before appreciate... until I saw it through his eyes.
He lies on the bed in the half-light, watching me. The soft glow from the bedside lamp flattering and accentuating the soft curves as I preen myself prior to returning to his side.
His hand reaches out to hold my head and teases his mouth against mine but this is not the Grail I seek. My lips whisper instructions against his own and he smiles.
Lying back so the full aura from the lamp lights the area in question, I spread my legs and let him see. Yes, he has licked me out frequently but, normally, I try to face away from the lights. I want him to do it but I don't want him to look at it. I want to hide it. The parts of me that I view as somehow shameful. That I won't look at if I can help it.
He reaches out his finger and watches it trace its journey across the soft folds of flesh. Caressing and probing. I can feel the familiar urges of panic start to set in but my mind is laughing at myself, cutting off the Voice inside my head that whispers its disgust. I start to relax beneath his touch, lying back and letting go. The soft sensation of his tongue replacing the finger and the prickle of his stubble is greeted with the softest of sighs as I give myself to him. Opening. Accepting.
Looking down and meeting his eye as it moves up to ensure that I am enjoying the experience and receiving a moan of approval as he flicks at my clit and teases it out from its hood. The tiniest bud that so often hides itself away from his face in self-disgust but no longer.
Surrendering and proffering itself for his attentions until, trembling and liquid, I clamp my legs around his neck and float away, secure and beloved.
And, later, fully exposed to the light as I sat naked in the computer chair with my legs on his shoulders, he took the nail scissors and trimmed the place that I had so hated. Feeling the tickle as he extended any recalcitrant hair trying to hide itself away. The sensation of his warm breath over my most secret parts as he pampered me. Not for any sexual motive but purely for the pleasure of being there and performing such an intimate act... for me.
What price such a feeling?
Saturday, 31 May 2008