She is rapidly infiltrating my mind, deeper than I ever thought I would allow her to. Our flirtatious messages have descended into ever-more-honest confessions of twisted desires and graphic, darkly filthy imaginings. Or rather, ascended.
Where once, she was titillation, now she is becoming an inspiration: to impress her with my work as much as she impresses me with hers; to stop smoking. Though it is already something I had planned to do, the discovery that smoke makes her ill gives me extra incentive to be kind to my body; to tone my body so that when – if – she finally sees me naked, it is as perfect as it can possibly be; not that she would judge me for whatever she found.
I have already sent her a picture of my breasts: the part of my body I most feared would disappoint her. I like my breasts: they are small, pert, with nipples that respond rapidly to touch, so sensitive that the lightest of touches arouses me – though harsh tweaks of my nipples can send a message straight to my clit that I want more, if delivered in the right way. But large breasts are so often presented at the ideal that I couldn’t help but fear she might find mine lacking.
When she told me she loved my picture, was a fan of ‘French breasts’, I was glad I had taken it. I wanted to help add colour to her fantasies. She sent me a picture of herself first – though her image left her nipples covered. It did not matter. Her beautiful face, elegant neck and luscious cleavage helped me visualise all the more easily how I would worship her body. I could feel her breasts pressed against my back as we spooned, all the more vividly; and imagine myself slowly kissing every inch of her décolletage, only allowing myself to tentatively touch a nipple with my tongue when I had brought all of her skin to goosebumps with my delicate teasing.
I worry that too many lovers have focussed on her breasts in the past: I have enough friends with large breasts to know the way in which people can fixate upon them. I do not want to use them solely for my own pleasure – though I cannot deny the pull that her full, womanly breasts have for me. But I am all too aware of the way in which men can maul at breasts, treat them as something separate from the woman they are attached to: perhaps women too, though I have never experienced that.
I want to pleasure them in the way that her beauty deserves to be appreciated. I am looking forward to exploring, finding out what she wants, giving it to her. Of course, that may be rough treatment – we have shared enough of our kinks for me to be all to aware that pain plays a part in her sexual make-up: mine too, but only the right kind of pain. A wrong-handed approach can be an instant turn-off, quelling lust in an instant, removing any arousal and putting me at the bottom of the ladder of desire in a second.
I do not want to disappoint her. Already, I am wondering how reality can possibly match up to the words that we share. The desire she arouses makes my cunt more liquid than it’s been for many years. While others have aroused me, my wetness has been more ‘enough to get the job done’ than the gushing slick of juice which now flows from my cunt. Even seeing a message pop up from her brings a heart of dampness to the centre of my labia: and when her messages are work-related, the arousal does not fade. There is a flash of disappointment but also an appreciation for her business-like approach to life. It echoes my own work ethic: desirable in its own right as this is something that has alienated other lovers before, but I know that she understands it. She shares it.
This bears many of the markers of obsession – a near-constant craving, a flash in my stomach that leaps up to my throat when I see her name in my inbox, a desire to make her happy and impress her. But it does not feel unhealthy. She has other lovers and, though I felt a flash of jealousy when she mentioned she had been planning a girl-date, it was not about possession. Instead, it was simply envy that someone else would be getting to tongue her pussy; that someone else would be feeling her touch. I couldn’t help but hope that I would at least pop into her head while she was being pleasured by another woman. And I couldn’t help imagining what would happen if I was there too.
The more I learn about her, the more I share, the closer our pasts align and our subsequent desires reflect each other. It is intimacy in a way that I have not known before, aside from one lover from many years ago.
We only saw each other twice. We knew that if we saw each other a third time, there was a real risk we could kill each other, so closely did our dark sides match. He was damaged in a similar way to me. She is too. I know that he healed me more than any therapy or any medication had to that point. I suspect that she could too, and that I could salve the wounds of her past. But I do not want there to be any intent behind whatever happens between us. I do not want to manipulate her or be manipulated by her, except in ways we explicitly consent to – even if it is for mutual benefit. I am not looking for someone to fix. I am not looking for someone to fix me. It is just a fringe benefit that I suspect lies in any erotic encounter we might share.
She has sent me Tipping the Velvet to watch. I do not yet have a DVD player. It is more delayed gratification. But I do not mind the wait. It allows me time for my mind to wander, and I like the way that it plays.
Reality and fantasy are not the same thing. A fantasy is flawless. Reality can never match up to it. I am scared I will disappoint her. I am scared the real life chemistry will be less than the cunt-melting power of our shared fantasies.
But I am aching to face my fear.
Read Part One of Spring Awakening
Read Part Two of Spring Awakening
Read Part Three of Spring Awakening
Read Part Four of Spring Awakening
Read Part Six of Spring Awakening
Read Part Seven of Spring Awakening
Read Part Eight of Spring Awakening