Erotica: Spring Awakening (Part Ten)

As intimacy develops, it becomes harder to write about. Solitude-induced thoughts are all very well put out into the world but when someone becomes more than a bit-player in your life, it feels like a betrayal to let anyone else in on your secrets. Details become precious rather than disposable. It is not your story but a shared story. Rights are an issue.

Is it fair to commit someone to paper without their permission? Should you capture your words on a page while knowing things could look very different from another’s perspective? If you’re right in your assumptions, you are exposing someone else’s personal life without permission. If you’re wrong, you are introducing bias, skewing the reader’s view: putting a half truth into the world, if not quite a full lie. Lack of identification does not clarify this for me: informed consent counts for words as well as actions. Intimacy should remain intimate. But writing helps make sense of life, for me at least. And so I face a quandary.

It is a problem I have always faced with relationships: where does ‘me’ stop and ‘we’ begin? While it only seems right to consider a lover when making decisions that could affect you both, it is also far too easy to slide into constant compromise, in which neither of you gets what you really want. Is this really the ultimate aim? Marriage, mortgage and maternity are held up as the holy trinity but that is just box-ticking to me. I do not want to tick boxes. I want to live. This makes me hold back my words to some extent. I do not want to sanitise myself to fit with someone else’s view of perfection but I have learned to self-censor to protect myself.

The intimacy I am sharing with my lover is unique. Not necessarily unique to us: I am sure there are others who share a similar connection. But unique in my sexual history. His too, he says. I am not sure what to do with unique. While I have said, ‘He’s different,’ (or indeed, ‘She’s different’) before now, there has always been a familiar base. This has taken the familiar and replaced it with something unknown. The orgasms have no distinct beginning or end – though I have had to beg him to let me stop coming. The simplest touch makes me wet, carnal, instantly cock-hungry, kiss-hungry, fuck-hungry.

Chemistry has a lot to answer for. We clearly have complementary pheromones – and thankfully, a similar urge not to breed. But I am not sure if chemistry alone is enough to explain the way my cunt lurches and lower back tightens when he touches me for even a few seconds – or looks at me with a smile in his eyes, makes a knowing comment. I have never been touched like it before. I have been touched a lot in my past. I am bewildered at experiencing something new at my age. I thought I’d done it all before. I was wrong.

He raises the animal in me: something I have experienced before but never to this extent. There is no self-consciousness – and only just enough control to stop myself from biting him, ripping my nails down his back, straddling the border between fucking and rutting, raw, physical, utterly open and ripe for the taking. I have no qualms about letting him hear my arousal; feel it; own it. Trust is the ultimate aphrodisiac for me. He is the first person to truly make my body lose control. And I do not fight it.

If I was the only one to be affected, it would make me nervous that I was seeing something that wasn’t there. But I seem to elicit a similarly surprising response from him. And he is far from inexperienced.

I cannot share what he thinks – I am not him and to hazard a guess would be unfair. But I know that I want him. It is near-constant. If I have anything other than my full focus on a task, my mind drifts to him, making my pelvis ache and my cunt drip. I have wanked about him repeatedly, but even with self-pleasure, he is changing things. Now, I use techniques I would imagine him using, taking my time, lingering over my pleasure, imagining him looking on. Sometimes I don’t even take it to climax, instead enjoying the ball of fire inside me that is fed by my solo ministrations. I enjoy being wet for him. I enjoy the anticipation, knowing I won’t always get what I want – though he does tend to give me what I need.

Sometimes, I crave my own touch but deny myself, knowing from experience that it may not scratch the itch at all, no matter how many orgasms I give myself with thoughts of him circling my mind; knowing that it will only make me want him more.

My head is as involved as my body, yet it feels entirely without thought. One minute we are talking calmly about politics, religion, other ‘issues’ that resonate with us: a kiss later and my cunt is wet for him.

Sometimes, it does not even take a kiss.

I have warned him of my commitmentphobia, but explained it badly. It is not that I am scared to be with someone. It’s that I’m scared of fucking it up. I’ve had enough relationships to know my patterns. He is too important for me to drag through my baggage. I think it is tidied away now, but I am scared I might trip on something I forgot to clear. I am experienced in flesh but intimacy has always made me wriggle away, scared to let anyone truly inside me.

I have never done it before.

I want him inside me. But not at the expense of losing myself. I have let too many people stifle me. Now, I am not prepared to sacrifice my self for anyone else, no matter how amazing they may seem. I have one life. There is one me. No one else can fulfil that role, and it is one that I finally consider worthy of a place on the stage.

He does not try to stifle me. He values his freedom as much as I value mine.

I hope I do not compromise myself.

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 Five of Spring Awakening
Read Part Six of Spring Awakening
Read Part Seven of Spring Awakening
Read Part Eight of Spring Awakening
Read Part Nine of Spring Awakening

Posted in Erotica, Kinky Erotica, Queer Erotica, Straight Erotica, Submission and Domination

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