A short piece about a teenage girl and her partner. It's first person, through the girls eyes, showing the fear she is finally able to let go of whilst with her partner.
The reason for the fear is that she was sexually abused by a guy within her group of friends, and while she managed to walk away, she could only do it by telling her brother and partner to help her.
I trembled a little where I was laid, ducking my head and closing my eyes. I was always so nervous, so very very nervous, even though I was sure we'd done this a hundred times before.
Breathe in, breathe out. Calm.
I hated these nerves, even though they usually only lasted for split second before we'd help eachother undress, because I knew why I had them. It was no longer fear though; I no longer flinched away from a touch because he'd coaxed me into this gently, and because I wanted it. I longed for it, dreaming of it whenever I did not have it; craving it for comfort and pleasure. That was the main reason behind it for us I guess, and for everyone else: we weren't doing it for children so I guess you'd say that it was for pleasure, wouldn't you? It was pleasurable, of course, but it went deeper than that. It was cleansing; it washed away what had happened to me.
He knelt in front of me, smiling at me half-laid on my back on the sofa, waiting for him. And yet in the back of my mind there was a tiny prickle of self-conciousness: did I look okay? Was my mascara smudged? Was the firelight highlighting my flaws, my scars and stretchmarks, or was it shadowing them? I didn't want him to see, why was I laid bare in front of him like this? I couldn't let him see, I wasn't right, how could he like me?
He pressed on top of me, kissing me gently, and I responded eagerly. I forgot my worries and relaxed into him. The urgency in the room increased, his lips brushed my chest and thighs and I felt that wonderful tingling. He didn't care that I had a few marks and imperfections.
It was more impatient now. He was quick, and I felt that familar rush of warmth and pleasure. Of love. I haven't mentioned that before now, but that's because it's always present, and I somehow think about it all the time and yet barely think about it too; it's a natural, comfortable feeling. I was struggling to stay controlled now, and I cared much less about control and perfection anyway. I knew that it was my own screaming that I heard but I didn't really register it, I only felt. The physical was intense of course, scorching hot and tearing through me; naughty, lustful. The emotional was much smoother and more warm than hot, gentle like his touches. We were both burning hot, and the fire cast a glow onto his perfect face; it was hard to remember that outside the snow was thigh-deep with how close and warm it was in the room.
Quietly (he was always quiet, and I clashed against that rather dramatically), he gasped, suddenly rough, but I was appreciative. This was not like things that had happened before. This was beautiful, and he was beautiful, and it was loving and warm. It felt right. How could people say that this was wrong?
We moved to lay side by side on the sofa, cuddling and breathing heavily.
"I love you." His whisper tickled my neck.
"I love you too." I whispered back, snuggling contentedly into him.
The pleasure had faded to a faint echo of what had shattered my control just two minutes since, but the something else was still there between us. It was peaceful, fierce with it though. Love. There was a familiar tug in my chest at that thought, and I felt it again when I looked at him falling asleep next to me. Heartbreakingly beautiful. That was him all over though, really flawless but without all the commercial polish to make him so. He was perfect without trying, and very cute: all big eyes and untidy curls.
He was mine; all mine. That always took me by suprise a little; he was all mine and I'd get to fall asleep with him like this every night and wake up to his sleepy smile the next morning. Unbroken time; perfect time. Together; safe.
Exactly how I wanted us to stay.