In the midst of our making love, your praise escaped her lips. With her ankles in my grip, her toes in my mouth, her body full of my erection; you filled her mind. You. She saw me thrusting from above, heard me churning from behind, felt me supporting her from beneath; yet, your name flew from her mouth in the height of ecstasy.
Did you hear it?
I imagine her thankful cries creeping into your dreams, disturbing you sweetly. I imagine your woman's intuition tingling while you slept, rocking you awake. Did your ears burn four o'clock, Thursday morning? You had to have felt something, there was a seismic orgasm with your name on it. There were quivering limbs pushing your influence away. She soaked the mattress with gratefulness in her heart...for you. Did you feel it?
Of course, she knows the horror stories. She has personally nursed my wounds. She lent plenty of ear to hear my drunken babble about the time you did whatever you did that broke my heart. Yet, and still; she didn't scream out to "God". She didn't cry out to "Jesus". She thanked you.
She explains: my ex-girlfriends are the mothers of my loving today. Particular. Demanding. Irritable. I can see how I've been disciplined. Every welcoming touch is engineered by a rejection in the past. Every position is carefully crafted by every headache, every cramp, every time your legs went out. In that moment of climax, she appreciated the lover I've grown to be.
And, I'm no auto-dict.
|"Dobo Kata" by Oleg Borisuk|