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Today I received a confession from a woman calling herself Ing. Written on thick, creamy paper, the scent of lavender spills from the envelope along with a few dessicated purple flowers. Immediately, I’m intrigued; lavender reminds me of Soli, who would always carry a sprig in her pocket. Soli was a lonely, heavy-set girl I knew in highschool. I remember drawing circles around her nipples with those sprigs of lavender, making her gasp and giggle nervously. She’d never been touched like that before, and she wasn’t certain if I was making fun of her or not. Could he really like me? I could see the question in her eyes, along with a desperate hope that my attraction was real. It was, Soli, I can promise you that. Gods, all that beautiful flesh – breasts like full moons. I was Neil Armstrong taking his first steps in a place no man had ever ventured.
Her body was an epiphany.
I’m a beast. I never understood it then. Neither did poor Soli. I don’t even remember how I talked her shirt off.
But I’ve always had a way with words…
When my husband Andrew left me eight years ago, without warning or reason, I was a ship lost at sea. I was adrift and rudderless on cruel tides. My whole life fell apart, wrecked on the merciless shore of reality. My children grew ever more distant as the mother they once knew as joyful and vibrant grew pale and frantic with grief. Perhaps it’s my fault; perhaps I pushed them away. My beautiful children, my gorgeous, painful reminders of the perfect man I married. I couldn’t stand the sight of them anymore.
Oh, how I missed Andrew! How I needed to feel his love again! His desire! Three years of frantic masturbation since he left me and not once had I managed to orgasm! I could chafe myself raw with fingers and toys. I could rub helplessly against furniture and pillows. I could fuck the stick-shift of the sports car Andrew left behind. It earned me nothing but tears and frustration and such terrible, howling loneliness.
In desperation, I appealed to my few remaining friends. Concerned and caring girlfriends would touch me, gently, fingers and tongues, trying to help me find pleasure and with it a measure of hope. Nothing. They didn’t love me like Andrew had loved me. My male friends I broke, one by one. I would ride them to exhaustion, emptying endless bottles of lube, never ever getting wet myself. Never climaxing. Eventually the lube would dry up and they would give up and I would be left right where I began.
After three years, I still longed for Andrew with an ache beyond emptiness. I felt like I might fall into the hollowness within if I didn’t find some way to fill the space my husband left behind.
Three years of bleakness and despair. Three years of depression, and then therapy.
My therapist (I shall call him Troy) was an eager, fresh-faced boy, of an age with Julian, my youngest son. At 15, Troy graduated highschool. At 16, Troy had completed his courses at college and moved on to university. His brilliance catapulted him into a psychology degree by 18 years of age, with none of the life experience necessary to remain professionally aloof in his chosen career.
Troy wouldn’t have known a seduction if it had walked up and dragged him home by the tie, and that is more or less exactly what I did. Aside from being of an age with my Julian, they also look similar: Strong jaw, sandy hair, intense green eyes. Wide shoulders and a narrow waist. Julian was the spitting image of his father. Troy was the spitting image of Julian.
I was speaking of therapy:
The moment I saw Troy my clitoris tingled back to life. Electricity shot through me. My stomach fluttered with warmth. After three years, the dam broke; my cunt flooded with wetness. I knew I had to have him. I craved him like a drug. I saw the startled look in his eyes as our gazes met and I knew he felt my hunger. Our first session was not like a dance. I did not play coy. He was not deft in deflecting my advances. Troy fought bravely to maintain his professional distance as he’d been taught, but he’d never even had sex. All through school he had been so focused on his studies and on his achievements he had never had time to flirt. My obvious lust for him made him so deliciously nervous, I almost felt as if I raped him that first night. I felt guilty even as his beautiful penis entered me. But I couldn’t stop. He filled me completely. I felt guilty when he lost control almost immediately. The poor virgin, so ashamed and apologetic. Terrified as he spent himself inside me. The guilt washed through me like a wave, along with the pleasure, filling the dark spaces, washing away the grief and loneliness. Replacing it, if only briefly. For a moment – just a moment – I was whole again.
And then the guilt consumed me. It did not drip out of me with the rest of his deposit. It stayed. I berated myself endlessly. I told myself I wouldn’t go back for our next appointment. I swore I wouldn’t continue taking advantage of this… this boy!
And I didn’t. His secretary left messages. He never told her what had happened, feeling at least as guilty as I. But I couldn’t see him again. I knew I wouldn’t be able to help myself. He was them! And I needed them so badly!
It was the guilt that finally made me go back. I felt I needed to confess. Tell him all. Explain myself. Absolve myself of the sin. I was so damned tired of feeling dirty and low. I told myself that Troy was a shrink, of course he would understand!
Our second session, over a month after the first, we made love again while he gently explained how I made him feel like a whore. He didn’t want to accept my money for therapy while he gave me sex and affection and worshipped me instead of helping me with my issues. I whispered that he was helping. He was. My tears flowed freely. I had never felt so alive! His erection sliding in and out of me, skin caressing skin, drove home the words that caressed my soul. With every thrust he went deeper inside me until I felt my center, my idea of self, had been pierced. He took his time and thoroughly, completely satisfied me. Body. Mind. And heart.
I could hardly believe this was the same boy who lasted all of three strokes a few weeks before. He held me like I was the child and made me feel safe again. Again, he came inside me, once again washing away the debris of my past.
Five years later, we’re still together. I’m more than twice his age. I sometimes still feel guilty. But you know… Andrew never understood me the way Troy does. Andrew never truly got inside me, not the way Troy gets inside me, in every single way.
Thank you for reading, Eon. Please share my story. I want your readers to know that there is always hope. Always redemption. It may not always come in the form you imagine, but if you stay strong, if you stay brave, and you open yourself to the wonder of being alive, it will come.
May you find what you’re seeking,
*Image from Internet*