One of my favorite moments with This Charming Man was
when, on our second-to-last date, I tenderly showed him how he could do a girth
hitch around each of my upper thighs to use as handles.
Once the handles were on and cinched tight, he told me
to get to the edge of the bed. I lay parallel to the headboard, knees in the
air. He stayed standing, held onto my ass and thrust in, then regained the handles.
I was always (and still am, writing this) soaking wet for him, the gushingest I’ve
ever been for anyone, and that is REALLY saying something. Everything in me
flowed out to him, to his smell, his charm, his humor, his beauty, and ohyeah
the ropes. In all my years of adventures, I’ve never been as turned on as I was
for This Charming Man.
I’m afraid I’ll never feel attraction that powerful again.
He tugged the ropes from side to side and then APART,
pulling me open, wider and closer. Open, open, open, pussy, heart, and soul.
“You make me feel so good.” I heaved and sighed and
huffed.
“I’m glad. You deserve it.” It’s kind of a miracle
that I didn’t cry for him until our last day. His words threaded up inside me,
stitched me up, gauzed up wounds with a peace I didn’t know was possible.
That’s a lot to put on one young man who has a lot of
other stuff going on. I try now (though I certainly didn’t see it this way in
the moment) to understand it was just dom stuff. I didn’t and don’t know where
to go with all that fulfillment, all that healing, all that emotion. I don’t
know how to take it to heart now that he’s gone, but I hope I can before too
long. I don’t know what any of it felt like from his perspective, I wish I
could. Either way, that bliss, that comfort, that rest, is mine and I
hope it doesn’t always hurt so bad to think about it.
Anyway, we came together beautifully, and if I hadn’t already
fallen for him like four dates ago, I was certainly a goner now.
Afterwards, when he was up taking off the condom and I
was laying back tangled in the comforter, feeling ravished and adored, this
thing happened. I think he said a thing. It was the second or third time I
thought I heard him say it, probably a dick-drunk trick of the ears:
“I love you.”
It could have been “how are you?” or any other set of
syllables. I left it there because I couldn’t have heard what I thought I’d
heard. This is the part (one of the parts) where I feel truly crazy, this
shimmering hallucination of my dearest wish. He can’t have said it, not on the
third date or the sixth, not in the afterglow or the throes. If he did, maybe
it was a trick, maybe a spellish part of the charming. Or maybe it was real.
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