Amiga ISO Collection/AmigaDemoCD2.iso/ASCII/TEXTE/SEX/ADULTSHARE/H/HEALING3.TXT

Text File | 1994-07-04 | 13.9 KB | 264 lines

                                     Healing

            Looking into her eyes I take her delicate hand in mine and
          lower my lips to it. It is a romantic gesture, but the
          pressure of my lips on her skin is purely sensual. At that
          moment a waiter appears from behind me and "catches" us. I
          flush feeling slightly foolish, although I'm mollified by
          Amelia's smile of amusement. Later, on reflection, I would
          realise that he was a poor waiter to interrupt at such a
          moment. One would expect better service at such a posh
          restaurant.

            As I sip my wine I look across at Amelia. She is beautiful
          tonight. The top few buttons of her cream blouse are undone
          revealing a delicate gold chain and locket, not to mention an
          enticing neck. I wondered idly what picture she has in the
          locket. She raises her eyes and catches mine, and I am lost
          in their twinkle and darkness. It occurs to me that I am
          falling in love with her. Over the last few weeks she had
          become very important to me.

            "I love you," I whisper, my hand on the table, hopeful that
          she'll place hers upon it. To my surprise a confusion of
          expressions cross her face. Joy and pleasure share her
          features with surprise and worry.

            She stammers, "I ... We're ... You don't ...," looking for
          the words which best fit her feelings. "You don't really know
          me," she eventually says, selecting from her menu of
          sentences. An unaccountable cloud of pain is visible in her
          eyes.

            I want to deny this, to put forward my defence, to present
          my evidence. I could recount a thousand little ways in which
          she moves, ten thousand ways in which she speaks. I could
          tell her her views on everything from politics to theology,
          for our discussions have been many and varied. I could tell
          her in which towns she has lived, which schools she has
          attended, and the names of all her pets she has ever had. We
          have been hungry to get to know one another, our appetites
          for each other are voracious. However, if she says I don't
          know her, how can I argue? What more can there be to know?

            "Well, since you insist: as much as I know of you, I love,"
          I amend, and my pedantry is rewarded with a smile. However it
          is a slightly wan smile, as though my words have unlocked a
          great sadness. Solicitously, I ask "Are you okay?"

            "Yes, it is just that there are things about me you don't
          know. Things I'm not sure I'm ready to tell you about."

            The words hang there. Should I feel hurt that I'm not
          trusted with such intimacies? Well, I don't. I'm only
          concerned that she is in pain. "Only tell me when you are
          ready to tell me, there is no rush."

            "Thank you." Her hand squeezes mine.

            I can tell however that she is concerned that her secret,
          when revealed, will drive me from her, so I continue, "You
          know there is nothing that you could tell me that would make
          me change my mind." My assertion I believe wholeheartedly,
          and my words and earnestness earn my hand another squeeze. No
          more words are necessary, I know I have spoken to her fear.

            After the meal I drive her back to her apartment. At her
          door we kiss. It is our first one. Touching her lips with
          mine is very special; it's almost holy. Her lips are soft and
          yielding. My love wells up from within me. I love this woman:
          absolutely; unconditionally; whether she will let me tell her
          so or not. Her lips part and her tongue enters my mouth. It
          feels so erotic. I can feel myself start to harden. I feel an
          urge to hold her tightly. I deepen our kiss. I chase her
          tongue back into her own mouth with mine.

            Suddenly, without any warning, she is stiff in my arms, she
          is pushing me away. I stumble back. I'm confused to see fear
          in her eyes. Suddenly she turns and enters the building,
          closing the door on me. I call after her, "Amelia! What did I
          do? Are you all right?" but she is gone. I ring the bell but
          she doesn't answer. Uncertain what to do, I eventually leave.
          I go over the scene time after time as I drive home: what had
          I done? I'd only responded to her kiss!

            When I get home the phone is already ringing. It is Amelia.
          She is very sorry that she had behaved like that. I assure
          her that I was sorry if I had scared her. She says I hadn't.
          I ask her what it was all about? She says she can't tell me.
          I feel hurt, excluded.

            Sensing my hurt, she says, "I can't tell you over the
          phone, but if you come over ..."

            "I'll be right there!"

            The four mile journey back to Amelia's apartment passes a
          lot more quickly this time. I am soon ringing her doorbell.
          She opens the door, smiles, and stands back to let me enter.
          She has changed; she's in a comfortable t-shirt and faded
          jeans. I admire her bottom as she leads me into her living
          room. After settling down with mugs of coffee I broach the
          subject, "Sorry about scaring you earlier."

            She shakes her head and says, "You didn't. I scared myself.
          I was enjoying your kiss when I suddenly froze. I felt
          trapped. Terrified."

            "But why?" I ask, unable to imagine why she should
          experience such feelings.

            "I've never told anyone before," she whispers. "I was
          raped."

            The words are out. Her secret isn't a secret anymore. Her
          shame is known. She knows she will lose him. Who wants
          damaged goods? She's no longer a virgin. She has just pushed
          away the only man who had ever said he loved her. But that
          was before he knew ... She blinked back tears, she wasn't
          going to give in to self-pity. She wasn't worth it. She hated
          herself, especially her body. It was her body which had
          attracted that monster, and it was her body which had frozen
          when she didn't want it to. She didn't dare look up to see
          the disgust in his eyes. In spite of herself tears begin to
          leak out.

            I'm momentarily dumbfounded. Rape is something that happens
          to strangers, not to someone you know. I'd never really
          thought about it, never really wondered what I'd feel or how
          I'd respond. It takes a second or two for my emotions to come
          on-line and for my intellect to get into gear.

            "Oh Amelia." I put my arms around her huddled figure. I
          have all these feelings rushing around within me: anger,
          compassion, frustration, more anger, and impotence. I'd like
          to protect her, I'd like to to smash her rapist to a bloody
          pulp! I imagine her violation and fear. I want to convince
          her that she is safe. But what can I do? The danger was in
          the past. I love her so much it hurts. What words can I say?
          I say, "I'm so sorry. So very sorry you had to go through
          that. Do you want to tell me about it?"

            "No," she whispers, her fears confirmed. He was just
          sympathetic. He was sorry for her. His long silence
          demonstrated he was distancing himself from her. But she
          didn't want his pity, she wanted his love!

            "It makes me bloody angry!" I burst out, the thought of
          some bastard violating this special woman is making me see
          red. Immediately, Amelia shrinks from me, as though I was
          about to hit her. I fume "I'd like to murder the creep who
          dared to hurt you!" my anger a tight knot within me. I'm
          unable to express my feelings in a more restrained way. They
          demand to be spat out! This is not like me: I'm usually a
          very gentle person, almost placid, but these are feelings
          that are violent.

            "You mean you're angry for me, not at me?" Amelia asks,
          looking at me strangely.

            It takes a few seconds for her words to penetrate. "Of
          course I'm not angry at you!" What could she have been
          thinking to think that? It was beyond comprehension she could
          think that I would be angry at her. "I love you! I want to
          protect you. I want to keep you safe. Of course I'm not angry
          with you! It wasn't your fault." Words are pouring from me
          now; some of them might be a bit chauvinistic, macho male on
          white horse and all that, but they are honest. They come from
          deep, deep, within me.

            "You wouldn't say that if you knew the worst," she states
          flatly, bringing me up short.

            "Try me,"  I challenge. "Tell me the worst. I'll still love
          you."

            "I didn't fight or scream. I just froze."

            I interrupt, "You can't blame yourself for that!"

            She holds up her hand to stop me. "And that's not all." She
          pauses, takes a deep breath, and confesses, "I climaxed. I
          couldn't help it. I hate myself ..." She is crying
          disconsolately now. I hold her in my arms, rocking her
          gently.

            "It doesn't matter. It really doesn't matter. That wasn't
          your fault. It's just a physical response. You can't blame
          yourself. It doesn't make it less of a rape. No-one would
          blame you. No-one." I affirm. How can this intelligent and
          beautiful woman be so confused over these issues? I realise
          for the first time that perhaps one of the worst aspects of
          rape is the lies that it can teach you about yourself. My
          anger at her unknown assailant flares again. The bastard, to
          have given this special woman so much pain!

            I whisper, "I love you," over and over as I hold her. It
          takes a long time for her sobs to come to an end. Eventually
          she looks up, our eyes lock, and she pulls me down and kisses
          me. It is a sweet, hot kiss. A kiss fired by our love. Can
          you exchange love through a kiss? Can you bind hearts
          together with a kiss? We did.

            Our kisses change. They become more playful. Amelia nibbles
          my nose. I lick her cheek. Then she moves, pushing me back so
          that I am underneath her on the settee. She is astride me,
          unbuttoning my shirt while she kisses my neck and throat. She
          runs her hands over my chest as it comes into view, entwining
          her fingers in my chest-hair, brushing my nipples. I pull her
          up for a long kiss. Her tongue is urgent in my mouth. I can
          feel my erection growing. Not only is it trapped in my
          clothes, but Amelia is sitting on it. I enjoy her occasional
          wiggle. Can she feel it yet?

            "I love you," she says.

            I smile. I will probably never stop. She loves me!!! I roll
          us over. She is underneath now. I rain kisses down upon her
          face saying "I love you I love you I love you." I am giddy
          with love. She captures my face, and we enter into another
          hot kiss. Instinctively, I place a hand on her breast. Her
          groan is one of encouragement. It is so soft. I delight in
          its softness even through t-shirt and bra. It is Amelia who
          gets impatient and pulls her t-shirt off. She is wearing a
          white bra. Not her best, she wasn't expecting this to happen.
          Neither was I.

            I am fascinated by her cleavage. She is so beautiful. I
          kiss down to the edge of her bra, she holds my head against
          her. I love her fragrance, her smell. She is all woman. As I
          sit up so she can raise herself to enable me to get to her
          bra clasp, she unbuckles my belt and starts to unzip my fly.
          I struggle with her clasp, the battle is not made any easier
          by her hand caressing me through my boxer shorts! Eventually
          I win; I push the straps off her shoulders, and I lower the
          lace prison from her beautiful breasts. Her nipples are red
          and half erect. I lower my mouth to them. I thrill to hear
          Amelia's moan of pleasure. Her hands have freed me now, they
          are cool on my heated flesh.

            Suddenly, I'm aware that Amelia has frozen again. Her face
          looks white and strained. "What's the matter?"

            "Just get off," she whispers.

            I do, sitting beside her on the settee. After making
          ourselves decent I hold her again and say that it's all going
          to be alright.

            "I'm so sorry," she says, breaking into tears, "It was
          nothing like the rape but suddenly it felt the same. It was
          as if it was happening all over again. I'm sorry. I don't
          mean to be a tease."

            "Hush, hush, don't worry. It doesn't matter when we stop,
          all that matters is that you are happy with what's going on,"
          I say. I mean it too. Sure, it can be hard to stop sometimes,
          but I never want to hurt Amelia. I never want to take
          something she isn't prepared to give. I never will. I love
          her too much for that.

            We never did have sex that night, but we had certainly made
          love.