Building A Mystery in Poetry-ish

It started with a foot, rubbing.
No. It began before, with a confession.
Then fingers rubbing, probing, pushing inside
where so few had ever been, eliciting
embarrassed moans which escaped into
the pillow clutched to her face.
Then, much later, waking to a wetness,
a warmth spreading spontaneously for the
first time in years. Confusion
collapsed her senses. (Quickest way
to prevent rape? Consent!) Let us be
clear: There was no rape. Consent was
not always clear, fight or flight
is not her style, but freeze fits her
just fine. Everything eventually evolves.
Fingers to foot to finding a firm mush-
room shaped head slipping past her lips. Salty,
sweet, smooth. Scary. (We fear what we
do not know.) Wetness, spreading at the thought
of more. Wanting more, hating her body for
being weak, for allowing the borders to shift,
encouraging erasure with feigned indifference.
Then, being bent over, breathless at the intrusion.
Pain as his penis penetrated her pussy,
filling her like fingers never had. Feeling
his weight, hearing his breath, hearing their
bodies, obscene and awful and everything she
needed. Suddenly her trust was broken
and reformed in an inexplicable way.
There is a love she can’t define- not the
kind that wants him to be hers, but one
that gets unreasonably jealous thinking
anyone (but The One) is allowed to experience
his taste, his smell, his strength.
Yet, she hesitates. She fears her willingness
to please may be mistaken as weakness to decide;
her complacency as carelessness. The opposite
is true: if strength pleases, she will try to be
strong. If submission is desired, she will
provide the bonds. Her worry is that he may tire
of teaching, yet she yearns to be taught. In truth,
she desires a lot, but he is forever building a
mystery, and she never wants to mistakenly misread
his beautiful, brilliant, boyish (awesome) mind.

Last updated October 20, 2018