Pearls and lace, 1

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I fantasize about playing in his closet, full of cast off lacy things. Instead he brings the lingerie all the way across the country because I’ve told him that one day I want him to dress me up.

He does dress me up, and the stockings feel so smooth as he rolls them up my legs. His hands on my waist press the cool silky fabric against my skin.

He lifts me onto the bed and I feel feminine in a way that I don’t usually even want to feel feminine. But somehow now “feminine” seems to mean something very new, something powerful in its demureness.

Stay there a moment, he says, and just let me look at you.

But I don’t want him just to look.

I want him to touch.

I want him to taste.

I want him to indulge the part of me that, dressed in his lingerie, feels a need to be taught about the intricacies of sexual pleasure, as if I’d only ever dreamed of sex before, as if I need to be shown each new thing my body can do, as if I need to be opened…

gently…

slowly…

completely.

Photo of Molly by Robert Morgan.

~ by Molly Montrevoir on November 2, 2007.

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