Women in a Box
Copyright © 2009 Lusty Library
She surrounds me with an envelope of softness and warmth in a world of granite and ice. This is where I learn what ‘woman’ is, where I will shape and cement my lifelong responses to the women in my life. From the milky blackness, familiar objects begin to harden and sharpen, while a blanket of dark silence still covers the bedroom. I am small, restless, insignificant, but she cuddles me into calmness, soothes me into sopor. By the heat of her body and in the tender coils of her arms, I grow and grow till I fill the whole bed. The broadsheet is hard to control and my tiny hands wrestle with the inky pages as they crumple and crease with designs of their own. Page 21. A model. Vicky. Her name is Vicky and, knowing that, I will always recall that I love her. Plunging sweater, impossible cleavage, soft, succulent orbs. Hair that falls in seductive curls to her slight-but-defined shoulders. Beautiful face. A goddess. For the first time, in one image together: a girl; a lover; a woman; and a mother. Scissors free her and I steal and secrete her in a box in my room. Later that night, I take her into my bed and shine a jaundiced torch on her. The unimaginably sweet contents of both her sweater and her eyes fill me to bursting with wonder and my naked groin swells with dulcet discomfort. I touch myself till the sweetness flows and the viscous syrup of ...
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She surrounds me with an envelope of softness and warmth in a world of granite and ice. This is where I learn what ‘woman’ is, where I will shape and cement my lifelong responses to the women in my life. From the milky blackness, familiar objects begin to harden and sharpen, while a blanket of dark silence still covers the bedroom. I am small, restless, insignificant, but she cuddles me into calmness, soothes me into sopor. By the heat of her body and in the tender coils of her arms, I grow and grow till I fill the whole bed. The broadsheet is hard to control and my tiny hands wrestle with the inky pages as they crumple and crease with designs of their own. Page 21. A model. Vicky. Her name is Vicky and, knowing that, I will always recall that I love her. Plunging sweater, impossible cleavage, soft, succulent orbs. Hair that falls in seductive curls to her slight-but-defined shoulders. Beautiful face. A goddess. For the first time, in one image together: a girl; a lover; a woman; and a mother. Scissors free her and I steal and secrete her in a box in my room. Later that night, I take her into my bed and shine a jaundiced torch on her. The unimaginably sweet contents of both her sweater and her eyes fill me to bursting with wonder and my naked groin swells with dulcet discomfort. I touch myself till the sweetness flows and the viscous syrup of ...
Get The Full Story At Lusty Library
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