I know now, what I did not know then. I know now that your scars run too deep to be kissed away, that my love and devotion would be nothing in the face of your pain. I know now that no amount of my attention, my need, my willingness to give up my everything to you, would do anything to keep you with me, to keep you as my partner and my lover.
Perhaps it is better that I did not know these things. We flirted, exchanged numbers, texted, sexted, talked, brought each other off over the phone, until the day came that I invited you over for tea. I paced the kitchen floor whilst waiting for your arrival that morning, the cool linoleum a stark contrast to the heat radiating from my skin. Your knock came, at last. It was a soft, hesitant, almost shy knock against the heavy oaken wood of the front door, as if you hoped that perhaps no answer would come.
Perhaps no answer should have come, but I answered the door nonetheless, wearing only a sheer black French lace negligee and black lace and mesh tanga cut panties, already damp with the wanton anticipation of my sex. The click of the brass lock falling into place behind you had barely registered before you were kissing me, tasting me, my lips parting eagerly to allow you to full access, to give you what we both wanted. The tea, forgotten, went cold on the sea green tile of the countertop in the kitchen as you pinned me against the closed door. My blood, though, ran hot as you flipped open your EDC knife, running it up each pale thigh in turn, slicing through the thin fabric of my panties, the wasted lace and mesh falling unnoticed to the hardwood floor of the foyer.
Your fingers, roughened by years on the trigger in less than hospitable climes, found my damp needfulness and forced their way up into me, your mouth falling to my neck, kissing and biting me, marking me as yours even as I surrendered myself to you. My fingers, smoothed by years of application of rosewater hand cream, fumbled with your belt, desperate to grasp what I could feel pressing against my lower abdomen. Impatient, I tugged down your trousers abruptly, kicking them aside, exposing your beautiful cock, just as you extracted your fingers from my clenching cunt, lifted me from the floor and whispered those wanted words, asking for the location of the bedroom.
I obliged, nodding towards the staircase, wrapping my legs around your waist, feeling your bare cock pressing against my naked craving cunt, burying my face in your left shoulder as you began to climb the creaking, complaining stairs. You carried me down the corridor to the bedroom, gently laying me down upon my bed, pulling me forward so that my ass was just at the edge of the bed. Obediently, wantingly, I drew my legs up and let them fall wide apart, revealing to your gaze the swollen dark pink dripping of my pussy.
My breath came irregularly now, as you appraised me, appraised my open want, and then... then you kneeled, and all thoughts escaped me as your tongue and fingers explored, probed, my every secret place. Your tongue, so insistent and yet so gentle, finding my every hole, forcing it open, my body relaxing and responding in turn. You sunk your fingers first into my desperate pussy, and then one of those pussy wet fingers found my most secret of secret places, sinking slowly into my asshole, sending electric shocks of pleasure up my spine, until I cried out in need and unspeakable want, begging you to fuck me, begging you to take what was yours to take.
And fuck me you did. Standing, smiling down at me, you positioned your cock at my blooming entrance, and with one quick thrust, you were buried deep inside of me. Raining kisses down upon my breasts, nibbling, sucking, biting my nipples until my body surrendered all control and let down the milk your mouth demanded. My back arched and my hips lifted of their own accord as you slammed yourself into me, as your cock abused my delighted cervix over and over again.
Your fingers teasing and torturing my clit, pinching and pulling and stroking until she peeked out from beneath her hood, I became yours and yours alone at the moment that my own orgasm approached and then suddenly crashed into me, even as you continued to thrust into me, even as you yourself lost all composure and control and bathed my tight walls with your seed.
You fell atop me then, muttering words of love and devotion, muttering words of lust and want. I kept my legs wrapped around you, never wanting to let you go, whimpering with loss when you finally pulled out, crawling up onto the bed, pulling me alongside you, burying your face in the nape of my neck, kissing and nuzzling me, your left arm draped over my waist. You fell asleep like this, curled against me, your cock comfortably nestled against my curves.
As for myself, I failed to fall asleep, savouring the feeling of you finally enveloping me. I stupidly thought, at this moment, that you would want more, that you would want what I wanted. Rolling over to face you, I kissed each and every one of your visible scars, scars left by the weapons of men. Each beautifully kissable scar fell beneath my lips, each kiss sealing my fate. I watched you in your sleep, thinking then that I would have many more chances to do so. I was wrong. So very wrong.
You awoke, stretching slowly, kissing me again, then standing and gathering your clothes about you. I watched you as you dressed, watched what I thought then I would see many times again.
It was not to be, but again, I did not know then what I know now. You kissed me tenderly, carefully, perhaps, in retrospect, even guardedly, and then you turned and bid me goodbye. Your booted footsteps clomped down the staircase, and then there was the click of the lock turning and the thump of the door shutting behind you. I lay in my bed for awhile, your cum seeping out of me, to make sticky my thighs, before rolling over and falling into a deep, contented sleep.
It was several hours before I awoke. It was darkening outside now, the last light of the setting sun suffusing the room in a pale pink, and I reached automatically for my cell, looking for a text from you. There it was. I started to read, and then I started to cry, tears wetting my face as I read.
You had an ex-wife, you wrote, an ex-wife who had screwed you over literally and metaphorically on each and every tour, including the last one, cut short by an unfortunate encounter with an IED.
You had found my most recent story on an erotica site, you wrote, and you knew now that I was a slut, a writer of porn, not the devoted mother and dedicated nurse and good churchgoing United Methodist that I had presented myself as to you. You were washing your hands of me.
My fingers trembled as I typed my response, knowing that you would not answer, knowing that nothing I could say to you would change your scarred heart. My own heart heaved in my chest, and I waited, an interminable wait, for your response. No response came, the mocking emptiness of my cell phone screen torturing me until I could stand it no longer and hurled it across the room, the glass shattering along with my every hope as it hit the far wall.
The black darkness of my bedroom, my former sanctuary, seeped into my veins, the languorous sadness of the lost running through my body, leaving only only emptiness in its wake.
Now, today, it is me who is left under fire from all sides, and it is me who will absorb the scars and pain of knowing now what I did not know then.
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