One. Finally
8-minute read
The touch of his fingers as they rise along my thighs reminds me that I have forgotten the pleasant feeling of a man's touch. My glutes quiver as his fingertips move along the bottom, and I acknowledge him with a couple of sighs of appreciation. His roaming fingers cause me pleasure wherever they can be brought to touch my body. The tingling gains strength and I am anxious for more, but I love the effect of his slow, unhurried pace.
I am not ashamed to be a whore, since, to one degree or another, women are whores in the capacity of their position in life. If the pressure to be otherwise were relieved, women could follow their instincts and not be curtailed by social barriers like opinion, judgment, and jealousy. Freed of those, every woman could, eventually, within the species, become an equal in her eyes.
All women can feel the joy offered to them by their shape; a vagina, a clitoris, along with two breasts, and an anus. But even more powerful and unique are the billions of uteruses that have been filled by life and done the task of carrying and then birthing life.
It would be equal if women would stop their internal struggle with the desires of their flesh and go with them, not fight them. I was away from myself for a period of thinking, but now I know why I have my faith. With my faith, I have explored and breached limits and boundaries of every sort: chemical, mental, physical, sexual, verbal, and visual.
His hands. His hands are the moistening valves for me, the more hands, the more moisture seeps from me. His hands, feeling the bottom of my body, press upward as I bend my knees and press downward onto his offered rigid body part, releasing the gates of pleasure, completion, and life, in intercourse.
His lips and tongue clean the site of my pleasure even as his offering oozes free between my open vaginal lips. An orgasm slides through my cunt as his tongue leads the way.
~~~~~~~~~~
13 years earlier
We are en route to The Strand beach in a Seal Team raft with three one-hundred-fifty horse Evinrude motors screaming us across the bay at 64 miles per hour. We will exit in about five feet of water and assault the trees as soon as we can cover the 40 yards from the surf line. The raft is supposed to clamber across the beach into the trees, where a device will detonate, opening a path into the canopy to hide.
There are reasons for this assault, and as the only woman allowed to attach to this Seal team, I am expected to be the equivalent of another team member. I am the only one who has not been assigned the truth of the mission. All other team members expect to operate with whatever information the team leader or the patrol outline provides and do not question the scarcity of details, where she is about to reject the patrol and stay in camp.
Awake, she only sees white. Immediately, she thought, 'I'm dead.'
When she turned her head, it exploded into a loud banging drum. Pound, pound, pound, her temples would swell and drain, it reminded her of straining to fart or poop. Then, it became silent. She thought her hearing had failed.
A shadow crossed her face; she saw the shade cross her eyelids and realized she was awake, or conscious; she didn't know how to tell the difference. The pain in her head made her pretty sure she was unconscious, not ready to awaken; she slid away to unconsciousness.
Four days later, she was aboard a C130 with a planeload of flag-draped caskets being unloaded at Fairfield. An ambulance ride to the Naval Hospital, into another hospital bed.
Dosed with sleeping pills, two days later, she has casts on three limbs, her neck, and eight remaining fingers. There were two hundred surgical closing stitches and three hundred internal sutures.
Three days later, she sits in a recovery ward, answering questions from four Navy Captains in preparation for a Court Martial.
Fortunately, she is not on trial, and she isn't sure who or what might be. The questions were stupid in her mind, and she quickly reverted to GI answers, giving them answers that didn't reveal any new information to the questioners. The Captains spent a long time with her.
Nearly four weeks later a note came to her that said she was to be in Washington DC in three days to testify.
The DC Navy visitor's quarters were exquisite. There is an open bar and booze, a chef in a kitchen, room service, and unrestricted TV.
The testimony was from all sides staged for re-election campaigning. No one seemed to really care what she said.
Leaving the chambers, she was asked to sign a politician's autograph book. She refused, and he said, "But I have all of the visitors for the past twenty years on this committee."
Then, knowing why, she adamantly refused.
When the Navy Flag car arrived, an Admiral stepped to the curb, full ribbons and bright and shiny gold everywhere; he leaned on his cane and turned to her sitting on the 'Nickel Snatcher' bus bench and said. "Where to, Mam?"
