It is only behind a locked door that I submit to myself as I am. Only beneath the shimmer of bath bubbles, piled high, do I give myself permission to indulge in my fantasies and to remember what it is to be a woman, sensual and alive.
For, if I admitted to the yearnings of my body, much less my soul, he would turn from me in disgust and call me a whore. He would berate me for the wanderings of my sinful mind, just as he reminds me of the shame I should feel for that which I have known, whether it be the cyclic breath of a shared climax, the taboo of a powder room rendezvous or a private photo shoot featuring my first corset.
If truth be told, it's not shame I experience in the recollection, rather nostalgia. What I wouldn't give to feel the trembling within my belly and the heat rising from my skin, not to mention that undeniable ache between my thighs, on the cusp of that first solid thrust.
Thus, as respectable as I'm directed to be, I find the inklings (or remnants) of myself where I'm free to be the woman I remember myself to be -- the woman I was before we became us -- as I prepare for my bath.
With a firm latching of the door behind me, I turn to choose the silken bubbles that characterize my mood. Tonight, shall it be Japanese Cherry Blossom or Midnight Pomegranate? Ah, Sensual Amber, earthy like the incense I once burned.
And, I begin filling the tub.
After peeling away my dress and thigh-high stockings, I hesitate just for a moment before the mirror as I unhook my bra and free my breasts. I lift my arms over my head, just to give them that little extra lift and roundness. Even I am impressed. Turning my back toward the mirror, I admire the tanned flesh over taut sinews and the yantra tattooed at the lower curve of my spine, near the second chakra, from the days when sex was sacred. As I continue gazing over my shoulder, I lean forward, accentuating the curve of my ass in the mirror's reflection with the arch of my back, and ease my panties over my hips and thighs, only to let them rest over and upon one ankle before kicking them away.
Quieting the rush from the faucet, I step into water nearly too hot to endure; yet, this is the way I like it. Beads of perspiration form on my brow within seconds. Sinking back, I pull the foam toward me, covering my breasts, and dry my hands so I might easily bring the wineglass to my lips. A taste, a deep breath and the whisper of a sigh. "Welcome home, my child," the water beckons as I unfold and ease into the gentle undulations created by the subtle movements of my limbs.
I close my eyes and contemplate who might inspire the evening's fantasy. Shall I allow the insurance agent to seduce and tempt me? Or the well-built neighbor down the street, nearly half my age? Shall I submit to a well-deserved flogging or a tender caress? Perhaps, but please don't tell, I might fall into the sweetness of my dearest girlfriend's pouty pink lips, as much as I love to see her smile.
Of course, Kara is the one I choose to imagine close to me. She always is and forever will be.
Over the course of the past couple of years, I have learned enough about Kara to fall in love with her. I know that stress keeps her up at night; she's told me her stories of heartbreak and betrayal. She enjoys Argentinean malbec over the in-your-face fruit of an Australian shiraz. Without a doubt, she's blind as a bat; yet, she looks quite stylish in her designer glasses. Her hair is auburn with glistening golden highlights, but only when the beauty school student gets it right. I'll admit, she's my everything.
Yes, I'm aware that, just as I am, she's married, too. Nevertheless, I know the details. Every night, the obligatory act. No one is touching her, caressing her, the way I would.
