She placed her ring finger and her little finger, still sticky with my juices, in my mouth. I was a bit startled by my own taste—it was very different from hers. Mine was darker, earthier, and muskier. It wasn't sweet, and I didn't enjoy it nearly as much as I did hers. Still, I sucked her long, slender fingers clean, taking my time and savouring the feeling of them in my mouth. It was erotic and soothing all at once. "Good girl," I murmured to her. "Good girl."
Then Julie began kissing me—very delicately on my lips at first, but before long, she was kissing me deep in my mouth, cupping my cheek with her gentle hand that I had just helped her lick my own come off of. Kissing someone who has no purpose or end in mind is rather different, I found, from kissing someone who is quaking with passion and already has their mind in your pants. This was the former. We simply kissed for the sake of kissing, and it seemed to go on forever. She kissed me slowly, deeply, lazily. It was the most luxurious and heavenly experience. I couldn't remember the last time I had been kissed for no particular reason except that someone found me lovely.
Why?
Why would she want me? Why would she choose me?
I'm nothing. I'm...
"You are so beautiful," she told me between kisses, as she caught her breath. "Oh, I could just kiss you all day."
To be an object of lust for a horny 20 year-old was difficult enough to comprehend, but now she was kissing me. Just kissing me, breathing me in, cradling my face in her hands as the light of a thousand stars spilled in through her bedroom window. Now she was simply showing me love and affection, treating me like a princess, loving me for the sake of loving me.
This was the single most romantic moment of my entire life. A burning hot tear spilled onto my cheek as her soft words clashed with the voices in my head.
"Sorry," I muttered, sure that my tears would kill the mood.
"It's okay," she whispered, pressing her forehead into mine and nuzzling my nose and cheeks. "It's okay. You can cry. I've got you." She caught the tear with her thumb, and gently brushed it away. "All your tears are safe with me. You're okay." She was concerned, not annoyed.
Despite the slow, silent tears that continued to fall from my eyes, I let my lips brush against hers again, beckoning her back into that warm and tender place of endless, sweet kisses. "Yes, please," she whispered, and I kissed her again, and again, and again...
I woke up in darkness, naked, my body tangled up with Julie's.
Julie, the most beautiful 20-year-old on the planet, my cheerful little acolyte who served God and the Church with such infectious joy, who always had a hug and a kind word for everyone she met.
Julie, whose body had moved with mine as I made love to her, whose taste still lingered on my tongue, whose shrieks of pleasure I had not only witnessed but caused.
My little love began to stir in my arms, and I squeezed her tighter, hoping she would feel perfectly safe as she awoke. I kissed her forehead and she squealed quietly. She was so comfortable in my arms, and I in hers.
My ex-husband wasn't much of a cuddler. I don't know that I ever slept—or woke up in—his embrace.
My daughters weren't terribly affectionate, either. The last time I truly cuddled with any of them was probably when they were preschoolers. I'm the only really cuddly person in my family, a fact that was sometimes difficult for me. I craved closeness and warmth, even as my divorce, the death of my mother, and other hardships caused me to close myself off more and more from the people around me. I needed to be held, but I had forgotten how to ask for it.
But Julie didn't need me to ask. She didn't need me to say a thing. She simply gave love, and gave it with abandon. I had read about this feeling countless times during the trashy beach novel phase I went through about five years back—this feeling of holding your lover in your arms and not needing to say a single word—but I had never experienced it. The sense of union was incredible—we seemed to live and breathe as a single soul and a single body. I had no idea where I began and she ended. I held her, and she held me, for what seemed like a lifetime, and yet, wasn't nearly long enough.
And the two shall become one flesh.
I remembered sitting at the lunch table in seminary one time with a few classmates, one of whom—the undisputed class clown—half-jokingly wondered aloud just what kind of sex St. Mark must have been having that would inspire him to put it that way.
Now I knew.
Really good sex, apparently.
The. End.....
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