Mijn Hart byErik Suidman
A wasteland of her own making
She would only divulge the bit that she was
certain would cause her utter humiliation for at least then there would be a
sort of penance. The entire thing had all but killed her, had left her broken
and desolate, clinging to her isolation as a sort of sentence though she had
long abandoned religion in hope of finding salvation.
She had been rich in sin right from the
very beginning and had, by her tenth birthday, known self-pleasure enough to
offer tutorial. It had been both comfort and shame but at least in that she was
no different from anyone else who masturbated in a God-fearing land.
Then there were the boys who at first
seemed to be co-conspirators for their parts in it but that was soon proven a
lie. She had never needed them as much as they had come to want her and in that
lay her tragedy. She valued the orgasm more than the device that got her there
and since she was able to find fulfillment long before the boys arrived they
would soon prove themselves no more than fallacy.
He had been the one that she wanted to
matter, the one, in whom she had pinned all hopes for a normality of which she
believed herself capable. She had given him what all the other girls wouldn’t
but none of what was expected and in the beginning it had been perfection. She
had no demand of his time nor had she required monogamy of him and in return he
received all she had to offer.
She had not flinched at sodomy or gagged at
fellatio but she
would not allow him to penetrate her in the usual way. That he could get from any other girl. And they went on in their
way until he wanted more, demanding of her truth, time and commitment.
She had
panicked about how much she had lied to him. Not about other men for there was
no one else at that time but him not really. There had been little flirtations
but for the most part she had made herself so she had been just for him and even
that had all been a lie. It was more intimacy than she wanted to own up to so
she made it about something else. She made it about him.
It had
been easy to make it about him possessing her in the one way she had insisted
was sacred and it had taken no more than her confiding in the one man he believed
capable of what he wasn’t. Her confidant was one his dearest friends but there
had been a sort of rivalry between the two and she was a point of pride for her
man. She knew this from the very beginning and there were times when he took
pleasure from seeing his friend look at her with lust and at he with jealous.
So, it had been easy for her to make it his torment.
A few smiles
and a carefully placed hand was all it took for him to be consumed by it. Then
he was left impotent, unable to find release, made insane to the point of
meticulous action. In this she was a willing party and of course it would
ultimately mean their end but what else could she do.
By
November she was twenty-six and willingly lost, thus waited for him to act. When
the time came he had kissed her in the manner of lustful teenager for nearly an
hour on his sofa without hurry stilling her every attempt to put an aggressive
end to their building desires. Then he was selfless, his face buried between
her thighs. He had planned everything to perfection. He didn’t have to pause or
rush forth with purpose for that matter. Once he had lifted his head to look her in
the eyes they both knew.
He was not
looking for her consent nor would he have proceeded if she had said no but he
knew she wouldn’t have and not because she was swept away, for that she was not
capable of. He knew only that she would rather sacrifice body rather than tell him a single
truth and he no longer cared.
She
braced for pain that never came and then it was nearly nice because for
whatever reason it still mattered to him that she knew he had tenderness and
capacity but it was for naught. She was in familiar ruins.
My love my care,
Simone
