“My cock is hard because of how beautiful you are, baby. Every inch of you is beauty to me. Every inch of you is gorgeous. I love your body, Fatal. You are what brings me pleasure. You’re everything that makes me so fucking hard. I want you to know how much I need your body. I want you to love that knowledge.”
And I can feel it all chipping away slowly, like it was never there to begin with.
It’s not gone, not by half. But he worries at it like a dog at a bone. Never letting me feel like I am less than, like I am not beautiful and worthy and anything short of a goddess.
And though his words do not negate the years of inner torment that I have faced at my own hands, they make me feel… for moments, in those moments, that I am those things that he says: beautiful, gorgeous, desirable.
There is something beautiful about a man that has nothing to do with the beauty of a woman; it is an alien strangeness, wholly separate from the beauty of a woman. I admire his body. He is a self-proclaimed narcissist, but at times he is utterly self-conscious. He’s had a long day at work, and he is self-conscious about his attire, but I don’t care. He wears comfy flannel pants; his boxers peek out at the top, and just above that, his hips. He is lean and long of limb, and I find him beautiful and arousing.
He has near perfect teeth, and when he grins or smirks–for that is all he does, they are lovely to look at. I am enamored of his eyes, peeking out from beneath well-shaped brows that he likes to raise at me when I’ve said something intriguing or when I’m being a brat. His lips are hard but sensuous, inviting. His hair grows like a weed, and if he cut it today, it would be long tomorrow; it hangs, lazily, like soft, melted gold or bronze. I love his beard, which grows back by the end of the day; it makes him look a little rougher and it thrills me. Continue reading →