HEAL YOU | JENLISA

THIRTY-SEVEN

JENNIE

* * *

LISA’S BODY IS INK AND LEAN MUSCLES AND FEMININE lines. She’s beautiful.

Her arousal juts out proudly, and it pleases me at an elemental level. That’s a response to me. I’m the one she desires. The other part of her, the part that causes her so much self-consciousness, looks more or less the same as other ones I’ve seen in real life and in pictures. Perhaps it has a more uneven appearance. But I accept it, just as I accept her. Just as I accepted my imperfect violin.

I didn’t expect this. I wasn’t trying to make her do this, though I should have realized this was the natural consequence of what I was asking.

Her trust humbles me and honors me. It makes me love her more.

“Can I touch you?” I ask, reaching toward her but stopping before I get too close.

“Always,” she replies.

When she takes my hand in her, I expect her to wrap my fingers around her sex. But instead, she guides me to a small raised line on her inner pelvic area, one of the places on her body that isn’t covered with ink.

“That’s the only visible scar left from the surgery,” she says.

I run my fingertips over the two-inch mark. It’s difficult to believe something so small had such a large impact. Because of this cut, because of that surgery, she’s here with me now.

Bending down, I press my lips to her scar. I want her to know that I’m not disgusted, that I’m grateful for this scar, that I love it, that I love all of her. I brush my cheek against the firm length of her sex so she can witness my affection, then my other cheek. She’s soft as velvet but burning hot. I press a chaste kiss to the head.

“Jennie, you don’t have to do that,” she says in a gravelly voice. “I know you don’t like—”

“This isn’t a blow job. I’m just kissing you,” I say, but then my lips part and I run my tongue over her. Once I’ve gone that far, it’s the most natural thing in the world to take her into my mouth.

She flinches like I’ve electrocuted her. Her chest billows. Her stomach muscles ripple and tense, making the waves inked into her skin roll like real waves in the sea. But when she touches my face, her fingers are unbearably gentle.

As I suck on her, teasing the tip with my tongue before taking her deeper, her gaze doesn’t waver from me. I’m pleasuring her, but we’re doing this together. Neither of us is alone. I’m not just an accessory for her masturbation.

And unlike the other times I’ve done this, I find myself enjoying it. Her hoarse sounds excite me. The barely contained violence in her body excites me. Her every response excites me.

She didn’t push my head down and take from me, knowing I couldn’t refuse. She let me choose. And because of that, I could choose to give. That completely changes things.

I don’t count the seconds as I caress her with my mouth. I don’t hope for her to finish quickly so that I can do something else.

Instead, I feast my senses on her, getting drunk on the feel of her, her taste, her clean scent, the sight of her, the sound of her gusting breaths. Something awakens in me. I get wetter between my legs, and a sense of emptiness expands until I ache with it. When she pulls free of my mouth and takes my lips in a hard kiss, pushing my back to the bed as she covers my body with her, I’m almost mindless with wanting.

She strokes my sex with her fingertips. Exactly the way I need. Exactly. Because I showed her how. And I cry out as I arch into her touch. I’m right on the edge, but there’s something I need, something she taught me to crave. I pull her closer, I try to force words past my lips, that word.

But she understands. She positions herself between my legs, and we both watch as the head of her sex penetrates me, pushing in slowly while her fingers continue to touch me. The feel of my body stretching to accept her, this extraordinary fullness, leaves me breathless. I want to savor this moment, to memorize every minute detail. When she retreats and thrusts back into me, finding the perfect rhythm, stroking me in all the right places in all the right ways, I clench on her helplessly. I’m captivated by the intensity on her face and the fluid flex and play of her body as she takes me, as she fucks me.

The darkness took this from me. My fear took this from me.

The pleasure heightens, and every part of me winds tight. I kiss her frantically, needing that extra connection to her as I climb and climb, as I hang at the precipice for a moment out of time. When the convulsions rip through me, I kiss her still, crying out with every breath I take.

The look she gives me as I shudder beneath her is dark with satisfaction and lust, yet full of tenderness, full of love, and I know that I’m completely safe with her, here in the light of day.

Her motions hasten, her expression borders on pain, and with a sound of surrender, she drives deep, joining us tight as our hearts pound in tandem. I hold her, and I kiss her softly, and I smile, whispering “I love you” in her ear.

* * *

WE SPEND HOURS L A ZING IN HER BED, SHARING PILLOW TALK and smiling at each other as sunshine blankets our naked skin. She tells me the stories behind her water tattoos as I trace them with my fingertips. I tell her about my favorite pieces of classical music inspired by the sea, Wagner’s overture to The Flying Dutchman and Debussy’s La Mer, how they encapsulate moments of blissful calm and explosive violence. As usual, talking about music brings me back to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, and I have to mention the incomparable intensity of his Summer and Winter pieces, how they evoke the most magnificent and beautiful storms. She laughs when I describe storms that way, but she does it fondly. She says storms are great unless you happen to be stuck in one. She also says my passion for music is one of her favorite things about me and she’s certain I’ll play again when I’m ready. I hope she’s right.

When hunger drives us out of bed and into the city in search of dinner, we hold hands and press close to each other, maximizing the points of contact between our bodies, like we need that extra reassurance after all that’s happened. I’m craving noodles—those are my favorite thing in the world to eat—so she takes me across town to Chinatown, where they have the best noodles anywhere. We both get steaming bowls of spicy Taiwanese beef noodle soup, and when we’re finished, our bellies are full, our sinuses are clear, our tongues are numb, and we’re high on pain endorphins released in response to the chilis.

I’m drowsy, so she takes me to my place. We might watch documentaries, I don’t remember. But there’s a lot of cuddling because I can’t stand to be separated from her, and I think she feels the same. We kiss, but not in a sexual way. We kiss to express our affection. I fall asleep against her chest, lulled by the steadiness of her heartbeat.

It is, by all measures that matter, a perfectly flawless evening.

So I experience a sense of inevitableness when I wake up the next morning to a phone call from my mom. Before answering, I know it’s bad news.

She confirms it when she says, “Your father just passed away.”