Amélie

part 1 : sinning

It was my lover Ameloa in those days. She would ritualistically visit my place to teach me french, the daughter of a deceased war soldier, appointed by Father.

Ameloa would walk past my raging father and his judgemental eyes checking her thoroughly from over his spectacles. She has always known that he wasn't reading that damned newspaper. The teacup a little too distanced from his charcoal blackened lips that had kissed the pink of more than just my mothers. He would undress her shamelessly with his piercing eyes as Ameloa would stand still trying to get past him and his meaningless stupid interrogations. He wasn't really interested in Ameloa's mother's degrading health, or in her education. His eyes were better latched on the slightly slipping corset of hers that pumped up a bit of the plump breast that was constrained behind those bows and ties. Father's cup would rattle on most days as his imagination would get the best of him before i would dare to call out feebly for Ameloa.

"Ameloa.."

Even though it's been years, i still remember the way she would slightly trip over herself before looking my way and looking slightly lost, still in some trance before she regained her balance. Ameloa would swiftly walk past Father's wooden chair, squeeze herself in between the chair and the table to get to the stairs where i stood waiting for her. Father's hand which had somehow risen, would reclaim it's position on the handrest once she had stepped on the stairs. I had never understood the action.

I still remember the first time Ameloa had sinned, when the ink had splattered on my gown staining the undercloth too and the maid was out in the market. She had helped remove the clothing while slightly brushing over my skin with the fingerpads, evoking a fiery sensation in their wake. I had kept telling myself, those were friendly touches, but not when i felt more, the stomach churning need to just turn back and surrender myself.

What was i surrenderring to?

The answer, i hadn't known that day.

The touch had stirred my sensitivity and sent me on hyper alert mode. I could hear her sharp intake of breath and the path of her rough fingerpads. It was the first time i had sinned, i had let out a sound so foreign to my own self, i had begged, i was desperate, frustrated, agitated and so much more when all that had occurred was an accidental brush of her nimble fingers over my sensitive breast uprisings which stuck out from the underlinen. The slightest touch had brought tears to my eyes and pushed my lips apart. I remember searching Ameloa's face for something before feeling the fingers fall flat over my nipple immediately followed by a sharp pull. I recall the feeling of having sinned, i recall the feeling of being touched, the feeling of having 'felt'. I had thrown my head back and pushed my breast to hers, the painful friction of her tough corset with my sensitive nerves, igniting a spark of unknown desires within me. I was only seventeen.