My first surrender

So here, trembling in my own creation is my first offering laid bare. For many days (weeks?) now, I've folded and unfolded drafts of several stories like lovers' letters, passions spun into fantasy, memories that are braided into fiction.

But then I realised that beginnings demand a certain honesty and vulnerability don't they? So I offer this, my first surrender to that most exquisite language of the body, written as a poem (although I don't quite know that is what I intended at the time) the morning after, when my pen bled these words still sticky with confession.

I'm 26 now, but the girl who wrote this still exists between the lines, her feelings and emotions remain trapped in the vowels, her fingernails still buried in the margins.

I have polished little since then, and changed nothing that really matters. Understand that the poem is raw, its rhythm stumbles where her hips once did, the metaphors fracture like her maidenhead.

My vision gently blurs as my eyes glisten while writing this prelude; I feel as vulnerable now as I did then; publication of this most intimate memory feels like spreading open as in that first dizzying surrender with the same delicious terror of being discovered, seen.

I shall not promise these words will stir anything within you, but darlings when I press 'publish' and imagine the hundreds of eyes that may one day trace these most intimate and personal of lines, my thighs will surely press together just thinking of it.

To offer up this rediscovered account, this vulnerable expression from my younger self, even if it only makes me re-live a heartbeat of that trembling surrender when I took my first step into a wider world and burst forth from the chrysalis of innocence, that would be enough.

I slept naked, and have done since peach fuzz turned to fern,you do too now,because I asked.

The silent shield came in blister packs, my rebellion too,tiny white promises swallowed without ceremony.

I was young, yes, but not foolish.You twice my age and with experience that lived in silence,Some stones are better left unturned.

Your patience made me ache, and conjure dreams of secret kisses,To taste my innocence on your lips, your sacred root on mine.

The lies had dripped easy from my tongue,

"At a friend's place", as if that mattered,as if anything mattered but the heat of your embrace.

Your arm drapes over me, palm settled over the swell of my breast like it belonged there.It did belong there.

Three nights spent in your sheets or was it four now?My eagerness building, your patience a lesson in torture.

It presses into the curve of my back, steel against silk, insistent by its presence.Heat and weight and quiet,powerful but dormant.

The heat between my thighs,a silent confession.Excuses and reasonings ebb away like waves retreating from the shore.

Was it the trembling whisper of my voice that finally said 'I'm ready',or simply the molten, desperate hum of my womb that drew you near?

You push me on my stomach,your weight pinning me as you nudge teasingly at my chalice.Commanding but not taking.

My hips rock, playing ancient rhythms my mind has yet to learn, hungrily arching into you before I can think to be ashamed.

I feel my slickness as I press against you,

probing where you'd fit,teasing with each rock backwards...almost...almost.

My mind content with friction but my body wanted more,sparks alone were not enough when wildfire was craved.

I hold my breath and don't pull back, pressing until resistance gives,a painful stretch until my body learns to soften around you.

Still shallow inside, I ease back farther,but your answer is a thrust. Sudden. Deep. Claiming.Making me your woman.

The air turns thick with desire, heavy with want,your body alive above me, fiercer now,and I twist the sheets in my hands.

Where is the man who held me gently,who traced my spine so delicate?Now there's only the animal heat of you, and the sounds I make, not pretty, not practiced,just raw noise torn from my throat.

Why don't you stop, is it because my hips won't stop answering?Pushing back to meet you,wordless, relentless.

I say things then, filthy things, and they only make you drive deeper.Am I still a virgin, is there yet a threshold still to reach?

My body's never known such violence, how can this be so natural?But pain is a language, and my body learns fast.

The ache reforms to hunger. the stretch of you feels exquisite. And when I beg, (oh god, I'm begging), it's not for mercy, but for more.

Something climbs inside me, foreign, unnamed, like being tickled but deeper, darker, helpless.

I shriek "what's happening!",it's half-formed and pathetic,your answer is hips driving harder, not shallow, not quick, but hard and deep.

It only tightens the spiral, coiling higher,no end in sight, do I want it to stop?I don't know. I fear what's at the end of it.

My body bucks wild, ugly noises flow from my mouth,my convulsions wreck your rhythm,you keep going, but my hips won't be still, won't stop clenching, won't stop taking.

And when my body calms but still shaking, still full of you, I'm still gasping like I might die if you pull out.

Your hand grips my hair tightly, I should hate it,but I don't.Your other lands hard on me,am I doing something wrong?

No.I'm starting to think it's because I'm doing something right,I am something right.I am yours to discipline, to own, control.

Your pace quickens now and I experiment by clenching round you, your answer is a moan,Did I contribute, did I play my part?

I can tell you're getting closer to some defining moment.Your grip does not relent,My head pulled back and you bite where neck meets shoulder.

Thrusts come harder, deeper, until one final deep push and hold,Your warmth spills inside me.

Later, curled against your chest, I look down at the architect of our pleasure,softening now but still glistening with our shared ecstasy.

I wrestle a consuming urge to take it in my mouth,but that would have to wait until another time.

I softly weep for the lie in my veins,wishing your claim could sink deeper, blossom beneath my ribs,be something permanent. Ours.