Undulations

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Only in the bath does she indulge in her fantasies.
1.3k words
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It is only behind a locked door that I submit to myself as I am. Only beneath the shimmer of bath bubbles, piled high, do I give myself permission to indulge in my fantasies and to remember what it is to be a woman, sensual and alive.

For, if I admitted to the yearnings of my body, much less my soul, he would turn from me in disgust and call me a whore. He would berate me for the wanderings of my sinful mind, just as he reminds me of the shame I should feel for that which I have known, whether it be the cyclic breath of a shared climax, the taboo of a powder room rendezvous or a private photo shoot featuring my first corset.

If truth be told, it's not shame I experience in the recollection, rather nostalgia. What I wouldn't give to feel the trembling within my belly and the heat rising from my skin, not to mention that undeniable ache between my thighs, on the cusp of that first solid thrust.

Thus, as respectable as I'm directed to be, I find the inklings (or remnants) of myself where I'm free to be the woman I remember myself to be -- the woman I was before we became us -- as I prepare for my bath.

With a firm latching of the door behind me, I turn to choose the silken bubbles that characterize my mood. Tonight, shall it be Japanese Cherry Blossom or Midnight Pomegranate? Ah, Sensual Amber, earthy like the incense I once burned.

And, I begin filling the tub.

After peeling away my dress and thigh-high stockings, I hesitate just for a moment before the mirror as I unhook my bra and free my breasts. I lift my arms over my head, just to give them that little extra lift and roundness. Even I am impressed. Turning my back toward the mirror, I admire the tanned flesh over taut sinews and the yantra tattooed at the lower curve of my spine, near the second chakra, from the days when sex was sacred. As I continue gazing over my shoulder, I lean forward, accentuating the curve of my ass in the mirror's reflection with the arch of my back, and ease my panties over my hips and thighs, only to let them rest over and upon one ankle before kicking them away.

Quieting the rush from the faucet, I step into water nearly too hot to endure; yet, this is the way I like it. Beads of perspiration form on my brow within seconds. Sinking back, I pull the foam toward me, covering my breasts, and dry my hands so I might easily bring the wineglass to my lips. A taste, a deep breath and the whisper of a sigh. "Welcome home, my child," the water beckons as I unfold and ease into the gentle undulations created by the subtle movements of my limbs.

I close my eyes and contemplate who might inspire the evening's fantasy. Shall I allow the insurance agent to seduce and tempt me? Or the well-built neighbor down the street, nearly half my age? Shall I submit to a well-deserved flogging or a tender caress? Perhaps, but please don't tell, I might fall into the sweetness of my dearest girlfriend's pouty pink lips, as much as I love to see her smile.

Of course, Kara is the one I choose to imagine close to me. She always is and forever will be.

Over the course of the past couple of years, I have learned enough about Kara to fall in love with her. I know that stress keeps her up at night; she's told me her stories of heartbreak and betrayal. She enjoys Argentinean malbec over the in-your-face fruit of an Australian shiraz. Without a doubt, she's blind as a bat; yet, she looks quite stylish in her designer glasses. Her hair is auburn with glistening golden highlights, but only when the beauty school student gets it right. I'll admit, she's my everything.

Yes, I'm aware that, just as I am, she's married, too. Nevertheless, I know the details. Every night, the obligatory act. No one is touching her, caressing her, the way I would.

I can't help imagining what it would be for her to accompany me home to allow the weekly Saturday evening wine tasting to linger, sipping from a glass of the Insignia that I've been holding for an unspecified special occasion.

Perhaps she and Jeremy had an argument earlier in the day. You know how it goes, "Our lovemaking is always so one-sided. What about my needs? Why do I always have to end up on my back without a moment's consideration for my climax? I want my panties to be wet with desire. I want to need you, but I don't. You don't give me the opportunity."

Over a healthy pour, she speaks of her frustration and wonders when sex became a chore rather than bliss.

As I notice a single tear streaming down her cheek, I embrace and comfort her.

"I know," I tell her. "I know so well."

As we pull from the embrace, we both notice the longing within one another's eyes. It's the longing that has always been there, for which we've both overcompensated with charming dialogue, manicured nails and community service.

"Let me love you," I beg her as I walk around the kitchen island to where she's pulled up a seat.

The undulations amid the bathwater increase in intensity as I imagine what it would be to love my Kara as she deserves to be loved.

I want to lay her down and touch those delicate petals, savoring her musky-sweet nectar upon my tongue.

Indeed, my muscles tighten slightly as I take in my own first finger.

"Let me save you from what it's become," I plead, "Or at least give you reprieve from the ennui of life at home."

Two fingers, and she gasps.

With her skirt hiked high upon her hips, I fill her with my fingers while drawing upon her clit with my mouth, engaging both my lips and tongue.

"Dammit, Kara, I love you."

Three fingers -- deep, ferocious and full of love.

How desperately I long for her to articulate her passion, but she simply moans and grinds ever more deeply upon my hand.

The bath overflows with the crest of my own undulations, slopping soapy water upon the tiles. I have no idea how it could have happened; but, at that moment, the wine bottle sitting near my glass on the toilet seat topples over, splattering cabernet against the wall and upon the fixtures, soaking the roll of bath tissue a scarlet red.

I can only assume that the intensity of my need for her and the energy gestated on the cusp on my own orgasm are to blame.

"Feel me, Kara," I speak slowly in what amounts to a shakti-like groan. "I need you to feel me."

As I thrust a fourth finger in deep, we both come, the Kara of my fantasies and I amid the undulations.

"You are my goddess. Squeeze my hand. Come. Yes, come, my love," I whisper.

As I catch my breath, arched back upon the porcelain, I take in the wine stains and puddles of bathwater.

Once the throbbing has subsided and the swelling within my own petals has diminished, I find the fortitude to get upon my hands and knees, scrubbing the tile and fixtures with my bare ass high in the air, so as to leave no trace of my passion.

Yet, she will always be with me through my longing, my love and my desire. I will treasure the fantasy of her sweet surrender within each solitary undulation.

For, she is and forever will be, my Kara. My everything.

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AnonymousAnonymousabout 11 years ago

Finally, a beautiful story that really captures the feeling of being a true lesbian. Thank you so much.

writedoctorwritedoctoralmost 15 years ago
Well Done!

Such intimacy, her adoration for Kara is spectacular!

Arousing and well written.

Will look for future writings from you

AnonymousAnonymousalmost 15 years ago
Wow! Did I write that?

Awesome! That's all there is to say.

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