Beneath your Beautiful

Gently wicked, depending upon your point of view I suppose. The prompt this week for Wicked Wednesday was a song, I have borrowed the title.  Click on the badge to find real wickedness. 

Enjoy. Muse. x

 She chose her lovers with care. She was adept at knowing those who would know how to be with her. From their first words she noted the way they engaged her, their self-assurance, their skill at indifference, the way they broke the correspondence for days at a time seemingly forgetting her.

She never allowed them to see her. They never asked. Always there was conversation first. A dance of words, back and forth, to and fro until eventually a picture was shared. Nothing explicit, nothing too revealing, only a suggestion. A flavour of this woman to whom they were talking. It was never long after this that a meet was suggested, their curiosity getting the better of them.

She so enjoyed those very first meets. Often only coffee, sometimes more; a presumptuous room in a well appointed hotel. Those made her laugh. She enjoyed their confidence, their sense of surety.

She always knew, within the first 60 seconds of seeing them in the flesh; the way a man would approach her, his bearing, his manner. She noticed their hands, their eyes, the way they took her in and she could see they were pleased.

She loved them all, in her way. The attention they paid to her, the desire they showed, their eagerness to take what they wanted and never demand anything more than she was able to give. She was open to everything they asked and would communicate quietly with them, learning their hidden desires, the needs they had no way of exploring until she had come into their lives. Her fascination with these men and their beautiful minds fed her own needs; to be wanted, to be held, to nurture their deep masculinity and restore their sense of themselves as strong and desirable.

She watched them closely, and herself. She watched the way eyes met, the tenderness of touch, the way passionate love making turned to long conversations into the night. She always knew when it was time to say goodbye. And she withdrew, as gently as she had arrived, before they over-stepped her boundary. The one boundary she always maintained in the absence of so many others.

He was different. As she watched him dress that morning, still lying amongst the tumble of sheets they had created through a night of exploring and devouring each other, her eyes caressed every part of him, her body yearning to be touched once more, knowing this could not be now that he had washed her scent from his skin.

As he kissed her briefly and walked out of the room to return to his life she sighed and turned into the sheets. He had crashed through her guards in that late night of questions that had caught her vulnerable and open. She knew this one would not be easy to remove. He had shown more attention to her mind than she liked to allow. He had been persistent.

Eventually she heaved herself into the shower, allowing the steaming water to wash him from her body, and as she stared at herself in the mirror, she knew this would be hurtful for both of them. But she knew that what he had discovered, the places he had reached, were not meant to be found and she knew she would not allow him to see her again.