The Look

A Story by zeraphim21

A year-old story about the sexual experience with love. If you're looking for porn, look elsewhere. I would appreciate comments, as it is my attempt to communicate the storm of feelings.

If you've ever been there, then you know that of which I speak. The look, that misty, hazy, sleepy, completely content look. Perfect satisfaction, complete emotional surrender, when a heart is fully open to your touch, as if your fingertips could reach in brush over the strings as easily as they brush back the damp hair from the forehead. The feeling beneath my wandering fingertips of relaxed muscles, from the moist, warm, quivering skin of her most intimate areas, to the softness of her breast, every fiber releasing the tension that only moments before had been at a peak. The look in her eyes as she silently thanks you, not for the actions of the previous moments, but for everything. For simply being you, and loving her, and accepting her love, and sharing a moment of pure ecstatic beauty with her. Hopefully it is obvious the moment to which I'm referring, and though you might blush, or think to look elsewhere, the thought in your mind "How crass"...the thought in my mind is that I don't care. You see, I've been there, I've seen that look. It will never fade from my memory, and I pray often that it doesn't. In a moment you are struck by your inability to be everything she sees, and at the same time you are inspired to succeed or perish. For even the briefest moment there is truly no star that is too high. As I sit beside her, silently smoothing her hair back, fingers tracing the softest lines along her cheek, trailing down her chest before taking her hand, my mind reels with ten thousand thoughts as I bend to brush her lips with mine. The storm of emotions in my heart is only enhanced as my fingers touch a bit of leather at her throat, grasp it tight for a moment and my kiss strengthens until with a laugh or a sigh she draws back for breath.

I trust there are some who read who know exactly what I mean. I also am sure there are many if not most who simply read, or read with a measure of confusion or even judgement. For most, the action I have described would be simply a physical act, satisfying a physical need. I only wish I could show you the emotional depths that can be touched with an action. When you see tears in the eyes of one with whom you have just shared every fiber of your being, then perhaps you will understand. Not tears of sadness, but tears of complete emotional surrender. It is a moment you will do anything to experience, even only once more. A moment that makes all others fade in comparison, like seeing a sunrise, then watching it on video. Simply not the same.

If I could put my words and feelings into the expression of music, I would have long ago been beaten to it. Perhaps you are familiar with the work of Josh Groban, enough to know his song "In Her Eyes." If so, then you may understand. If not, then go, it may help. I'm no hero. I'm no angel. I'm certainly no knight on a white horse. My sins are many, and well-remembered. Some of my greatest failures were against the very look I seek to record. I stand as simply a man, unworthy, at times broken, nothing more. Yet...in this story, though it may remain unfinished, serving only as an outlet for my own memories, I may recapture the feeling of that pedestal in words.

I shiver for a moment as the air from the window unit passes over me. Listening to the rustling sounds from the next room, I smile slightly and call an offer to help. My only answer is a squeak, the slam of the door, and a muffled "No!" I laugh, laying back on the bed to wait, my fingers locked behind my head, my eyes studying patterns on the ceiling. I've always been fascinated by patterns of paint on ceilings. If you lay long enough, no matter how strange the design may seem, or lacking design of any kind, you can find a pattern. The creak of the door startles me to rise, my eyes locked on the corner as the top of her head slowly appears around it. I raise an eyebrow in mock impatience, her response a giggle and the bounce of her curls to match the nervous bounce of her body that always signifies nervousness. With much coaxing, more patience, and many laughs and nervous giggles, she slowly tiptoes around the corner. She stands before me, nervously twisting to stand first on one foot, then the other, her fingers tangled in front of her seeking to hide as much as possible. Wearing only a revealing corset and more revealing thigh high tights, her smile twists as she bites her lip in tense anticipation of my response. I make no remark, no expression as my eyes slowly trail from her toes to the curl that hangs next to her eyes, then back down. I relish the moments of her torment, as she stands waiting, so much depending on my opinion. It is a feeling worth relishing, when someone waits only on your approval. As my eyes rise again to meet hers, she looks away with flaming cheeks, turning in an attempt to disappear back into the safety from which she appeared. I quickly jump to her side, my arms sliding round her in a firm grip, my body pressed to hers as my lips meet her hair. I cannot put into words the beauty I see when I look at her, my "You're lovely, and very sexy," sounding weak and pathetic in light of what I feel. The warmth of her body against mine grows as she allows herself to embrace me, a sigh of relief escaping her mouth before she tilts her face to kiss me. I smile, my lips just out of reach of her height disadvantage. A pouty frown, her hands trying in vain to draw my mouth to hers, "Kiss me, d****t," her growling, playful tone, huffing at my laugh. She tries again to force my mouth to hers, a whimper in her throat as I tighten my grip around her waist, a hand moving to firmly grasp her hair as a means of turning her to the proper angle for my lips to savagely take hers. In that moment of first kiss, the promise of everything to come, I find both a tremendous release, as of a sigh of escaping passion flowing between us, and a promise that this moment will be better than any before, just as the last was the best yet, and it will continue.

We stand for a moment, locked in the embrace, my desire not to break this connection between us, her thoughts betrayed as growing torture at the silence. I chuckle softly at her, turning to sit her on the edge of the bed. For a moment, she gives a token fight, until my sharp command and firm hand on her shoulder overcome it. Her eyes watch mine with mock reproach, as if she was chafing at the obedience, then fading to excited expectation as I ponder her thoughtfully.

The obedience is everything. The knowledge for both of us that she has willingly given herself entirely to me. That the collar on her neck is a gift, a gift that means I can do anything to her, as I please, yet a reminder that she trusts me only to do that which is best. The complete vulnerability is intoxicating, and I relish it in the moment. I have trained her, I have helped to shape everything she is, and she is wholly mine, to mold and shape and command. I need it. Every bit as much as she needs to feel my control, I need to feel her dependent submission. In the moment my mind flickers from all these thoughts and I'm forced to ask, who is truly the master here? For if her eyes showed rather defiant, distrustful refusal, I would be crushed. Broken. As I am. After living in moments such as those, all others seem trite. Even sharing affection without certain prerequisites seems unsatisfying.