Pink Cheeks

She knew her face was pink, or maybe it was red. She turned it over to find a cool sheet once more. Her right cheek having already burned a hole in the cover she felt it time to renew the relief.

The bed vibrated under her heart as it pushed out an unheeded mayday message. Her fingers swirled patterns, her hair was wisps of distress, her shoulders high in revolt.

Her legs, though, were snapped together. It was the only show of impotent control that she could muster. Her back was arched, a curve from her shoulders to her bottom, which was perched high on his lap. Her bottom was on remand, a repentant prisoner, shy under his gentle hand.

The skirt she was wearing seemed long enough that morning. It was modest enough to cover her

as she curled up to read or walked around the house, though not long enough for company or for being outside but perfectly correct for an intimate day at home. Now as she lay over his knees, it seemed pitifully brief.

Her foot gently bounced on the bed, her calf collecting tension from her mind as it whirled the vision of herself down her prone body.

To be undressed by another is unneeded and to wait for it to happen is intolerable. She tried telling him this but he did not heed her. Very slowly the skirt was lifted away and laid to rest on her back. Her breath grew short from the shame of it, and her fingers tapped her distress as her words went unnoticed.

Underwear is a private thing. Ladies are allowed to disrobe in privacy before they dr

ape themselves artistically along a chaise longue. They do not lie like a statue and wait to be revealed.

And yet she lay like a statue waiting to be revealed.

“I am shy,” she wanted to cry out to him but she knew that this would be old news to her lover. He had known her feelings on the matter since before he had heard her name or seen her face.

Her eyes pushed tightly shut as he rubbed her bottom, two round hills of white, smooth change, waiting for his retribution. She knew, just as he did, how much she would prefer a perfunctory series of slaps.

She would play along and say, “No, no, stop.” And then it would be over, and she could smooth down her clothes and return, unhindered, to her day.

She listened to her own breath shake as she felt his unhurried hands trace the shape of her before he, with the care of a loving sculptor, edged down her knickers to frame her bottom to his liking.

“It is so embarrassing,” they both thought.

********************************

It was the fall that did it, that moment when Adam and Eve first looked down in horror and blushed at what they saw. It was a moment when underwear designers’ little sparkly pre-existence stars twinkled that bit brighter.

Since that point we grew up and covered up. No more innocence for us.

There is a time as little people when it seems perfectly sensible to disrobe at any given m

oment on the scantest of motivation. Do you remember that? On the beach? Throw your clothes off. Almost time for bed? Throw your clothes off. Too hot? Throw them off.

And then we grew up and looked down and gulped.

We dress with dignity, we are being adult, and we will be taken seriously.

Some people are okay with it still though, the scantily clad, the displays of underwear, the displays of curves and secrets. Good for them; be happy, feel joy, but that is not for me.

I can be naked and happy. In the bath, I float among bubbles and slick water and feel utter joy and splendour. In my lovers arms I know not whether I am anything at all. Words won’t form; thoughts won’t come to me. I only feel a depth and breadth of mindless wanting, a delirium of joy.

That is until moments later when I shriek and cover myself, insisting that he not see what moments before I was insistent that he find.

It is the other person doing the disrobing that is so hard.

I choose my underwear with care and yet I blush so when he chooses to see it. I pull my skirt back down, demanding my adulthood back. I cannot bear that I have no control over myself, that he sweeps it from me.

I cannot imagine the horror I feel when he sees my naked bottom, I cannot begin to remember how awful it feels. I don’t want him to see me like this. At such times, I don’t want him to see me at all.

What is odd is that at such times he sees me more completely and with more truth than anyone has ever seen me in my whole life.

Would you like another?