Friday, June 30, 2017

Chapter 50: Baubo

From a distance, it looked like they were just talking. No one could see -- from that distance -- that the lower buttons on her blouse were undone and his hand was inside, feeling the warmth of her belly where her fire lay.

According to legend, a woman's fire is in her belly, closer to her thighs then her mouth. When she speaks with her face's mouth, the fire has too much time to cool. When she speaks with her other mouth, the heat remains and speaks much more truly. The little belly goddess Baubo's mouth is between her legs; she represents sexuality, particularly pure sexual humor.

When he touched her, his own body's warmth filled his palm, increasing the heat she already felt. She found herself thinking about that heat within her and how he rekindled it just by being near her. She wondered if he know about Baubo.

Then it didn't matter. His hand inched downwards, touching her intimately, and thoughts of the belly goddess were pushed aside and replaced by a thankfulness that she'd worn the pale pink bra today. He'd told her once that he imagined her in one of his white button-down shirts with the pale pink bra underneath. Today was the closest she could come to meeting that fantasy. When she dressed that morning, she'd laughed at herself for even bothering -- for she was sure that he'd never see it.. A white shirt was impossible, the pink would have been too noticeable. She'd opted for a pale blue shirt and left the two top buttons undone, just for him.

But he took her for a drive, an innocent ride in the park, where they could hold hands and talk without much fear. The tension, though, was undeniable. It sat between them, she noticed, laughing at their frustration.

"Can we park somewhere?" She finally asked, wanting just to be able to talk without his having to focus on the road. She had no other intentions, having promised herself to respect his boundaries -- and help him keep them.

But then his hand crept to her belly, undid the button, and slipped in. And they talked, though she has no memory of about what. What she remembered most, when she laid in bed that night, was the look in his eyes, the absorbed fascination as he studied her hair, her face. She'd never seen that before in a man's eyes, not that she could recall, anyway.

She knew what was coming and, frankly, did nothing to stop him. How could she? She wanted it as much as he did. The kiss, their first kiss, nearly sent her over the edge then and there. The throaty little sounds that she tends to make were automatic and immediate. Usually they're delayed, waiting for the pitch of excitement to kick in, waiting until her body finally begins to respond. He murmured something about "so that's how you sound," but she was too immersed to fully hear him.

They were on an isolated road in the park in the middle of the morning in the dead of winter. If people passed by, she no longer knew. If you asked her about her sunglasses, she'd only be able to tell you how he took them off of her and tossed them into the backseat. If you wanted to know when he unbuckled her seatbelt, she'd look at you blankly, just knowing that it happened at some point. She can, however, detail the feel of his unshaven face and tell you about nipping at his earlobes. Her mind's eye can still see him unbuttoning the rest of her blouse's buttons and, because she actually considered the wisdom of this act, she can tell you how she asked if he felt guilty and then gently pushed him away when he said he did.

"I don't want you if you feel guilty," she said softly, aching because she knew they'd have to stop. It was true, too, as much as it would mean losing him.

He kissed her again, wrapping his fingers in her hair and tugging just so. It was a slightly possessive kiss, it seemed... as if he were claiming her.

Regretfully, she disentangled herself. "You have to make up your mind, darling." Who knew being reasonable and logical could be so awful? She hated herself right then, hated the idea of doing the right thing and not simply seeking instant gratification. Everyone else, it seemed, took and worried later. Not her. Never her.

"Okay," he finally said after a moment's hesitation. And his lips were on hers, this time indeed claiming her. She would be his at that moment, his kiss demanded it. She intended to ask him how he could make his mind up that quickly; she intended to hold onto a semblance of reason even as she allowed herself to drown in his arms. She had to keep some semblance, didn't she? That's what women did. They kept their heads on straight, they spoke from their lips and used their brains. While men could be irresponsible, women like her would be responsible and make sure that no one made a move that could be regretted. She would hold on to reason and let him enjoy. She would. That was her role, after all.

But then his fingers slipped to the waistband on her pants and she could only moan while the fire within surged, charring the words she meant to speak but didn't really believe or want to give voice to. Responsible intentions vanished, ashes in the wind. Instead she spoke with her body, opening herself to him. Those words took no form, but they were the ones he heard.

The little belly goddess, if she were watching, would have been pleased.