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I had therapy today.
Well, not really. But it felt like therapy to me. It still does. And it might just have done me more good than all the counseling in the world.
I knew when I put it on. I knew when I felt that sleek material slide over my head, and all the way to the floor. I knew when I looked into the mirror, in the brighter-than-the-sun lighting in the change room. I knew when I got that feeling back...that feeling I had when I was with you, that left when you left. I knew when my nipples stood out under it like satin-covered pebbles. I knew it in the slightly surprised, but somehow respectful eyes of the women in the store when I paid for it. I just knew.
Therapy.
I put it back on when I got home. The tightness of the collar around my neck. The smoothness on my skin. The breeze on my cleavage, the swirling around my legs.
I sat at my computer, and I systematically deleted you. Purging you from my hard drive, the way I would soon be purging you from my heart, my mind. Your words, your picture, your presence, all gone.
Later, in bed, still wearing it, I worked on deleting you from my heart. I concentrated on how much you hurt me. I allowed myself, finally, to feel the anger. And the pain. And the betrayal. I felt it all. I hated you. I loved you. And the line blurred, with my tears, until I felt nothing for you.
Then I deleted you from my mind. I thought about you. About everything you said to me. Everything you wanted me to be. And I was that. But for me, not you.
I wear this for me.
I touch this skin, for me.
I caress this body, lying on top of the sheets, for me.
I tighten this collar, the way I know you would like, for me.
I run smooth satin over my skin, teasing my nipples, my mound, because it feels good to me.
Thinking about your eyes, intently watching me, your jaw going slack, as you see my collar. Knowing how turned on you would be, seeing me wear it for you. But it is not for you. Slowly inching the fabric up, exposing more and more of my body, driving you crazy with each inch of skin. But you are not there to see it. Pinching my nipples, hearing my breath catch in my throat, the way you used to be able to make it. Running my hands down, teasing the curly hair, pulling gently, then harder, the pain merging with the pleasure I am creating, without you. My hands moving further down, stroking my wet slit, probing inside, two fingers sliding easily up into my slick channel. My palm grinding against my eager, hard clit, I fuck myself faster, pressing harder, pinching nipples, thrusting, thrusting...
Going over the edge. Imagining your face, watching me. Imagining your jaw dropping, your eyes glazing over, watching me do those things you always asked me to do. I imagine how that would hurt you - knowing I wouldn't do it for you. But I did it all, for me.
I woke up, tangled in the new, sexy, lingerie I bought. The lingerie with the tight symbolic collar, the long flowing satin gown. The gown I bought for me.
"Good-bye," I whispered, as I got out of bed, ready to face a new day.
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Anonymous
