8.2.22 / 8.3.22

CW // nsfw / sex / religion

The Sin Of Lust

My fingers trace patterns in the cum on your stomach, curious and tentative. I did not know it was mine until you said, did not realize your intentions to show it to me when you pushed my hand there. It is warm. It is thick. It is momentarily embarrassing.

Perhaps that is not an accurate word to describe the feeling. Perhaps I should once again mention my upbringing, tell you of the times where sex was shamed. Remind you with some grateful boasting that I did not internalize the feelings as deeply as some of my friends – our intimacy has never brought discomfort or shame. I have never regretted a single time with you, not even for a moment.

Many ex-vangelical stories proclaim the discomfort and self-hatred after first times, or periods of sobbing out of guilt after coming down from their climax. I never endured this with you. Each orgasm numbed my legs and ravaged my body without so much as an ounce of disgrace as its companion.

But here, I feel something. I feel judgment. It is not from you – logically, emotionally, I know this. For a moment, I feel judgment from a god I do not believe exists.

This act of making love, of connection, of joy – it gained purchase in my body, brought me to climax after climax as I rode you. And this spilled out against your stomach, something that made you chuckle and smirk when you compelled me to recognize what it was. I have never felt shame before. Why, suddenly, did I feel it for a fleeting moment while we lay together in the hot summer evening, curled up on the bed that smelled of both of us?

As we have slept together, I have been granted the space to grow in expressing wants and desires. I have been able to ask you to praise me, asked for the strap, requested you turn me around and take me from behind. At first, these requests felt foolish – who was I to know what I wanted? Who was I to ask for pleasure when this – when sex – was never meant for me?

They taught us uterus owners that making love would be painful, told us we would bleed, we would be in pain. These church elders, these religious teachers – they said we were to endure for the sake of our husbands, for the sake of creating new life. Penetration would hurt. You would not orgasm every time – if ever. You are expected to suffer in grateful silence whenever you were desired after. I wondered why anyone ever engaged in sex. Many said it felt good, many said they lied about it feeling good to save their husband’s feelings. Many said they hated it, but it made their spouse happy. Whatever the truth of the matter seemed to be, it became clear that sex was not designed for someone with a body like mine. Sex was for cis, straight men. It was for their pleasure, and their pleasure only.

When you kiss me after your tongue pressed deep inside to caress my inner walls, I can taste my own flavor on your lips. You have done it so often, and yet, I still find a hint of surprise each time the acidic palate coats my mouth. Evidence of my climax, evidence of my pleasure, trails down your chin.

They were wrong, it seems. Everyone who raised me – they were wrong.

An odd temptation arises to taste my fingers after trailing them across your skin, coating them in cum. There is shame there, too. Shame for enjoying myself so much with you. Shame for almost letting all sense of sanity loose for the sake of giving in to primal urges, primal desires. Being fucked by you, or riding the strap while you whisper praises – it seems my mind has deemed these safe enough, not worthy of any sort of condemnation. But clear, thick testimony of it? When this wasn’t meant for me? When it was supposed to hurt, when it was supposed to be only for the satisfaction of the dominant? What madness is this that I should be granted such unbearable highs beneath your touch?

I rest my palm against your abdomen, let my eyes close for a moment. There was a smile in your voice when you said, I don’t think you realize that’s your cum on my stomach. The edge of a laugh accompanied the statement. You were not displeased by this, did not find it shameful, did not see me in a twisted, negative light. You found it amusing – enjoyable, even. You did not buy into the lies that said I should not orgasm, did not abide by the rules stating I should endure discomfort. You cherished my pleasure, you sought it out. You derived great pride from making my eyes roll and my legs lose all feeling.

So yes, I came on your stomach. I rode you, felt you touch deep parts of me, felt you press against my walls and edge me closer to climax. I cried out your name, I gripped your breasts, teased your nipples as you bucked your hips against mine. I hungered for you, unabashedly. Sometimes I feel guilty for that, too. But you have never expressed judgment over my want, over my thirst to make love with you. We fucked, over and again, until I clenched tight around the strap and moaned through the orgasm one last time.

Lust is a sin, you see. Enjoying our sex is a sin. My hand is painted with cum, and I know some preacher somewhere would tell me to be ashamed of how I conducted myself in such a demonic manner, losing all sense of self to the craving for you. I let the shame go, let it flee from me as a thought from the past I no longer condone. A year ago, I would be mortified to hear myself ask for praise, to see myself straddle you and whisper my desire for the strap in your ear. Lust, unabashed, was once worth shame. No longer.

My fingers trace patterns in the cum on your stomach. I draw a little heart.