Delicious devastation in the wake of love

she said
yes, but when that devastation hits it tastes so good. it feels a bit like a rollercoaster through a bowl of jello, but leaves you electrified on the other side, drunk with pleasure as the sense of the world as a whole washes over you once again. done correctly, the experience of loving is a stunning and sometimes crippling pain that comes from intense joy and a fear of losing it, the loss ends both the joy and the fear in one fine final moment of strange ecstasy. the resulting ache lasts a day or two, and the thrill of the world in its bright shiny newness strikes at night, and in my case inspires a lot of laughing and late night rollerskating. done correctly, it should also leave you on marvelously good terms with the other person after it is over.

I press the bruises on my neck delicately. Rolling the memories around in my mind, savoring them. Press my thighs tightly, think of D.

It evokes our first time, in the dark of his red tent, towering forest above us. Nervously we talked. I tossed off my white dress. Sitting cross-legged, naked under moonlight, daring him to loose his clothes as well. Done in seconds. We curl up together underneath blankets, accustoming ourselves to one another’s bodies. The heat and sheer size of him under my hands. My arms unable to go all the way around him.

Moments lost somewhere in my brain, jumping to his head between my thighs. Bracing against the pain. Huge hands, feel me, stroke me, filling me, hurting hands. On the edge I never knew I had. Instinct guiding him, reading the tensing of my body like he’d always known it. Pain on the edge of orgasm, till I’m gasping for him to come up over me. I’m biting him, scratching, and pulling his nipple rings. Urging him with my heels in his flanks to go harder. Only to have him go gentle on me, to sooth my hair down, kiss my eyelids, my cheeks, call me querida, mija. He pulls my arms up over my head and nudges my thighs wider under him. I can see the moonlight glinting off of his beard, his earrings, making the pale blue of his eyes, very clear and somehow colorless. I can still see them, looking down on me with such tenderness as one hand grasps both of my wrists, and the other goes to play down my body.

How does he know how to hurt me just so?
Lovely delicious bruises.
The kind you can press later and remember.