My clit feels hot waves of pleasure every time she hits my special fuck spot in my cunt. Will this be gone too? How far below the cervix would they take? The idea combines with or kicks the orgasm over the edge. “Ah,” I cry, then “Aah,” a notch lower as Rain Woman cometh and the orgasm rises right up, spilling through my thighs in a gush around Linda’s dick and she’s coming now too, drowning in the flood of hot come that soaks the bed.
Tears flow out too with the thought of such intensity gone, already fading as I’m utterly drained and spent. I lie sobbing in abject sorrow. Rain Woman, the jewel of my sexual treasure, gone, never to be invoked again. Farewell, Rain Woman, farewell. And how shall I fare?
Linda cradles me, holds me as I mourn. The towel below us is soaked and it turns out that the bed is, too, with the force of my last wet orgasm. The special ones, I think, the attainable holy grail of my sexual quest. What use is that patience now if Rain Woman won’t be coming, can’t be coming because the knife will take my womb along with the large, lumpy tumors that I can trace along the top and center of my belly?
I discovered my little treasure while masturbating one hot afternoon. Even with me doing the manipulating it could take a while to come. Searching for a rhythm I found one completely different than the usual. It was a deep, groaning pleasure that pulled me down into itself. My hips flattened out and I lifted my legs.
My pussy was at once tight and incredibly loose, sucking itself as I inserted one finger and then another. Fucking just a little, teasing, I redoubled my efforts, pressed a little deeper, and my pleasure revealed a new depth, and suddenly welled up out of my center. It reached the top and a hot flood spilled out, between my asscheeks, soaking the bed.
It was different than slick pussy juice and I thought I had peed from the amount, but it was clear. With a little research, I found an abnormal psych. video from the late ’70s. That scared me so I asked my doctor, who told me it was normal, although rare because it needed that same long build-up that I did.
How special, I’d thought then. It became my trademark, enhancing my reputation and making me in demand. Suddenly I went from an available bottom to a favored pet under the tutelage of masters and experts who sent me, by varied paths, to subspace, my heaven.
And Linda had, in the six months we’d been together, joined the ranks of those experts, mastering the subtleties of invoking
Rain Woman easily, as if she was made for it. And I thanked the powers that be that she was. Linda is my perfect dyke archetype— muscular and tight, with looks that conjure soft angles and clean breezes. She is solid and competent from her work as a carpenter. I love to be in those arms and love what they offer me. What can I offer her? Where’s the prize after this?
The next morning we get up and get ready. Linda picks up the bag, puts it in the car, and drives me to the hospital. We park and she holds my hand as we walk up the drive. The building is new, bright, and shiny in the morning sun like the knife that will cut me, creating the empty space I will have to learn to fill.
“She’s a good doctor and she knows what she’s doing,” says Linda.
Yes, I think. Dr. Dennis is a funny, warm woman and she’s been doing this a long time. But all the doctor’s warmth doesn’t make up for the cold coming out of the open doors. I look at them and beyond to the cold and sterile foyer and I know that I won’t be the same when I come back through them. The idea frightens me more than any edge scene ever did. The security guard begins to look at us funny.
I force my legs to move and Linda takes my arm, concerned. “I can get you a chair.”
“No, thanks.” All the years of learning Rain Woman, using her to get higher, closer, deeper into subspace—no, she’s mine and I’ll go in under my own power. I owe her that much.
Linda stays with me all the way, holding my hand until the nurse, Janet, comes to lead me to a room with eight beds, four on a side. They’re all empty. Janet lifts a gown and a pair of fleece socks with rubber treads on the bottom. “Take everything off and slip these on. Opening to the back, please. I’ll be back in few minutes.”
I sit on the bed, take off my shoes, and lift my jumper over my head. I lay it all on the bed and slip the gown over my shoulders and reach around to tie the ends together. There isn’t really any opening and I am perversely pleased. I’m never modest in play but I’m grateful not to be exposed in the hour of my descent into this unknown. I fold everything carefully before putting it in the bag. The floor is cold and I put on the socks.
Janet comes in and sees that I’m dressed. “Okay. Up on the bed. Make yourself comfortable.” She puts a tag around my right wrist. “Let’s do the left hand for the IV. I’m just going to give you a little something to numb the area before I do it. Just a little stick, now.”
I never notice the IV go in and Janet tapes it down. “I’ll get Linda. Be right back.”
Linda comes in and sits on the edge of the bed. Janet follows and says, “I almost forgot, you need to take off that necklace and all the earrings.”
Linda removes them one by one and puts them in her vest pocket. I feel as if I am being stripped of everything that says who I am or to whom I belong. Linda senses it and leans down to nuzzle me at the base of my neck. The warm tickle turns to sharp pain as she bites. “Just so you don’t forget whose collar you wear when you wake up.”
“Thank you,” I say and she covers my mouth with hers for a long moment.
“Time for you to go now,” Janet says the next time she passes through. “Linda, you can wait in the waiting room if you want. It’ll be four hours or so. I’ll call you on the phone out there when we’re finished.”
Linda looks at me. “I’ll be here when you wake up, Terry. No matter what, it’ll be okay. You’ll get through this.”
I can’t speak because of the lump in my throat so I hug her. When she gets up, Linda cocks her head and winks at me. I am undone and I know that’s why I’ll wake up: to see that cocky smirk pointed at me again.
Dr. Dennis comes in. “Good morning, Terry,” she says, reading through the papers on the clipboard at the bottom of my bed. “You ready?”
I guess she can tell, because she sits down on the edge of the bed. “This is a completely normal operation. There are no complications that we know of. There’s no reason why this vaginal hysterectomy shouldn’t go just like clockwork.”
I breathe deeply, not trusting myself to speak, and nod. I realize I’m a little woozy.
“I don’t feel right.”
Janet laughs. “I gave you a little something. You’re going to go on out in a bit and we’ll do the epidural.”
“A little warning would have been nice,” I say, or think I say.
“Terry, Terry, are you awake?”
I open my eyes. Janet is there. “I’m awake.”
“How do you feel?”
I check. I feel strange, heavy, pain out there beyond the horizon. “Okay,” I say, which surprises me. Then I remember why they are asking.
“Did you do it? How was it?”
“There were complications. You had an abdominal.”
I lie there, trying to understand what that meant. One of the reasons I did this now was that I was at the far end of the window Dr. Dennis gave me before the tumors were too big to come out vaginally.
“What kind of complications?”
“They found another tumor, a big one behind your ovary. It was too big to come out so she had to go in abdominally and take it.”
“And the ovary?”
“She couldn’t save it. But you still have the other one. Otherwise it went fine.”
The idea of Dr. Dennis trying to save my ovary strikes me as funny in a comic book, Rex Morgan sort of way.
“Can I see Linda?”
“Not till we move you to your room. That’ll be in about an hour.”
I try to doze but keep hearing Janet say, “A big one.” I try to gauge the size of a big one to the empty space there now, but my waist might as well not exist bel
ow the thick bandage covering the lower half of my belly. They finally move me to my room and Linda is there, holding my hand and kissing me while I lie in the bed, bereft, drugged, recovering.
Later, the bandage comes off and she holds the mirror to show me the long, neat slash across my bikini line, punctuated by the thirty or so staples that hold it closed. I have to beg her not to tell jokes to make me feel better because it hurts to laugh. So she brings me flowers and little presents instead.
They let me go home after a few days. I am numb as she and the orderly roll me out the same bright and shiny doors into the cold, gray day. I look back thinking that I’ll see what I’ve left behind, but all I see are people saying good-bye to who they’ve been.
Juk, the dog, and Bitsy and Almond, the cats, greet me with jumps and leg rubs and distant examinations. Linda lifts the dog out of harm’s way while I retire to the recliner sofa. Later Linda shoos the animals off the couch and brings me dinner made from recipes in the cookbook she found in the kitchen. We snuggle together and watch period films, my favorite. They don’t make me feel better and neither does the snuggling, because beyond the warm caring of her touch, I feel nothing and I know Rain Woman is no more.
She represented the deepest piece of me that I know, and without her I am unsure of who I am, what path I’m supposed to take now. I begin to be afraid that my remaining ovary has failed to make my body feel pleasure, even though Dr. Dennis said the ovary “never even pouted.”
Linda feeds the cats and my little dog and does the chores, while I try to connect with the tattered edges of where my center had been.
I dream that I am being torn to bits. I wake screaming and Linda holds me in the dark. I count the days until my six-week appointment when Dr. Dennis will tell me if Linda can fuck me again.
One morning I go into the back bedroom to look for a notepad. I notice that my Christmas present last year, a poinsettia trained into a three-foot tree, is dying alone in the corner. Linda has forgotten it.
“I know what you’re going through,” I say to the limp plant. “Dry as a bone and nothing to water your soul,” I say as I give it a drink.
Later that day Linda honks in the driveway and I go out to see her truck filled with lumber.
“What’s this for?”
Linda smiles at me. “A cat,” she says, pausing and looking at Juk perched in his car seat next to her, “and dog tree. You wanna see?”
She takes me into the dining room and unrolls drawings for a tree, seven feet tall, fitted with ramps and perches crowned by a perfect scale model of the porch I wanted on our house. “And when you’re ready, we’ll build the full-size model.” “I couldn’t.”
“You can. It’s all scale, direction, Terry. From little to big, from in to out.”
“Huh?” I look at her.
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I’m afraid.”
Linda hugs me. “What are you afraid of? The surgery is over, you’re healing, and you don’t have a bloody mess every month.”
I stare at her, afraid to say that I’m afraid she won’t want me any more, afraid that I don’t know how to be anybody but the high bottom, Rain Woman, for her.
“I don’t want to lose you.”
She stares at me for a moment, puzzled. The she sweeps me into her arms. “Terry, you’re mine. Have no doubt that you are until you say otherwise. This was an inconvenience.”
“But Rain Woman…,” I say into her shoulder.
She pulls me out so that she can look at me sternly and then smiles. “Terry. You always put out this huge energy, being the hungry bottom who knows the brightest center of herself. What about the rest of your life? Coming wet the way you do is cool, but you’ve been there, done that. There are other bright centers in you, I know it.”
She shakes me lightly.
“I want you to be happy, Terry. Let’s explore the other side.”
“The other side of what?”
“Yourself. It’s time to expand your horizons, see what’s past Rain Woman. Do things that take you out instead of in. I’ll give you all the excuses you need to explore, starting right here. It’s all a matter of scale.”
I look at the plans, imagine the animals perched on their tiny porch, and look at Linda, thinking how nice it would be to fuck on our porch surrounded by our own secret garden.
That night I dream of being torn to bits, but Linda comes in from a door I never noticed before and begins to sing, “With a knick knack paddy whack, give your dog a bone, this old crone drives away from home,” as she puts me back together. When I am finished, she pours water over me. It is warm, almost hot, and I feel my flesh start to twist and bulge in places. The buds open but they don’t hurt and all kinds of points and protuberances jut out from my belly, my hands, my heart, my head. I touch them gingerly and they hum eagerly.
The next morning we begin our project. Linda teaches me about scale and new perspectives. I discover that not all play is about finding the center, blown by cosmic breath and watered by Rain Woman, which reminds me of the poinsettia recovering in the bedroom. I give it drinks and fertilizer, grooming it to remove old leaves and stroking the new ones.
The gnawing in my heart about the hole in my belly slides to the background as the tree takes shape. It is perfect, and the animals possess it with a proprietary nonchalance that makes us laugh, and I realize for the first time that it hardly hurts. Linda kisses me then and I feel a tiny familiar flicker of pleasure.
We dance around the living room and dissolve into our recliner, laughing, so that Linda can rub oil across the wide swath of numb flesh below my navel and into the angry red line across the bottom of my belly.
I go with her to buy the materials for the porch and she guides my hands as we pour the pad and float the concrete to a fine brushed surface, cut the studs and nail them together, felt the roof and lay the shingles.
I feel echoes of desire whenever she stands behind me, demonstrating some procedure or trick. She knows what she does on every level and cultivates the moments, drawing them out with little strokes, soft kisses on my neck, and whispered promises for later. By the time our porch is finished, I am hungry for her and she laughs at my need.
We celebrate the completion of our porch with a dinner. While Linda starts a leg of lamb barbequing we put our furniture and the futon we bought at a garage sale onto it. The patio needs a border and I try to think of what I would plant while I pick mint for garnish from the patch that grows wild at the back of the yard.
By an unspoken agreement we let dinner pass amiably and not until everything is cleaned up and put away do I stand in front of her in the flicker light of the citronella candles. She takes me in her arms slowly and gently begins to kiss me, bringing back up the heat we’d tacitly banked for dinner. I moan into her teeth at the warmth she is coaxing back to life and she laughs against my mouth.
“Take it off,” Linda whispers. I unzip the summer dress and let it slide down in a soft susurration that makes me shiver. I fold it and lay it over the back of the chair.
“Come back to me.”
She opens her arms and I flow into them. Her leather against my skin is electric smooth and I moan. She wraps her arms around me and down we go, rolling onto the futon, and she’s feeling me up from every angle. “God, I’ve missed this,” she says in my ear.
I had volunteered to give her pleasure a few times before I could fuck, but she’d said no, and we’d stayed celibate, waiting for this moment. I feel her release the self-restraint that went into the no-pressure, loving care I had received these last six weeks.
She is kissing me as if she’ll never get enough and I answer it, feeling pangs and shifts down there, like things are turning on, gearing up.
The bra comes off and the panties follow between bits of her clothing. Her fingers go slowly, gently, rediscovering the hard bump of my clit. She teases that into a peg and then moves down to slip a finger between my lips and tip up, a little into my ho
le, reacquainting them.
I gingerly ride her, feeling the difference. Was it from the surgery or just a long time?
She gives me her finger for a while, then she slips two in a little more assertively. I can feel both fingers, their fingertips. The angle is wrong or the lube isn’t uniform. What will it feel like when she puts her dick in?
She sighs and rolls on top of me. I lift my legs and she kneels up between them. Her dick is pointed straight at me and I know my memory of it, smooth and slippery as an electric greased pig when it’s wet from my juice. She meets my eyes and I know that she wants to shove it in hard, the way we both like.
I cringe, wondering whether what’s left inside can take her. I am afraid and she sees it. She smiles and cocks her head so I melt a little, letting my eyes trail down across her chest and the strong arms that frame it, down her belly, just beginning to paunch, and the strong legs that offer her dick to me.
She fits the head of it to my pussy mouth and holds it there. Habit makes me purse, and start to draw it in, and then I realize she is going to let me take her this first time. I put my hands on her hips and draw her in slowly, staring into those beautiful gray eyes. A faint smile plays about her mouth, and caution about her eyes.
It fits just like always and I settle around its solid shape and my clit stands up in anticipation of contact. My belly feels the pull a little but it doesn’t hurt so I roll up and she slides in quickly, almost totally in before she can pull back in case the sutured end of my vagina is still tender.
I moan as the ghost of that electricity we always share begins to play about her dick, shooting phantom zigzags into my clit. I can almost feel it and my pussy swells a little at the memory.
“No different. It feels the same to me.” She smiles and falls to her elbows while she fucks gingerly. “Yep, absolutely the same sweet, tight pussy as ever.”
I blush in spite of myself and feel the tension in her arms as she holds back. Suddenly she rolls off me onto her side, and pulls my legs up over her thighs. It slides into my cunt again and my ass is seated against the tops of her thighs.
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