Our first face-to-face meeting was when She picked me up at a hotel to take me to dinner. As We sat there, staring at each other and trying to decide if what We had been feeling was still there...something inside of me literally broke. I think I may have gasped as I grabbed at Her hand and shoved it under my shirt so that Her palm rested against my skin. Then I sat there, nearly crying, my head bowed, and waited for Her to scold me for being so forward.
And She didn't.
I don't know what Our first touch was like for Her, but for me it was like...coming home for the first time in my life. I'm not someone who generally puts much stock in auras or energies and whatnot, but Her hand on my flesh fed me that night. I felt bottomless as I leaned my head against Hers and She gently stroked Her fingers against my skin.
She ran Her hand over my scalp (I'd begun shaving my head about six months prior to our meeting). It was if angels were singing an old chorus from my childhood church days, "Ye who are weary come home!"
And I was so weary. So hungry. So empty. And She stood at the brink of the abyss and began filling it, drop by drop, touch by tender touch.
It was that moment in the car, when I first felt Her touch, that I knew I belonged to Her, and with Her.
I say that there is good karma in holding a crying man. Taking his head to your breast calls to some deep emotional place of desperate want and nurture, and the tears come in even the most dominant, independent and hard of men.
I am far from dominant. But Mistress Delila has held me while I cried, and She has held my head against Her breasts to comfort me. I would not belong to Her as I do had She not done so.
For a lover, there is no replacing a woman's hands grazing his chest lightly in post-coital bliss. There is no substitute for her hair falling across his body as she lays in the crook of his arm. There is no equal to her breast, warm and welcoming. Even hand-holding becomes a sacred thing.Amen.