It was my first love—the kind that seeps into your bones, lingering long after the final kiss, tucked between heartbeats like a secret only your body remembers. We were still discovering what it meant to touch—not just skin, but soul. That beautiful kind of vulnerability where every glance, every breath, becomes a silent confession.

That afternoon, the world outside faded. We were in her space—soft light, warm air, the intimate stillness that settles between two people who’ve stopped performing. She lay beside me, her leg draped over mine, her hand on my chest like she was grounding herself. Her gaze was steady, but her voice—when it came—was quiet, laced with a kind of hesitant courage.

“I’m on my period,” she whispered.

She wasn’t ashamed. Just uncertain. Testing whether my desire for her extended into the places she had been taught to hide.

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t falter. I kissed the inside of her wrist, tasting her pulse, and met her eyes. “Come,” I said. “Let me show you how beautiful you are.”

We stepped into the shower, the water enveloping us in warmth and rising steam. Time slowed. I watched her—how the droplets traced the curve of her neck, how her hair darkened and stuck to her back, how her eyes softened as she let herself be seen. Not just her body—her being.

Her body felt... potent. Her breasts fuller, her hips more generous, her skin electric beneath my fingertips. It was as if her femininity had stepped forward, lush and untamed. She didn’t shrink. She leaned into it. Into me.

That was the seduction: her openness. The unflinching way she let me see her, touch her, worship her.

I explored her slowly, deliberately. My hands learned her again, like reading a favorite poem aloud. Water streamed down her skin, slipping between her breasts, down the line of her belly, over the place where my fingers lingered—where her heat pulsed under my touch.

When I kissed her, it was unhurried. Tasting. Claiming. Her lips parted against mine, her body arching into me like she’d been waiting to be devoured and adored in equal measure.

I rose with careful reverence.

Her eyes locked onto mine, full of need and invitation.

I slid inside her with deliberate slowness, feeling her walls embrace me—hot, slick, and alive. She gasped softly, arms wrapping around my neck, pulling me closer, as our hips began to move in a rhythm older than time itself.

Her breath hitched with every deep thrust, the tension building between us electric and raw. She clung tighter, moans spilling out like promises as her climax rose—urgent, breathless—until she shattered beneath me, trembling and undone.

I followed seconds later, lost in the depths of her, consumed by the truth of what we allowed ourselves to feel.

We stayed like that, suspended in warmth and wet skin and silence. My forehead rested against hers, my fingers tracing patterns over her body. No words. Just breath. Just presence.

We didn’t last. Life, as it often does, pulled us apart. But that day—it imprinted something on me.

And here’s the warning: be careful with this kind of love.

Because when you touch a woman like this—when you love her with reverence, when you make her feel safe in the places she’s been told to hide—she won’t forget.

You awaken something that can’t be undone.

It’s not about pushing boundaries. It’s about honoring her. It’s about whispering to her with your body: I want all of you.

And once she feels that—truly feels it—she may crave it forever. Not just the pleasure… but the presence.

The worship.

The truth.