Home / Fiction / Her Stomach

Her Stomach

Her stomach is both separate and fully connected to her bosom and cunt. The biology of woman betrays that her cunt is vulnerable, that her bosom is comforting, and that her stomach houses strength and life.

All of these things cause me to slide my hand from her side to the flat or round or swell or pudge of her stomach. The slight, post-twenty-five jiggle is soft. The rumblings within are like an ocean against my ear, should I rest my head there and listen.

What I want is this: I want her to lay quiet, still, eyes closed. I want her breathing steady and slow. I want her to pretend to be asleep. I want nothing to exist but her torso and the sound of her air.

And I want to put my hands on her.

I have small hands, and they are cold and pink. I will trace the line of her stomach with my fingertips, then smooth her with my palm, then clench her whole-handedly. I will leave white marks from the pressure of my grasp. I will invade the sanctity of her belly-button and she will not move.

And I want to put my mouth on her.

I have a small mouth, and it is warm and pink. I will brush my lips against her abdomen’s down. I will open my mouth and warm her skin by breathing hot, moist breath at her… here and there. I will keep my hands on her hips, my weight on her legs, my mouth just under her breasts, in the center, hovering over the tip of her sternum. Oh I will press my mouth against her too roughly then turn my face to the side, dragging my mouth and teeth and spittle as I go.

And I want to put my teeth on her.

The skin over her ribs belongs to me. I will sink my teeth in just enough to catch. I will pull the skin away from her ribs. I will leave tiny marks that no one gets to see. I will chew her jiggle and kiss her jiggle and nuzzle her jiggle.

And I want to rest there for a while.

–

M. Chastain Addington is a rip-roaring, pearl-wearing, word-spitting, modern woman of the ’50s. She has no head for the politics of man, and even less care for the happenings outside her carefully crafted corner of the universe. Her existence revolves around simple things: her son, her God and a sinful lust for words.

Comments

Trackbacks

• Tweets that mention Her Stomach :: Black Heart Magazine: reading, writing, rebellion -- Topsy.com