Page 3 of Yearn
She shivered. “Yes.”
That word shot through me, but I knew a yes now didn’t guarantee she wouldn’t regret it later, or try to take this moment back.
At least she said yes for now.
I caressed her belly slowly, drinking in the dark brown of her skin beneath my hands.
A soft moan left her.
In the moonlight spilling through the window, her stretch marks shimmered like golden-brown streaks across her body.
Some spiraling.
Some twisting.
Some short with feathered edges.
To anyone else, they might have looked like flaws.
To me—a second-year medical student—stretch marks represented the body’s brilliance on display. Collagen fibers extending, skin adapting under pressure, dermis reorganizing itself to hold more than it was ever meant to.
I’d memorized this process in textbooks, traced diagrams of tensile strength and scar formation. But none of those sterile illustrations compared to the erotic reality under my hands.
God yes.
I wanted to smear my precum across her belly and mark every golden-brown line like I owned them. Her gorgeous, curvy belly was a living record of expansion and endurance, warm and soft, breathing beneath me. Not a flaw, not a blemish, but a constellation across her flesh and proof the universe had once chosen her to carry galaxies.
Every spiral was evidence of how her body made room for life.
Every twist was proof of her survival written in tissue.
Every feathered line was adaptation etched into skin.
And I wanted all those stretch marks under my tongue.
Finally.
I lowered my head to her belly and remained there, just watching her breathe.
Chest rising.
Chest falling.
The sound of her breath filled the kitchen like music, and for a heartbeat I let silence dance between us.
The way she looked at me now—wide-eyed, lips parted—told me she felt it too: this was freedom, even if it only lasted one night.
“You deserve everything and more.” I leaned in closer, but wouldn’t let my lips brush her skin yet. I just wanted the heat of my breath to torture her for a few seconds.
To let her know that she wasn’t just someone’s wife, or the mother with grocery lists taped to the fridge—she was mine, trembling under my hands, finally remembered as a woman again.
Then, I broke the moment the only way I knew how: with my mouth on her skin. I dragged my wet, pierced tongue along the golden-brown trails, following them as though they were pathways only I had the map for. I pulsed the metal ball like a metronome.
Tap.
Tap.
Drag.
