"There's no rush.  We have time."

 Words, softly spoken;  kind words, tender words.
These words now replace other words that echoed for so
long.  Visions of a caressing look replace memories of
cold disgust.  Thoughts of limbs trembling helplessly in
the absolute need to have you closer replace memories of
cowering helplessly before a raging temper.  Everything
is changing now - softly, like a whispering breeze,
gently, like pastel colored clouds engulfing me, my heart
is changing.  Healing.

 You make me feel like a small child.  Like an
innocent.  You touch me and kiss me in ways I have never
been touched before, and you do it as if it were second
nature, as if you've known how to do this all your life.
And suddenly, I'm new at this game.  Me, who knows all the
tricks, me, who was "trained" so well, me, who has brought
men to white hot passion and left them there without
mercy - with you, I'm shy and uncertain.  How should I
touch you?  What do you like?  I want to beg you to show
me how to make you feel the way you make me feel, to
show me the magic, and how to share it with you.

 I'm awed by you.  Sometimes, I look at you in
wonder, a million questions coursing through my eyes.
And you look back - calmly, patiently, tenderly.  I know
you have the answers to my questions; and I know you are
waiting for me to discover them for myself.  Something
deep inside of me tells me half of what attracts you
when you look at me is the look of wonder on my face - as on a
small impoverished child taken into a toy store for
the first time, who's been told to pick anything she wants;
the rediscovery of intense and exquisite pleasure where
once there was only pain and humiliation.  I think that
you know what I am feeling without being told; and that
the beauty of realization, and the powerful stimulant
of knowing that you created it are what makes me beautiful
in your eyes.

 And with you, I am beautiful. When I'm pressed
close to you, I feel at home, like I belong there, like
this niche, this little space in the world, was made for
me.  There is no fear with you; of being naive and vulnerable
before you, of not reacting correctly, of not moving
properly, of not using the proper technique.  You are
passionate, and yet make no demands.  You arouse me until
I'm gasping for breath, until my skin is scorching to the
touch, and I quiver like a bow pulled rigid, waiting to let
fly the arrow.  But you do not demand that I do the same
to you.  You do not lie back and say "Ok, my turn."  Can
it be that you truly feel no rush for time?  That you
will honestly give me time to explore and discover for
myself?  That you know so well my needs and desires, and
do not resent them?  I am so afraid I am dreaming, and that
too soon, the next hour, the next minute, I shall hear
the screaming bells that will bring me screeching back into
reality, and I will sigh and head off to shower and go back
to my "real" life.

 Some small, tiny, half paralyzed part of my mind
calls out in a shrill voice "But what does he want?  Where
is this going?  You could find yourself hurt and lonely
again!" like a smug, knarled little woman; grown
ugly and twisted with years of hate.  But my heart, a
young and beautiful woman, suddenly full of life and
freed of the hags' bitter poisons, turns to her and says,
"Do you know?...I don't seem to care."