SPIT
Insert standard disclaimer here.
His kisses are perfect, to start. Passion is restrained behind barely parted lips that brush cool and soft over her skin and lie on her lips like a prayer. Their chastity, her saving power. Broad hands hold her waist like a doll and smooth themselves slowly around to her wrists until they are pressed with equal force against her own palms.
The first time he opens his lips to her she fights back a wave of panic, but barely, and is unable to rest so easily within his embrace. The first tentative touch of his tongue beats her though, and he stands frozen with shock as she breaks free, running to his bathroom, to dry-heave over the toilet bowl.
His confusion breaks her heart a little as she tries to reassure him that it's not his fault, it's her. It's all her. Just one more piece of fuck up left over from her childhood. He offers her understanding but she can tell it feeds all his insecurities.
When she offers him head as an alternative she just feels worse. He looks wounded, and she never meant to do that. She never meant to be thirty-five years old and preferring semen to saliva, but hell, thems the breaks apparently.
She wishes she could want it, longs to spend hours wrapped up him; sucking, nibbling, tasting him, and then be able to have the favour returned without the accompanying revulsion. Wants just one night where she can look down at the trails his questing mouth has left on her bare skin without itching, without spending the rest of her evening gagging under a scalding shower.
She still wakes violently sometimes. Twelve years old and silently expectant of the assault. Of the stale liquor breath and burning stubble over her skin, incoherent mutterings in her ears and uncontrolled slobbering over her cheekbones, her chin, blindly trying to find her lips, coating her in issues and spit.