Sitting and leaning against the silver railing, perched on the step,
while a friend was cross-legged on the ground.
Intrigued by her story, the naive girl leaned forward.
A curious boy next to the girl.
Slowly, finger tips slid up the shirt then trailed down,
dipping into jeans and then underwear.
Here was the friend regaling a tale.
Surely his hand couldn’t be slapped away or words cried out without drawing attention to the situation.
Silently she sat, biting the inside of her lip.
She didn’t want it even though she grew moist with each twirl of his digits.
Her body lying to him about the pleasure she wasn’t experiencing.
The story concluded.
Sadly, the damage of the experience did not.
The girl took a trail of self-deprecation, loathing, and wounding until freedom was found in surrender.
Freedom was finally gained in admitting the pain, forgiving an abuser, removing the masks, and clothing herself in the identity of a royal’s daughter.
She’d have to forgive again to the teen who tried, but without satisfaction, to lick between her legs, and to a lustful guy who broke her heart because she refused to give him a bouquet and a pearl.
Those moments left scars oozing into a marriage and into its sacred bed. The knight cradled her gently, to no avail. She tried and she tried to relax in his embrace. Friends told stories of extreme pleasure, but while content, still has yet to experience that joyous release of building, intentional, satisfying tension.
Not until the media’s wall was plastered with signs did she have the courage to confess the history, the path towards forgiveness, and the adoption of a true identity.
Perhaps now she’ll no longer be a captive of these negative antics, but instead relish in her husband’s compassion and finally squeal in being set free. She will be free to enjoy the removal of guilt when indulging in romance; free to know tainted memories do not define her.
Christ’s strength is made perfect in human weakness; the testimony of restoration is a most gorgeous tapestry.