Brushes

An eBook By M Christian.

A tug on her arm pulled her away from cleaning up. Drying her hands on her skirt, she allowed herself to be led from one room to another. The bedroom, she immediately noticed, was a mess: clothes on the floor, blanket wadded up, pillows slipping out of their covers. But he didn't see any of it. Pulling her through the sleep-shuffled chaos, he put her in front of her mirror.

"Here," he'd said, posing her like one of the little wooden models he studied. "Yeah, like that. Hand right here. Perfect. Okay? Now just relax."

Shoes, first-slipping one off then the other. Then her stockings, his hands reaching up under her skirt, deftly sliding fingers between elastic and her waist, before steadily, teasingly down.

Buttons followed, only a few on the dress she'd worn that day. A few until they were all undone and he was slipping her shoulders free, dropping the weight of the dress to the floor in a hush of falling fabric. Reaching behind her back, he found the hooks to her bra, pulled the straps and the silken cups away with steady patience. Last were her panties, also removed with almost glacial drama, the spell only broken when she had to lift one foot to allow him to take them away.

Behind her, she felt his erection even though he was fully dressed and she wasn't at all. He moved her again until she was perfectly in front of the mirror. "I want to show you something really beautiful," he said.

Pretty. She'd been called that by her mother, her father, some aunts, some uncles. Attractive. She'd been called that by other girls, usually grudgingly. Good-looking. She'd been called that by a few boys, usually not wanting to flatter her out of reach.

Beautiful. Of course she'd been called that, probably by more than a few relatives, maybe a girlfriend or two, or even by a few boys. But after that day, whenever she heard the word, she would think about standing naked in front of a mirror. At first with a hidden, secret joy, but later-when she had been pulled out of the shade of her ignorance-with bitter tension.

But this was before, back in the days where she didn't know anything except that she was standing naked in front of a mirror. Back when she and he were a poor, happy, couple in a dirty, cold, and noisy apartment.

Back when he'd stood behind her and said one word: "Look."

And she had. What she saw had made her face sag into a weighty frown: a young woman dropping towards mid-twenties, early thirties, once high and firm breasts-petite but always well shaped-now starting to suffer under gravity, tight belly now beginning to balloon outwards, and elegantly tapered legs approaching chubbiness. A woman once perhaps worth looking at, maybe even following, possibly even

the recipient of a high then low whistle, but now... now in the past tense, all of that tightness, that buoyancy, that life behind, not in front of her.

The dropping of her face must have been clear to her husband, as his own sagged as well. "Not what I mean," he'd said, kissing her shoulder. "Not what I meant at all." She tried to pull away from the contact of his lips, but his hand had become firm, keeping her facing the cold, hard, silver of the mirror. "Try to see the way I do, look at my eyes."

And she had. What she did, at first, kept her face leaden with disappointment and her cheeks burning with hate. Why would he force her to face the harshness of her own image? But then she'd looked up and away from her reflection to see him peering over her shoulder. Peering over her shoulder with bright, heated eyes. Bright, heated eyes that bounced back into the mirror, echoing a reflection of herself in his vision. Imagination wasn't a quality she'd ever really tried to develop in herself-the world being previously all she'd ever wanted, never hungering for anything that wasn't in front of her eyes. But that afternoon she really did try to imagine herself as the woman her husband touched whenever he could, kissed so often, watched getting dressed or undressed, and pressed a determined erection against while they slept in their too-small bed.

Beautiful. Yes, she was. Spry and lean, body straight and tall, deep red nipples at the tips of gently rising breasts, shoulders shapely, skin with the glow of energy and passion, belly plush and warm, legs long and tight with girlish spring, thighs robust but not too muscular-and at the base of her tummy, between those vigorous thighs and legs, a thin feather of hair that led into her now moistening depths.

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