Velvet Pages

Sunday 20 April 2025

It's 9pm, the children are in bed and my husband is sitting outside on the porch while I lay in bed waiting for him... thinking about him.

I reminisce over a time when we could not wait for the children to go to bed, we could not wait to be between the sheets, to discover each other's bodies over and over again until the velvet hour.

I miss that, I miss him...

What it has become now, is not what I expected, especially not this soon. I am a woman who loves to HEAR her partner, I love to hear him tell me how gorgeous I am; how irresistible I look in that short dress he likes; how much he loves me; how he cannot wait until we are alone... all that dirty talk, and him telling me sweet nothings throughout the day via text or by holding eye contact or an unexpected smack on the butt... that stuff always kept me dripping wet until the next moment. The random hugs and kisses... I felt so special.

But now I'm dry, I always feel caught off guard. I hardly deny him sex, only when I am in extreme pain or when I know that giving it up will only lead to resentment.

See, I am a very self aware woman, I know what I want and how I want it. And he has managed to do everything I wanted without me asking or teaching from the start, so I am struggling to understand what's so hard now. Am I the problem? I've tried talking to him before and if it didn't become a fight, it left me with even more questions. Like the one time when he told me that I am hard to live with.... what?! And then he doesn't break it down, how am I supposed to change if I don't even know what the problem is? Oh, and that one time when he said I don't get wet and I think it's normal that we always use lube.... my mental answer to that was: "Well, if you could engage me, do your job between the sheets, I would get wet and give you the best sex of your life. Yet you don't even want to kiss me!"

Kissing... a thing I thought I didn't enjoy much in my past lives but he told me that he loved kissing so much that I made an adjustment. Now he doesn't kiss me. He says it's the smell of the weed but even when I haven't smoked or brushed my teeth like someone with OCD or even taken some mint gums/sweets, he won't kiss me. Sometimes he won't kiss me even during sex! It hurt me so much that I decided that I don't want to be kissed anymore. Let it be my decision rather.. takes the edge off the pain.

Talking about pain, living with chronic pain is hard but pain is pain, the mind doesn't distinguish between emotional pain and physical pain, it all hirts the same. When you already live with physical pain you do anything to avoid any other pain and vice versa. I will do anything to avoid another fight and I will do anything to avoid feeling any less than I already do.

So I keep this journal under lock and key. A place where I don't fight with him in my head but escape into bliss. A journal that I must burn, because I don't want anyone to know. I just want to invent, while I lay between these sheets, and write my escape between my soft, luscious velvet pages.

It's 10pm and he moved from the porch to the lounge. I'm still longing for him. If he walked into the room right now....

And OMG, he walks into the room. Looking at me with that look of longing in his eyes, that burning look that pierces my soul and quickens my heart.

He comes over to me, eyes still locked on me as he licks his lips and swallows with a big gulp of lust. He sits on the bed and pulls me into an embrace. I melt against his hard chest, I have always felt safe and loved in his strong arms. He holds me away from his body, tilts my chin so I look into his eyes again. My lips start to shake and I feel tears building up. I really could not remember the last time he looked at me like this.

He lowers his head and locks his lips on mine.

I have wanted this for so long that instinct takes over and I am passionately kissing him back. He holds my neck at the base of my head and lowers to plant soft kisses along my jaw, neck and collar bone. He stops to gently slip off the silk nightie I have on and plants a kiss where the strap was, he does the same with the other side. My nipples stand erect from the breeze of his breath. He sees that and covers one with his mouth while he tenderly massages the other. I try to get my arms around him but he pushes me down on the bed gently. He carries on, one hand my breast, his mouth teasing my nipple while the other hand makes it's way down my tummy, stopping at the belly button to circle it a few times. Then down again towards the sweet centre of my being. I gasp and squirm enough for him to move his face up to mine. Still pinned on the bed, with his hands breaking away at all my senses. His breath right above my lips is driving me crazy. Like a mad woman, I grab him and kiss him hard. He chuckles and returns the kiss matching my passion and my pace. His hand moves away from my breast and he sits up again, with me laying down to tease me. Slowly moving his fingertips around my other lips. As fast as Superman can, he moves his head, and within seconds he is in between my thighs speaking in tongues! Oh what a feeling! I am gasping for air but pulling him deeper as his tongue flirts around my sweetness. He carries on with his delicious and delicate assault, pressing all my buttons until it's flowing like waterfalls. Was it TLC who said 'don't go chasing waterfalls'? I understand why!

I have not been this satisfied and this wet in a very long time that I had forgotten how it feels. And if it feels like this, I will chase those waterfalls....

Wishful thinking...

I can hear his favourite programme on the TV, it ends at 11 pm, and can sometimes have special features that carry the programme until midnight. I will probably be asleep by then. I wake up at 5h30 am to get the children ready for school and the day figures itself out from there because I absolutely hate routines. I am too creative to do the same thing everyday. Ofcourse there are some routines I cannot run away from, but as best as I can, I avoid mundane.

And I think that sums up my dryness. It has become mundane, routine. Roll over, get it done. But I am going to change that. I already live in my head so I will fantasize even when he's on top of me.

He laps up the waterfall but it just keeps flowing. He chuckles again and the vibrations send me over once more. I guess that drives him crazy because the next moment, he's hovering on top of me. I didn't even see him take off his clothes...

His member is standing at attention and aiming at that well of goodness that's dripping wet. He enters me, smooth, one long stroke. I moan as my body screams "I remember". He's always been the stroke master. The moan seems to encourage him because that's when he rocks me, holding on tightly until we both erupt. I don't think either of us meant for this to be a quicky but the night is still young, and so are we...

Well, back to reality. It's almost 11pm, the tv programme will end soon and I am debating myself on whether I should go to him or wait for him. Or should I just call it a night?

"Que sera, sera" - Whatever it will be, will be. For now, I need to keep you safe.

Oh, how I love the feel of your velvet cover, it reminds me of softer days... and I always feel better (and slightly wetter) after pouring out my desires. Until next time, keep these thoughts between the covers for me.

-------------‐------‐----------------------------------------------------------------------

Monday 21 April 2025 08h00

I chose to wait, I didn't call it a night. I told you "que sera, sera" but I wasn't, I was laying there, eyes burning, listening for doors, the kettle, his footsteps... anything.

But my body gave up on me, I just didn't make it. I fell asleep for a while.

I woke up because severe thoracic pain just after midnight and his side of the bed was still empty. He didn't come. I hate that I was disappointed in a man I was trying to not need.

I gingerly hobbled out of bed to check on him. It was not an easy feat as walking with severe pain meant bracing myself against walls until I got to the lounge where I found him on the couch, mouth open, passed out, remote in hand.

I could not help but feel upset. There I was waiting and there he was, sleeping. I called out his name but he was in deep slumber, and this annoyed me even more. I bent over to shake him violently. He woke up but the movement (and anger) sent a sharp pain through the right side of my body leaving me breathless. I almost fell back but he caught me, quickly clicked the remote to switch the TV off and then carried me to bed.

Being in his arms sent a new wave of longing. I was hopeful for what could happen next.

We got to bed, he set me down and made sure I was comfortable. Once I confirmed that I was okay, he rolled over and the sheets stayed cold on my side. I guess this is what waiting got me, huh?.

I tried reaching for my velvet journal. But it did not feel safe, what if he woke up? I did not have the energy to explain myself. He used to be my safe place, now I run to a journal with a velvet cover for safety.

I leaned over to take some pills for the pain and I felt the softness of my journal. I caressed it for a second, swallowed my meds and attempted to fall asleep again. It didn't take long, my body won.

At 5 am this morning, his hands found my hips in the dark. The same routine... I closed my eyes and summoned the man from my pages...

He pulled me into a cuddle and kissed me. He didn't care that our breath smelled like roadkill, nothing about me bothered him. He caressed me, held me and then started arching his hips to signal that he wanted to enter me. I turned around and became the little spoon, I pushed my ass out for him to have easy access and he lingered at my doorway before entering me. I was wet, he moaned and glided in all the way.

That felt so good. I tilted my pelvis up as if to pull away but he pulled me back with a big pump, for a few seconds it became a game: I would pull away; he would ram himself back inside. So sensual, so emotional, so damn necessary! We moved in a beautiful synchronized rhythm until I could not take it anymore, I released with a shudder. The shudder did the trick, he released with a moan and then whispered 'I love you' in my ear.

I snapped out of it when he asked me if I said something. I blushed to myself, I hadn't realized that I was murmuring through my fantasy. I shrugged it off and said something about pain. He had carried me to bed last night because of pain so he did not press further. He told me to rest and he would prepare the children for school.

As much as I wanted to help, my body wouldn't let me, so I accepted the offer and thanked him. I rolled over and tried to fall back to sleep but sleep eluded me. I couldn't help but think about the last words from the fantasy... 'I love you'...

I could not remember the last time I heard those words for real.

Maybe he loves me. I can see it in his actions, the small things he does that remind me that he cares. He's a firm believer of "actions speak louder than words" and this is the very thing that leaves me perplexed at times. If actions are indeed louder than words, should he not demonstrate a little more effort when it comes to foreplay?

Or should I be more vocal? How do I do that without sounding desperate? How do I do that without nagging him? He once said I could initiate more... how do I do that when I'm waiting for him to talk me into a sex stupor?

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Saturday 2 May 2025

It's 6am. The house is asleep. I want coffee, but I don't move. Once I rise, the house rises. Then it's breakfast, cleaning, children, hosting guests from out of town. The list writes itself. My body screams at the thought.

Explaining my pain is a language no one else speaks nor understands. When people ask, I get one of three responses:

A) They don't follow.

B) They think I'm exaggerating.

C) They get scared.

Most ask to be polite. So I don't give them the deep dive. But here, we're safe. So here it is.

1. It's chronic. With me "from the moment that I wake up, until I lay my head"... Cece Winans wasn't singing about this, but she could've been. And sometimes it wakes me in between.

2. It's severe. On a scale of 0 to 10, I live between 5 and 10. Dropping below 5 requires enough meds to make me sicker than the pain.

3. It's specific. Upper back. Right torso. Right hip. Right hand. Every movement is a negotiation -- standing, sitting, walking. Some days, breathing hurts.

4. It's emotional. The higher the pain, the thinner my skin. I bruise easier. Offend faster. Pain draws unwanted attention and unsolicited advice like a magnet.

A woman from church once told me I don't pray enough. A friend asked when I'll get over it. My own kids, my husband -- they've looked at me like I'm kleinseerig. Petty. Dramatic. As if I ask for massages for fun, not because I'm drowning.

Don't mistake me: they do offer. But their hands come when the pain is a 4. When it's a 9 and I ask, it goes over their heads. That's when physical pain becomes emotional. That's when resentment creeps in.

Let me show you.

A few days ago we hosted. Forty people. Zimbabwe, Mozambique, Lesotho, South Africa -- all under our roof. I cooked and served with my sister-in-law, the nanny, my aunt. I was in pain the whole time. The party ran past midnight. I got to bed at 1am.

I put on the lingerie he loves and waited.

I got cold. Reached for him.

He wasn't there.

He partied all night. Woke the maid of honour up to keep going.

I was up at 8am. Made breakfast for a house of guests. Cleaned. Hubby drank. At 10am he finally went to bed -- and called me for sex.

No foreplay. Just lube. Just entry.

We were hosting. People knocked, looking for us. He pulled me back to the room five times. I felt exposed, uncomfortable. His parents were here to discuss a family event. The interruptions mounted. Frustrated, he gave up and stayed in bed.

Not asleep. On social media. Shutting everyone out.

No proper goodbyes to his family. No help with the chaos. Just attitude.

No interest in my 8/10 pain, though I'd told him plainly.

By 7pm most guests left. My aunt helped me make dinner -- she sees my pain without explanation -- then left with my brother. Only his brother, his wife, and our children remained.

I dished up for everyone, including the man still in our room. Washed dishes. Pots. My nausea from pain and cooking meant I couldn't eat. I made coffee and a sandwich, locked up, checked on everyone, then came to bed.

The moment I lay down, the pain magnified. Rest doesn't mean relief.

I told him. Out of habit, he massaged me. Rough. The opposite of what I needed.

Stopping him meant refusing help. Letting him continue meant more damage. I chose my words, mentioned overstimulation, reached for meds.

Before the water hit my lips, he was pulling me in.

I asked, "Should we wait for the meds? Will you be asleep by then?"

I expected let's wait.

He didn't say it.

I let him have his way. On my stomach, hips raised. He lubed up and entered. The sixth time that day. My body screaming while he took his pleasure.

I don't resent giving him my body. My body craves him. But the timing, the absence of tenderness, felt deliberate.

All day I'd said: I'm in pain. All day I'd called him to help with guests so I could rest.

He wasn't clueless. He wasn't misreading the room.

He was obtuse.

While he chased his own release, I closed my eyes and slipped away.

In my head, he straddled the backs of my thighs as I lay flat on my stomach. Not taking -- hovering. His weight was a promise, not a demand. His hands found the knots at my shoulder blades first. He worked them with his thumbs, slow circles, coaxing the fire out of my muscles. His mouth followed the path his hands made: the nape of my neck, between my shoulder blades, the small of my back. Each kiss dragged heat lower, unknotting something deeper than muscle.

I felt him hard against the curve of my ass, but he didn't rush. He kept massaging, kept kissing, letting the ache in me change shape. Pain thinning into want. Tension melting into invitation. My breath caught and my hips shifted of their own accord, just enough. He understood.

He slid into me then -- gradual, reverent, one hand still splayed at my lower back like he could hold me together. The rhythm he set wasn't for him alone. It was call and response. My body answered. The sound I made wasn't planned, but he felt it against his chest. In real life, he took that same sound and filed it under pleasure.

In the fantasy, I wasn't performing. I was present. The pressure built low and deep until it broke, shaking through me in waves that finally, finally, drowned the other pain.

I woke this morning with my face in the pillow, sheets twisted, and the hollow truth settling in my bones: I'd fallen asleep inside that dream. After he'd taken what he wanted from my body, he'd finished himself again while I slept. I never even stirred.

God. It's 10am. The doors are creaking. Someone's in the hallway.

I need to hide these pages before they come looking for me -- before they see how a woman can be in a bed, under a man, and still be entirely alone.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Saturday 2 May 2025

The pain is a 9 tonight. Not the kind you see. The kind that lives behind my ribs and rents space in my skull.

He's asleep. I'm not.

I reach for the drawer where I keep the contraband that isn't sex or secrets. Phenergan. Small blue pill. Promethazine. The one they give you for nausea, for allergies, for when your body is too awake to let you die a little.

I wasn't taught this in any marriage book. I learned it in the dark: sometimes the thing that stops you itching also stops you screaming.

I dry-swallow it because water means getting up, and getting up means negotiating with my spine. Within 30 minutes the edges go soft. Not the pain -- the me around the pain. The swelling in my chest feels less like a fist. The thoughts stop racing. The resentment, the 6am coffee dread, the "he was obtuse" -- it all dulls, like someone turned the volume down on my nervous system.

Histamine. I remember from my days as a nurse. It's the chemical that makes you swell, makes you itch, makes your body overreact to pollen and men who don't kiss you. Ofcourse it makes nerves shout louder too. So I block it.

This is not a painkiller. This is a silence-bringer.

It doesn't take the pain. It takes the audience.

He doesn't know that the reason I could lie still beside him last night wasn't reconciliation. It was chemistry. It was me, in the bathroom at 2am, making a choice between feeling everything and feeling nothing.

I choose nothing, sometimes. So I can choose him again the next day.

The journal feels heavier tonight. Or maybe that's the Phenergan. Or maybe that's the truth: I'm medicating myself to stay in a bed that stopped being a safe place.

Que sera, sera. But tonight, what will be, will be drowsy. And for now, drowsy is mercy.

Hide this, velvet pages. If he finds it, he'll say I'm taking too many pills. He won't see that I'm taking them so I can stay.

Yes ???? Here's the entry with a closing reflection in your voice:

───

Tuesday 5 May 2025 | 14h00

Decided to keep a list of hurts.

I could keep a list of wins too. But the point isn't to collect light. It's to write down what burns, so I can let it burn like Usher and let it go like Elsa.

Letting wins burn and go would be counterproductive.

So here is the list of hurts:

1. Patience → Anger

He used to be patient with me. Now he is quick. Quick to anger, quick to leave the room.

1. Touch → Distance

He used to sit in the back seat with me. Now he doesn't even open the car door.

1. Desire → Memory

He used to want me. Now wanting me is something I have to remember, and memory stings worse than absence.

1. Words → Silence

He used to call me beautiful until I thought he was exaggerating. Now I catch compliments like crumbs.

1. Spoiled → Burden

He used to spoil me. Now a small request feels like too much.

1. Loud Love → Quiet

He used to love me out loud, unashamed. Now he won't take my hand unless I reach first.

1. Attraction → Release

He used to look at me like I was the point. Now I feel like I'm only the means.

1. Kisses → Air

He used to kiss me until I forgot how to breathe. Now, if I get a kiss, it doesn't reach my lungs.

1. Waiting → Chasing

He used to wait for me. Now I run behind him, trying not to slip.

1. Included → Outside

He used to keep me in the conversation. Now he can talk for hours in languages I don't understand, and I'm just there.

Ten things.

I counted them so they would stop counting me.

I wrote them down so they can live on paper instead of in my chest.

Burn. Let go.

What will be, will be.

───