the threads in her head

I date a guy whose first date, and wife, was a M16.

She was thrust into his arms a year plus ago, in the most ungentlemanly manner - not worthy for a lady like her, he said.

Regardless, he had been dreaming of it for so so long, and he embraced her, graceful or not, with a confusing mixture of anticipation and reluctance all at once. The initial senses took in her feel, her sweat, her oil, her texture, her thick coarse disturbing tan, black skin - she had not the smoothest of skin, but no matter. Their rites of ceremony had not been performed with the usual grace typical of a church wedding, but his wife she was now, as long as she was his.

He always preferred to take things slow, but with her he had to get acquainted, fast. The father-in-law taught him how to handle her, brought him through all the stops. She was a picky princess, spoilt to the ultimatum just because she was paralysed, never having to move a hand in service for herself - though perhaps, to be fair, it was also in part due to the great power that she herself had.

Pretty shy and quiet she was in the beginning, and at first they didn't spend too much time together, but that was soon all to end, she clung on to him, showing what a spoilt picky brat she was, and he had to hold her, hug her, piggyback her (things which I have all yet to experience myself). And all these he did, even if her arms were in an awkward protruding position. He learnt well from the father-in-law, learnt how to keep her in her best state, how to push all her buttons to clean her, and all kind of other stuff that are sorta lewd in saying, though entirely functional only in action.

A true burden she felt like at times, and all his effort had to be concentrated onto pampering her, but well, admittedly, she made him feel safe too, at times. Good times they had, his life depending on her almost entirely.

Sometimes he still miss her.

Hmm, I guess I'm fine with that.