little_chicago: Evening gown; justprompts: Bliss
Living in this new world was quite amazing. For the girl who'd grown between the street and hospitals, between cold and dirt, and sterility, it could be overwhelming.
But then, she wasn't overwhelmed that way anymore.
Not by the warmth, nor the luxury of his home - his homes; nor the lushness, the pleasure of all she was surrounded now. Not by the wonder of music, or of always, always having enough to eat. Not by the parties. Not by the vacations.
Oh she felt all of them, acutely. Textures and scents caressed her senses, sounds and tastes moved her or made her laugh.
But she wasn't overwhelmed by them, not the way that seemed to make her lose who she was; the way that only medications made go away, and those made her sick. She felt wonderfully.
Then again, she was a little overwhelmed by him.
He had made it all possible, from protection - against people, against cold, against hunger - to the beautiful place where she was - and they even could redecorate together... anything to please her.
But also, simply put, he was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. She could spend the longest time just looking at his face, and not get tired of it. Or watch the way muscles rippled under his skin when he moved. Or his eyes...
Those gray eyes. She could get lost in them, when they looked normal - and when they looked pale, hungry. It didn't make her feel frightened though, not since that day when he'd stepped behind that thug kicking her and thrown him across the street. No, those eyes made her feel delicious. Special. Arousing.
She'd never felt that before.
She liked it.
And there was what happened on that bed (it was such a huge bed... she'd been in hospital rooms smaller than that bed) and elsewhere. It was nothing at all like the forced, dull ways she'd been taken before. It was pleasure upon pleasure, and since she had no awareness of any shamefulness in it, she gave herself into that pleasure, completely. And he somehow always gave her more. Time after time, until her body started feeling alive in ways neither being overwhelmed, nor drugged, had allowed her to feel.
All because of him.
Somehow, he enjoyed her. Somehow, he seemed a little puzzled, but more and pleased with her.
Somehow, she was interesting for him.
There were so many questions, in the beginning. Not pressing, but not exactly rare either.
And then he'd been so very surprised that she could recognize letters, but didn't know how to read really. Nor write. She hadn't needed to.
Quite casually (like everything else Thomas Raith ever did), he taught her that, among a great many other things. But even more, he showed her why to read.
It was really a pleasure on its own, when her evening gown of negligible dimensions lay crumpled as a dark stain on the lush carpet and his shoe had found its way to being stuck for the lamp, and they lay curled against each other and he'd pick up the reading for the evening.
There was a strength, a power in words that she'd not known. A poem could make things stir inside her that almost made her afraid - not fully, for he was there - but in a way that was controlled, intended, not to be suppressed but cherished. A story could make her laugh or cry. A novel could keep her enthralled for nights and nights on end, as imagination took her into those places and times as her body relaxed and drifted off in his arms.
There was his voice giving to those words so much life.
In this magic world, the bedtime stories Thomas read to her were among the things that made Justine the happiest.