Mr. Smith

I once met a figment of a man we shall call Mr. Smith.

He was sleek.
Smooth.
All charm and chivalry,
wrapped in steel.

He let me touch him without hesitation…
my fingertips gliding over his secrets,
his safety,
his silent promises.

He made me breathless.
Unbridled.
Wet.

I stood over him, pulse wild,
and said “Yes,”
without a moment’s pause.

“Another one for Mr. Wesson,”
the man behind the counter called.

He watched as I traced my fingers
along Mr. Smith’s cold, hard frame.
Gripped his handle like I knew what to do with it.
Grinned like the harlot I was about to become.

The man led me to the back.
Mr. Smith in hand.
And I followed…
dripping with curiosity.

I stood behind him,
wrapped my hand around his weight.
My lips parted.
The kind of parting that’s prayer and hunger.

The man stepped behind me,
his arms folding over mine,
guiding my rhythm
as my fingers slid along Mr. Smith’s barrel.

“Easy, girl,”
he whispered.
“Relax.”

My eyes fluttered.
I inhaled the tension.
And pulled the trigger.

One shot…
and my body trembled with release.

Again.
And again.
And again.

Each pull a gasp,
each shot a surrender.

He held me steady
until I emptied every last scream
from Mr. Smith’s mouth.

When it was over,
I lowered him slowly,
looked down at my feet,
and whispered,

“That’s what it takes to hold a woman like me.”

For those who listen between the lines.
Elaine Degro