Chapter 20
twenty
Avonna
Nine Months Later
Nine months ago, Dr. Camille Lane hugged me for the first time.
Since then, I’ve allowed her to know every part of me.
We’ve done so much work, I finally believed I have a body worth reclaiming.
I became comfortable with her. Free with the language of sex. Courageous enough to tell her my biggest worry was my first time. A strange kind of grief followed when I realized virginity was never a virtue, but Camille taught me the concept has been used for centuries to keep women docile.
Untouched, but not whole. Saved, but never safe.
The thought I might have almost lost my virginity to a sixty-two-year-old abuser made my skin crawl. At the same time, I hadn’t ever dated and didn’t trust myself to choose my first lover wisely.
Camille told me about sex therapy.
A way to bring my body in line with my mind.
Sex wouldn’t be for someone else’s pleasure. Only for mine. Choice. Safety. Presence. A path to explore without fear. It seemed like a safer way to learn about myself. What I could be capable of.
Now I get to rewrite the story. If I’m going to allow a man to enter my body, I’ll make the choice. With someone I trust. In a space I control.
So I said yes.
Together, Camille and I created a phased program with no pressure and no timelines.
Phase one occurred over the course of a few weeks. We did exercises where I’d touch a body part and allow her to touch me there too. Nothing sexual. It was like meeting myself for the first time. Arms. Elbows. Chin. Wrists. Hips. Calves. Feet. Hands.
At night, my homework was to do the same exercises alone without clothes. Beneath the blankets, my palm trembling over bare skin, I did the exercises. It didn’t take long before I realized I wouldn’t disappear. There was no wrath or hellfire anywhere.
The lesson was, my body’s not shameful. Or sinful. It’s mine.
Phase two ventured into sex education and immersed me even deeper into touch. Camille, essentially, taught me about the birds and the bees. Dispelled myths and horror stories I’d been fed my whole life. Guided me through weeks of learning body parts and how they function.
I studied diagrams of both the female and male body. Using anatomically correct mannequins, she showed me erogenous zones and taught me about reproduction and sex. For homework, I touched myself in the places I’d learned about. Paid attention to what felt good and what didn’t.
Each night, I’d allow my hands to explore my skin without apology. Experiment with pressure, speed, combinations. Sometimes I’d cry or panic or not feel anything. Eventually, I was able to trace patterns across my belly. Nipples. Lips. Thighs. Neck.
One night, I grew brave and allowed my fingers to venture between my legs.
The heat surprised me. So did the way my hips shifted instinctively.
I slid my hand lower and explored my soft, slick folds.
Found my clit and caressed. Brushed. Flicked.
Circled. Learned. I stayed with it and the sensation grew and an energy unlike anything I could have ever imagined crashed over me like a wave too big to duck under.
When it subsided, I didn’t feel guilt. I felt…stillness.
Deep, sublime, stillness.
I sobbed with joy. Curled into myself. Thanked myself for surviving and being able to give myself an orgasm. By staying with the process, I discovered self-pleasure.
Phase three was about seeing myself. This part was rough, but Camille guided me through the exercises patiently.
In the beginning, I stood facing the mirror, still in bra and panties.
Only when I felt steady did I watch myself undress.
Over the course of many weeks, I was able to stand fully nude and look at myself.
Watch myself touch the pleasurable places I’d explored in the dark.
Eventually, I made myself come in front of a mirror. I circled my clit while my free hand pinched my nipple. Aware of the rosiness spreading across my chest. My belly contracting. The exact moment my climax bloomed and my entire body shuddered with gratification.
A few days later, I did the same thing with a vibrator. Buzzing, against my palm. I started with my nipples then moved downward.
Full. Deep. Perfect. The moment it touched my clit, I shrieked. Then I watched as I guided it inside.
In the mirror, I saw it all. My hips moving, breasts bouncing, mouth open. When I came, I whispered, “God.”
It was the first time I knew, with abject certainty, the woman in the mirror is divine.
Phase four was the introduction to Elijah, my sex surrogate counselor. Tall, medium build and boyishly handsome, he entered the room quietly. Never imposing, never assuming.
In the beginning, I sat curled, arms around my ribs, breath shallow.
He spoke to me. Asked me questions and over time, my body softened when I became comfortable.
At some point, I uncrossed my legs and let my hands fall open in my lap.
One day, when he offered his hand, I reached for it. Our fingers twined.
Warmth traveled up my arm and settled low, where my shame used to live.
In later sessions, he touched my forearm, my shoulder, my thigh, always asking first. I learned to breathe through it, to communicate exactly how I felt. Eventually, we embraced and held each other. Elijah won my trust. Made me feel safe. Whole.
Phase five was a callback to phase three, only this time I learned how to be comfortable with nudity in front of Elijah.
We undressed standing across from each other, with no fanfare and no words.
A candle glowed between us. First, I looked at Elijah.
Naked, leaning back on his elbows, legs spread apart.
My eyes raked across his body. His chest, nipples, stomach, cock, balls, ass.
Then, I assumed the same position and I let him gaze at me.
In these sessions, what I used to think of as sin seemed sacred. I cherished the connection.
Phase six was, I suppose, my graduation.
It happened over the course of many weekends.
I was ready for Elijah to touch me. Steady, unhurried, he glided his hands down my back, tracing muscle, spine, the small dip at my waist. When I rolled over, I covered my chest at first, then let the my hands fall away.
His palm rested over my sternum, drifted across my breasts, then lower, to my belly, my thigh, my foot.
The next week, Elijah kissed me. My mouth, the slope of my neck.
His lips grazing my earlobe until I shivered.
His tongue traced down, unhurried, until he found my nipples, sucking them both until they peaked.
I arched toward him without meaning to. His fingers slipped lower, finding me wet, open, ready.
He circled my clit with aching patience, until my body shuddered with release.
I didn’t know it would feel like heaven.
By week three, I couldn’t wait to see him again.
This time, Elijah’s fingers slid through my wetness then pressed inward, curling and stroking upward until a sudden force bloomed behind my pubic bone.
Pressure spread like heat through my belly.
I didn’t recognize the sounds coming out of my mouth when my orgasm built, cresting from my center until I fell apart.
My body whispered, “yes, this is what you were made for.”
Week four was my turn to learn how to give Elijah an orgasm. He grasped his thick cock in his hand and told me to, “Watch everything.” I did. Every flex of muscle, the way his hips rose to meet his grip. When he came, it was sudden and hot, spilling across his stomach
I dragged my fingers through his thick cream. Curious, I tasted him. Salty. Primal. He smiled like I’d passed some sacred threshold. Then, he showed me how to stroke him and I discovered exactly how to make his hips buck. When he came again, I realized giving was as pleasurable as receiving.
Week five, we moved into oral. Elijah’s mouth hovered over my pussy as his hands parted me gently, then he kissed and licked every inch of my pussy, from my folds to my clit.
Nothing compared to the orgasms he gave me by sucking and nibbling on my little nub while his fingers worked the magic spot inside.
When I was able to breathe again, I reached for him.
He was hard as steel, watching me with quiet need.
I stroked him first, then tentatively took him into my mouth.
Patiently, he taught me what he liked with breath and sound, until I found a perfect rhythm.
With my permission, he released with a shudder down my throat. I swallowed, stunned. Changed.
Week six is when it all came together, literally and figuratively. With so much preparation under such care and guidance, I was grateful choosing my first time to happen in this setting. I no longer feared sex or felt shameful for wanting it.
Elijah knelt between my thighs, cock smothered in lube, waiting.
He pushed the tip in and, once I relaxed, he entered inch by inch.
My body welcomed him and he moved. Rhythmic.
Precise. The pressure built fast. His cock rubbed my G-spot perfectly while his fingers stroked my clit exactly how I liked.
My body convulsed, his name caught in my throat. He followed, coming with a shudder.
The last two weeks with Elijah have been my exquisite undoing. We’ve spent our weekends in motion, fucking with abandon. He bent me over cushions, took me standing up. I rode his cock. Sideways. Backward. Upside-down. Every which way imaginable.
We fucked in silence, in laughter, in breathless urgency.
Every position is a new prayer. Every orgasm, a revelation.
I’ve never been this alive.
There are mirrors on every side of the room now. I watch myself suck him, my body arch as he enters me, the way my skin blushes from arousal. How I look when I come.
Zero shame. No filter. Only the raw truth of embracing my sexuality.
Today, on our last day, he didn’t say goodbye like a lover.
He said it like a witness. “You’ve done it. You know yourself now. Thank you for allowing me to be part of your journey.”
Now, as I sit across from Camille to close out my program, I don’t hesitate.
“I’m not finished,” I tell her. “I can’t stop here.”
I’m finally courageous enough to tell her about the boys, who have permeated my thoughts for months.
“When I first escaped, there were two men,” I recall.
“I was hired to play music at a college party and I felt completely out of place. Everyone around me seemed like aliens. Then I saw them. I can’t remember much about how they looked, only how it felt to see pure adoration.
Love. One had his arm around the other. They moved in sync.
Then kissed. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about them.
Imagining myself between them. Their hands on me. ”
Camille leans forward. “Congratulations, Avonna. You’ve come full circle. tapping into your inner desires means you’re no longer a victim of your past.”
She’s right. Owning my truth hasn’t marked me for punishment. It makes me feel strong. Certain.
My body belongs to me, I’m not a sinner waiting for judgment. No one will ever convince me otherwise ever again.
Everything cracks open. “Camille, before I go out into the real world, I want to experience two men. At once. I want their hands on every inch of me. Mouths. Eyes. I want to feel filled, stretched, overwhelmed, and still safe. I want to see them touch each other too, and be part of it. I am not ashamed of wanting more. I’m ready to explore it on my terms.”
I nearly laugh out loud when I hear myself ask for my deepest desire.
I want to hug myself for the progress I’ve made. To think, when I started this journey, I couldn’t even touch myself let alone ask to be fucked by two men at once.
Desire used to feel like danger.
Now, I’m fully awake to the woman I’m becoming.
Turns out, pleasure is a language I was born fluent in.