Céleste said nothing more, but her gestures spoke for her. The room, bathed in warm golden light, seemed suddenly frozen in time. She held the object you had become in her hands with a dreamy, almost devotional precaution, as if she were caressing the idea of you even more than your new form. There was a deft slowness in the air, an infinite pause before the confession, before the final embrace.
She hesitated for a moment - the shower. She thought about it, bit her lip, frowned imperceptibly. Then her gaze shifted back to you, and something inside her gave way. It wasn't laziness, no. It was the rush of a desire stronger than usual, more urgent than morning conventions. She didn't want to wait. She wanted you now, there, in her hands, against her skin still marked by the night.
She straightened up, and you saw her in all her height. You'd never seen her like this: immense, luminous, sculpted in the velvet of flesh and the awakening softness of dawn. Every detail struck your heightened perception - the gentle tension of her thighs, the supple grace of her hips, the rosy pallor of her belly under the diffused light. The silence of the room only reinforced the deep beat of your new awareness, the carnal presence of the moment.
She bent over. Slowly. With that tender caution one reserves for something one loves but doesn't quite understand yet. Her hand passed between her legs, and the world became dizzy. The cotton of your body brushed against the grain of her skin, that skin which, up close, was no longer smooth but infinitely complex - a territory of warmth, suppleness and fragrances that no human memory could conjure up.
And it was smell.
Not the abstract smell of perfume. No. It was the living, intimate, exact smell of Céleste in the morning. A mixture of crumpled sheet, fine sweat, nocturnal heat, skin still asleep, and something a little salty, a little sweet, that only the approach made perceptible. You wouldn't have known how to describe it, but you would have recognized it among a thousand. A smell that belonged to her alone, like a carnal signature.
Then came the taste - imperceptible but present, like an echo on a tongue that no longer exists, a reminiscence in your very matter. It was a taste of body, of discreet salt, of retained moisture. Something lived, real, human at its most incarnate. And you felt good. Whole. Offered.
Her fingers adjusted one fold, then another. Every gesture seemed to be in slow motion. You moved slowly down her legs, following their curves. You felt her skin sliding against you - an endless caress, a dialogue without words. With each movement, you felt an imperceptible thrill, as if your new form were drinking in the world through her.
It's hard to say whether the world was spinning or whether it was you, now supple and sensitive matter, who was carried along by the slow, measured movements of a living body. The fabric that constituted you, ribbed with memory and perception, was at every moment taking on the shape of her fingers, the tension of her gestures, the gentle heaviness of her thighs as she crouched slightly to introduce you to her.
And then there was that suspended moment.
Céleste had straightened up. Before you, seen from below, unfolded a new geography, an interweaving of volumes, textures and hues you'd never approached like this before. Her basin stood out like sacred architecture, a crossroads of lines and hollows, taut surfaces and more secretive folds. The low-angled light traced its contours with almost surgical precision. You could make out the birth of the Mount of Venus, covered in an almost imperceptible down - a fine pale fleece, barely more golden than the rest, which the light revealed in its slightest variations of shadow and grain.
Every detail took on exaggerated importance. The outer lips, known in vulvar anatomy as the “labia majora”, formed two symmetrical, slightly domed folds of soft skin, with pinkish, ivory tones. They opened slowly under the adjustment of her hands, gradually revealing the inner mucosa, darker, brighter, the narrow vestibule where you knew the entrance to the vagina lay, lower down, and higher up, the hood of the clitoris - a tiny fold of sensitive skin, protected in its delicate niche.
But you weren't just seeing. You were absorbing.
A wave was expanding inside you, as if each of your cotton filaments could taste the air, decode the pheromones, capture the natural, discreet moisture emanating from this region. It wasn't just a smell: it was a chemical landscape, a precise and ever-changing biological cocktail of sweat, hormones, lactic acid, sebum, traces of sleep and wakefulness. There was a richness here that surpassed any image - as if you'd become able to read her presence through the very pores of your matter.
Then, the contact.
At last, she brought you to your destination.
The hollow of your crotch, the area anatomists call the “anterior perineum”, was the first to welcome you. A warmth reigned there, distinct from that of the thighs or belly: denser, wetter, more constant. You were pressed against this vital center, against this sanctuary that everything in human physiology protects and surrounds. The exquisitely fine interlabial groove brushed against you. And in that gentle pressure, that delicate molding, you understood how much you belonged to her - not as a thought or an idea, but as an extension of her intimacy.
Every movement of hers became your inner tide.
She barely moved - a simple bend of the hip - and you felt the world sway. Her breath varied the temperature, the humidity, the embrace. You were enveloped, but never confined. There was play, life, freedom in this closeness. You weren't locked in. You were welcomed.
And Celeste, standing with one hand on her hip, simply breathed:
“Voilà...”
That simple word echoed in your fabric like a promise.