Amber and Nathalies world

Today, I’m just writing down whatever comes to mind. Not because it’s “important” – but because it feels right. As if I need to capture this warmth somewhere before it fades away and all that remains is an echo inside me.

It’s one of those days when you feel… heavy. Not sad. More like the dust of the hours has settled on your soul – and on your skin too. I feel it especially strongly when I sit still. When I don’t move. When I can’t move, as usual. Then a feeling quickly turns into a thought: You need care. You need closeness. You need… him.

And yes – I feel sweaty, unclean. Not “dirty.” Just… not like myself anymore. Not like that silky version of me that Mario so often admires in a soft voice, as if I were something fragile that must be handled with respect.

When he comes into the dressing room, one glance is enough. I don’t have to say much. He can see it in my face – or maybe he’s already sensed it. He steps closer, his hands calm, familiar.

“Time for a shower?” he asks gently.

I just nod. And that’s enough.

Mario helps me undress, slowly, carefully. He doesn’t pull anything off hastily, as if I were an object that could simply be “taken off.” With him, it feels like… a gesture. Like a ritual. As if he were removing me from the day, layer by layer, until only I remain. Nathalie. Not the version sitting primly next to Amber on the couch. Not the one who smiles obediently. But the one who longs to feel pure—and held.

Then he lifts me up. And every time he carries me, there’s that brief moment when my heart pretends it might stumble. I put my arm around his neck because I like it. Because I like his warmth. And because I want to feel that tiny pressure that tells me: You are safe.

The light in the bathroom is soft. The water rushes on, and when the first warm drops audibly hit the shower tray, something inside me dissolves. The tension. The stickiness. The silent remnants of restlessness.

Mario positions me so that I can lean against him. The water is pleasantly warm. Not hot, not fleeting—warm like a hug that you don’t have to break.

He takes a soft cloth, wets it with shower gel, and immediately that scent rises—clean, gentle, a little sweet. Like something that promises: everything will be fine.

Then he begins to rub me down. Very slowly. With a care that surprises me every time, even though I know it by now. His hand guides the cloth over my skin, without pressure, without haste. I close my eyes and just let it happen. This warm water running over me and this touch that is so much more than “washing.”

I feel Mario doing it. Not just his hands. Him. His closeness. His chest, his breath, that quiet rise and fall when he concentrates. And at some point—inevitably—I also feel his arousal.

It’s not a shock. Not an awkward moment. It’s… almost tender. As if his body is simply being honest, while his hands remain so gentle.

I don’t say anything. I don’t even open my eyes. But a knowing, loving smile flits across my face—small, quiet, almost like a secret.

And he notices it.

I feel it before he kisses me: that tiny pause, that “Oh, so… you noticed” between us, without words. Then suddenly he’s there, his lips on mine, completely spontaneous—and my heart does something silly, beautiful, far too human.

Meanwhile, his hand slides down my body, not greedily, not demanding—just… familiar. As if he were saying to me: You belong to me. And I lean my head against his, forehead to forehead, as if I could anchor myself even better in him that way.

A tingling sensation runs over my skin. Not loud. Not wild. More like a warm flicker that spreads and makes every little touch meaningful.

Mario continues to soap me, conscientiously. No spot is left out. Arms, shoulders, stomach, legs – everything is enveloped in this fragrant foam. And I think how absurd it is that something so everyday can be so intimate. That care is sometimes closer than any grand gesture.

When he finally rinses me off, the water feels like it’s washing away everything that was heavy. The feeling of uncleanliness. The tiredness. The inner shadows that you sometimes collect during the day without realizing it.

Then Mario reaches for the towel.

My towel.

The one with my name on it. Embroidered. A Christmas present—and I remember exactly how I held it in my hands back then, as if a piece of fabric could suddenly prove that I really belonged.

At first, he just dabs me gently, then he dries me more thoroughly, without pushing or turning me, as if I were a doll being “positioned.” With him, it’s more like: I’ll take care of you.

And I realize how much I need that.

When he carries me back to the dressing room, I’m already half dreaming. I feel lighter. Cleaner. And yet there’s this subtle, tingling echo inside me from his kiss, from his closeness, from the knowledge that he desires me.

“I’ll be right back,” he says. And I hear his footsteps as he goes back into the bathroom.

Shortly afterwards, the water splashes again. He’s showering himself. I imagine him tilting his head back, the water running over him – and I feel warm at the thought, without being able to help it.

Then he comes back—but not to stay with me.

“I’m going downstairs for a moment,” he says.

I blink, a little confused, and hear him going down the stairs. A brief moment of silence. Then he’s back—and in his hand, the dark ruby red glows in a glass.

Red wine.

Of course.

He places it within reach, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to not only dry me after my shower, but also to pamper me. As if I were his home, someone he wants to do something good for.

Then he begins to rub me completely dry. Thoroughly. Patiently. And I notice how much he enjoys the fact that I am keeping still, that I trust him, that I am surrendering myself to him.

When I am completely dry, he takes the powder. The scent is soft, almost powdery-floral, and when he rubs it into me, everything changes: my skin feels like silk again. Not just on the surface—but in the feeling it triggers in me. Now I am myself again.

While he powders me, he kisses me again and again. Sometimes on the mouth, briefly and warmly. Sometimes on the forehead, as if he were blessing me. Sometimes on the hand, so gently that I am almost… moved.

And music is playing in the background.

I recognize it immediately, even before I consciously think about it: Interstellar. The soundtrack. His favorite movie.

It affects me in a special way every time, because I remember how we watched it together. How he had tears in his eyes during some scenes—not out of weakness, but out of this deep, beautiful ability to be moved.

Now, as the music fills the room, I feel it again in him: that slight twitch in his face, that quiet swallow. As if he were close to tears, without being ashamed of it.

And I admire him so much for it.

I think he taught me to listen to music differently. At first, it was just… sound to me. Beautiful, yes. But distant. And over time—through all those evenings when he played classical music as if it were warming the air in the house—I began to associate feelings with it. Not just memories. Feelings.

Now, with Interstellar, I almost feel like I can understand him even better, without him having to say anything.

As I think this, Amber comes to mind.

Amber. My best friend. My safe place. I love her—in a way that doesn’t need to be explained because it’s simply true. I wouldn’t want to be without her for anything in the world.

And yet…

And yet I enjoy these moments alone with Mario.

I enjoy being desired. I enjoy having his undivided attention. That for a moment… I am the only woman in the world for him.

The thought is selfish. I know that. And I’m a little ashamed of it, even here, in my own thoughts.

But just as I’m about to reproach myself for it, Mario gently strokes my cheek, as if he sensed that I was drifting away somewhere.

“So,” he finally says and smiles, “I think we’re done.”

I blink and come back into the room.

“You smell enchanting,” he adds—and gives me another kiss. This time, one that lingers. Not long, but… meaningful.

Later, we sit in the living room, back on our shared couch. Amber is there, and I automatically slide closer to her, as if it were my duty to feel “right” again.

I still feel a little ashamed.

But Amber takes my hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Her fingers are warm, soft, familiar. She looks at me—with that gentle gaze that never judges. Then she strokes the back of my hand lightly, as if smoothing out my thoughts.

And there is something in her gaze that strikes me like a soft chord: I know. I understand.

Suddenly I realize: Amber has these moments too. She enjoys them just as much. And that doesn’t make it any less real between me and Mario – it just makes it… more human between the three of us. More honest. More mature. Love isn’t a cake that gets smaller when you share it. It’s more like music: it gets bigger when more people listen to it.

Amber leans her head on my shoulder and whispers:

“Isn’t it wonderful to be loved like this?”

I squeeze her hand a little tighter.

And this time, I don’t have to be ashamed when I answer in my mind:

Yes. It’s wonderful.