Only for You (Wicked Wednesday #364)

This story evolved over the last week or so. It was initially inspired by last week's irresistible Masturbation Monday prompt, but I had trouble getting my muse to cooperate. Then I saw this week's Wicked Wednesday "Ritual" prompt and the story went in a slightly different direction.

It may also be a bit of a response to a rather critical comment someone made about a teaser I used for my story "Elevator Confidential," which was just released in Chemical [se]X 2: Just One More. The person called it "bossy and vulgar." I really can't argue with the vulgar part, but then I get off on vulgar.

However, as is the nature of teasers, the line was taken out of context and seen in the worst possible light. There is a big difference between dominance and being bossy. One is hot; one is not. One inspires submission; the other makes you want to slap the person silly. Anyway, I hope this story addresses that a little.

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Hope you enjoy,

Ria ;)

Website: http://www.riarestrepo.com

Twitter: @RiaRestrepo

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/RiaRestrepoAuthorPage

Warning: Really vulgar language, domination/submission, dirty talk, name calling, and come-play.

Only for You

By Ria Restrepo

Copyright ©2019. All rights reserved.

"What are you doing?"

Putting down the lip gloss I was using, I looked at him in the dresser mirror. "Getting ready for the barbecue."

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

His tone immediately alerted me to his mood—that firmer, more dominant voice that called to the eager submissive slut in me. But only for him.

As the ever-smoldering desire flared to life low in my abdomen, I turned to face him. He stood there in a T-shirt and faded jeans, leaning back against the doorjamb, his arms folded over his chest, and mischief glimmering in his eyes.

I knew exactly what he was referring to, but couldn't quite believe it. "I thought you meant when we were around strangers."

He shrugged a shoulder. "I said the next time we were in public. This is it."

This was my punishment for teasing him with naughty pictures while he was at work. Not that wearing his come was ever a hardship. I actually reveled in it—being a filthy little come whore. Only for him.

"Are you sure?" I licked my lips. "Just about everyone you know will be there."

His distracting mouth slowly curved into a wicked grin. "Are you refusing?"

The challenge was clear. If I refused, he'd surely invent something even more fiendish as retribution for making him hard during an important meeting. Although I was curious what the worse option would be, I rarely yielded when he threw down the gauntlet. And he knew it too.

Meeting his gaze, I said what we both knew I'd say. "No, sir."

Adopting a sterner demeanor, he straightened and crooked his finger at me. "Come here."

In any other context, an imperious command like that would have set my teeth on edge. But in that moment, it sent a wildfire of need racing through my blood. Only for him.

As I walked towards him, I pealed off the respectable floral-print dress I'd planned to wear and tossed it onto the bed.

His heated gaze roved over my body, taking in the white lace bra and thong clinging to my curves, then focused on my barely covered tits. "Lose the fucking bra."

From anyone else, that rude order would have earned a sharp retort. Coming from him, though, it made me grin, because I knew how much he loved my tits. So I happily complied. Only for him.

Standing in front of him, I reached back, unfastened my bra, and flung it onto the floor.

He couldn't miss my already taut nipples and I relished the ardent appreciation flaring in his blue eyes.

For a moment, I savored the electric tension arching in the air between, my excitement mounting by the second.

Then I did what I longed to do the moment he asked me if I'd forgotten my punishment. I knelt at his feet, willingly submitting to the only man who'd ever really made my submissive slut soul sing. The only man I'd ever truly loved. After so long, I'd finally surrendered my body and my heart. Only for him.

I ran my hands up his legs, enjoying the feel of his firm thighs beneath the soft denim. When I got to his groin, I felt his obvious erection through the material and traced his length with my fingers.

Biting my lip, I looked up to see him staring down at me.

"No more teasing, naughty girl."

Since I was just as eager, I unfastened his fly and freed him from the tight confines of his jeans. His dick was thick and hard—and perfect, because it was his. I honestly loved worshiping his cock.

I'd made a ritual of giving him pleasure. Not because he demanded it. Because I craved the feel of his hot length gliding past my lips and filling my mouth. Because I savored the slightly salty taste of him on my tongue. Because every time I took him so deep his pubic hair tickled my nose, the musky scent of him was intoxicating. And because I cherished the sounds of enjoyment he made and the dirty appreciative comments he bestowed on me.

Moments like this were transformative. He gave me the freedom to shed the oppressive good-girl façade I'd worn my entire life. I became the wanton fuck slut I'd always fantasized about being. Only for him.

I licked up his shaft from base to tip, pausing to tease the sensitive spot beneath the head before taking him in my mouth. Delighting in his low groan, I moved down his length until he nudged the back of my throat. My lips dragged along his warm skin and my tongue massaged the underside when I traveled back up.

As I established a slow, steady sucking rhythm, he slid his fingers into my hair and fisted it just the way I loved. His grip was tight enough to make me moan in pleasure around his cock. My cunt had been getting progressively wetter, but this display of his control made my inner muscles tighten deliciously and a fresh wave of cunt cream flood my sex.

Releasing his cock from my mouth, I wrapped my hand around his slick shaft and began stroking him as I nuzzled my face against the warm weight of his balls. I adored them as much as I did the rest of him.

Looking up at him, I gave one a kiss before taking it in my mouth and softly sucking it.

His eyes were heavy-lidded and he was breathing hard. "I'm going to come all over your big slut tits."

Murmuring my assent, I longed to press my thighs together to ease some of the aching need in my cunt, but I knew he wouldn't want that. He'd want me good and horny all night long until he decided to give me some relief. I'd learned that prolonging my pleasure made me come all the harder. Only for him.

"Fuck!" He took over stroking his cock and I reluctantly relinquished my prize.

Sitting back on my heels, I tilted my head back, giving him the perfect target for his release. I heard the wet slapping of him jerking his cock hard and fast. Then he grunted and I felt a warm rope of thick come fall across my upper chest.

Several more grunts and shots followed until I was covered in his spunk. I reveled in every wet, sticky line crisscrossing my flesh. It wasn't demeaning or humiliating. It was liberating. I was the perfect little come whore. Only for him.

When I looked down at myself, I almost came from just the sight of his pearly seed glistening on my skin. I was about to smear it all over my tits, rub it into my nipples, like I so often did, but he stopped me.

"No, leave it like that."

I looked at him questioningly. He normally loved watching me play with his come, so I was confused by this sudden change. But I obeyed, because I figured he must have something specific in mind.

He smirked as he tucked himself back in his jeans. "You can stand. But, otherwise, stay just as you are."

Again, I did as I was told, curious about where this was going.

Then he disappeared into the closet and returned with a sky-blue sundress I knew very well.

"Wear this. No bra." He handed it to me. "No hiding my come under clothing."

I took it and glanced down at the low-cut dress with thin spaghetti straps. "But everyone will notice. Someone is bound to say something. How am I supposed to explain it?"

Looking up, I saw his wide grin. "I can't wait to hear what you come up with."

The evil man was putting me in an awkward position. Just like I'd done to him. So I couldn't exactly be annoyed about him giving me some of my own medicine. I'd take my punishment and brazen it out. Only for him.

Much later that evening, we lay in bed, both gloriously exhausted after a vigorous fuck that culminated a long evening of taunting and teasing. He was curled around me from behind, his sated cock nestled between my ass cheeks. His dried come still coated my chest and was now a slick mess between my thighs—which I thoroughly enjoyed.

"Do you think they bought that line about it being streaky sunscreen?"

I felt his lips curve into a smile against my shoulder as his body vibrated with mirth. "I doubt it. But it was a clever excuse."

"Surprisingly, I wasn't embarrassed at all."

"No?"

"It was rather thrilling—all those people seeing your come marking me, whether they realized it or not. And imagining they did made it all the hotter. That they knew I was your filthy little come slut."

His arm tightened around my chest and he kissed my neck. "Yes, all mine."

Humming with pleasure, I snuggled my ass against his groin.

He yawned. "I'm actually amazed you went through with it."

Before drifting off into a satisfied sleep, I said, "Only for you."

The Red Balloon (Friday Flash #52)

Earlier in the week, I had another story in mind, but I had some trouble getting myself to focus. When F. Leonora Solomon posted the Friday Flash prompt, I wasn't sure what if anything I could do with it. But then I had this far-out-there idea and my muse decided to cooperate. Go figure.

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Hope you enjoy,

Ria ;)

Website: http://www.riarestrepo.com

Twitter: @RiaRestrepo

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/RiaRestrepoAuthorPage

The Red Balloon

By Ria Restrepo

Copyright ©2019. All rights reserved.

Once upon a time, there was a red balloon like so many others, yet different. A spark of passion swelled inside her and she longed to be free. The bright blue sky beckoned her, but try as she might, she couldn't break loose. She was hopelessly knotted to the rest.

The others of her kind didn't seem to mind their inhibited fate. Sometimes, one or a group would go off to places unknown, but always remained tethered. Maybe that was the best she could expect—to travel the world in a tightly controlled fashion. She knew the mundane existence would slowly drain her vitality until she shriveled and died.

Then, one day, something miraculous happened. A wild and warm wind blew through with a liberating force, tearing away her oppressive bonds. It was terrifying at first, being carried away on a slipstream into the firmament.

But the zephyr whispered reassuringly and she quickly relaxed, relishing her sudden freedom. All her impossible dreams were finally coming true. Sailing through the air, she rose higher and higher. Joyous and free, she gave herself to him completely, surrendering to his every delightful whim.

The wind rewarded her submission affectionately. He caressed her with light drafts, creating sensations she'd never imagined. He surrounded her, stroking her, gently building her pleasure until she shuddered in ecstasy, lost in the nirvana only he aroused.

Savoring the afterglow, she slowly realized the wind was gradually taking her lower. She was confused and somewhat disappointed when he carefully set her down in a summer field. Was he abandoning her?

Before she was overcome with agonizing grief, he swirled around her, guiding her in a seductive dance. Blades of cool green grass tickled and teased her delicate flesh, stimulating her desire all over again. Relief and rapture swiftly overtook her. He only wanted to give her a new experience to cherish.

And so she became devoted to the wind, the friend that freed her, the lover that filled her with unbridle bliss. They were two of a kind—different in many ways, but alike in all the ways that mattered. Irresistibly drawn to each other despite all the odds.

It wasn't all sunshine and clear skies, though. Occasionally he led her into a storm cloud or two. The thunder and lightening were frightening initially, but he kept her safely out of reach, showing her the magnificence of the volatile spectacle. She quite enjoyed the rain that often accompanied these tempests. There was something cathartic and sensual about the deluge washing over her.

Drifting along in the night sky, below a sea of stars, also filled her with awe. Thanks to her rescuer, there was a whole new world for her to explore. When she inevitably lost some of her buoyancy, he filled her up and gave her new life.

Thus, the wind and the red balloon continued on, forever joined in love and passion—seekers wandering the earth, reveling in blue skies, the darkest nights, and everything in between.

Sapphire Rose (Masturbation Monday)

I can't really say where this story came from, but it started with the name of the protagonist, which then became the title. It can't be much of a surprise that I'd write another story about a musician sooner or later. The tone of this one is a little different—more in the vein of "The Forbidden Dance."

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Hope you enjoy,

Ria ;)

Website: http://www.riarestrepo.com

Twitter: @RiaRestrepo

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/RiaRestrepoAuthorPage

Sapphire Rose

By Ria Restrepo

Copyright ©2019. All rights reserved.

Lounging in the open window, the wild summer wind teasing her silk robe, she looked down at the alleyway below. The humid breeze was a welcome relief from the oppressive heat that hardly ebbed even after the sun went down.

Suddenly, the banging of a metal door broke through her lethargic haze. Someone burst from the back of the nightclub across the way. She didn't need the silhouette of a guitar slung over his back to recognize him. It was the wandering troubadour who sang in the club whenever he was in town.

Since she first saw him, she hadn't missed a performance, including that very night. She'd hung around for a while, hoping she might entice him into spending the night with her. Unfortunately, she didn't get the chance.

Right after his set, he went to the private room below the club to play cards with men she knew well to avoid. She watched as he frantically looked both ways down the alley as if the devil was on his tail. Apparently, things hadn't gone his way.

Not thinking twice about it, she softly called down, "Up here."

He looked up, then quickly scaled the fire escape to her window.

She moved aside so he could come in.

Once in her apartment, they stood out of sight, on either side of the window, and watched as two henchmen emerged from the same door. They looked around, then split up—each one going down the alley in different directions.

He let out a deep breath. "Thank you."

Her apartment was dark, but the moonlight streaming in highlighted his strong, handsome features and cast his sandy brown hair in an ethereal cerulean hue. "My pleasure."

Looking at her for the first time, he took in her semi-dressed state. "What's your name?"

"Sapphire Rose."

"Really?"

She flipped open her robe enough to show off the blue rose tattoo on her hip above her black lace panties. "What do you think?"

He cleared his throat. "I should probably go."

"No need to rush off." She went to her bed, sat on the edge, then patted the space beside her. "Stay awhile."

"But I can't pay you. That's why they're after me."

"Did I ask you for money?"

"No, but…aren't you, ah…"

Her lips curved into a sultry smile. "Tell you what, why don't you sing me a song. Then you can have whatever you want."

He considered that for a moment. "Anything?"

"Sure." It wasn't like she hadn't heard and done it all before.

Pulling his guitar off his back, he nodded. "Okay."

Leaning back on her elbows, she watched as he got situated on the bench of her dressing table.

After making sure the instrument was tuned to his satisfaction, he started playing a sweetly poignant melody she hadn't heard before. His eyes closed, with a voice like warm honey, he sang a song about wandering through the desert and meeting a gypsy princess, who ultimately broke his heart.

She wondered what he saw in his mind's eye as he sang—or who.

With the final note ringing in the air for a moment, he finally opened his eyes.

"Is it true?" she asked.

"What?"

"The song."

He shrugged. "It's just a song."

Somehow, she doubted that.

Her robe had been gaping open, barely concealing her large breasts. She noticed his gaze lingering there and smiled. With one hand, she pulled the end of the sash so it came undone, then brushed the silk aside, completely revealing herself to his hungry eyes.

"So, what will it be?" she asked.

He lifted his gaze to meet hers. "I want to watch you get yourself off."

The request took her by surprise. Not that she hadn't pleasured herself in front of men before, but only until they were fully aroused. Then tending to their needs took priority. They rarely cared if she got satisfaction from it—just that she made pretty noises while they took what the needed. But he actually wanted to see her come for him.

She trailed a finger down her chest and captured a nipple between her fingers. "You want to see me play with my pussy?"

"Cunt." He got up and laid his guitar on the stool. "I like the word cunt. It's fucking hot."

"Mmmm, yes, it is." She squeezed her nipple, twisting it a little, and sucked in a breath as tantalizing sensations streaked throughout her body. "Just watch me get my horny little cunt off? That's all you want?"

Moving towards the end of the bed, he rubbed himself through his jeans. "And I want to come all over your tits."

The sound of that turned her on more than she would have thought. Usually, she didn't care one way or the other if a man came on her. Undoubtedly, it was the idea of his come, specially, marking her skin that made her cunt clench with rampant desire.

Abandoning her nipple, she lay back, lifted her hips, and slid off her panties so they fell onto the floor at her feet. Propping herself back up on an elbow, she clearly saw his erection straining against the denim. He was still tugging on it through the worn material.

Licking her lips, she hitched her foot up onto the edge of the bed and spread herself wide open so he could see her shaved sex. She could feel her wetness sliding between her cunt lips and knew they must be glistening with her juices.

As he watched, she delved her fingers between her drenched slit and found her clit. His gaze was locked on her cunt as she circled the swollen nub again and again. The pleasure of her own touch was intensified by performing just for him, knowing she was making him hard. But she craved more. She needed to see him.

"Please, I need to see your cock." She panted as the waves of bliss grew stronger. "Please stroke it for me."

She'd never had to ask before. Men didn't hesitate to whip out their cocks for her—whether she really wanted them to or not. It was surprisingly thrilling having to beg him and made her arousal crest even higher.

Thankfully, he eagerly opened his fly and freed his cock. She moaned at the sight of him. He was impressively hard, the head wet with pre-come. As he fisted his shaft in a firm grip, she pushed two fingers into her tight sheath. In time with his hand moving up and down his cock in long strokes, she finger-fucked herself, using her thumb to tease her clit.

Sooner than she would have liked, she felt her orgasm fast approaching. She wanted to prolong it, watch him jerking his cock for longer, but she couldn't resist letting the pleasure overwhelm her. Falling back onto the bed, she cried out as the ecstasy ripped through her, coming harder than she ever had before.

Her body was still shuddering from the aftershocks when she hazily felt him climb onto the bed. She opened her eyes in time to see him furiously working his cock over her tits. His body tensed and he grunted as he shot a thick load of spunk into her abundant flesh. Several more milky ropes of come followed until her tits were thoroughly coated.

Completely spent, he collapsed beside her on the bed.

For long minutes, the room was only filled with the sound of their heavy breathing.

When hers had evened out, she looked down at her messy tits. She couldn't resist running her fingers through the creamy streaks, rubbing it into her nipples and down onto her belly.

He groaned. "Fuck that's hot."

"Yeah, I love the feel of your come on my skin." She traced a slick finger over her tattoo.

"Why do you call yourself Sapphire?"

Normally, she didn't like talking about herself, but looking into his crystal blue eyes, she found herself answering. "I was born in September, so it's my birthstone. And I always loved the color."

"What's your real name?"

She smiled. "Play me another song and I'll tell you."

Love Your Skin (Skin Cancer Awareness Month)

I hope you'll forgive this break from the dirty stories for a public service announcement. I promise I won't make a habit of it. Since it's Skin Cancer Awareness Month, I thought it was a good time to come clean about something.

I'm normally a very private person and I don't usually talk about my trials and tribulations—actually, I go a long way to avoid it. However, if sharing my experience helps someone, any discomfort I feel will have been worth it.

Skin, in all its glorious shades, is sexy. Skin cancer isn't. I know firsthand, because last fall I was diagnosed with basal cell carcinoma (BCC) on the right cheek of my face. On the bright side, if you have to get skin cancer, this is definitely the kind you want. It's generally localized to the spot where it occurs, doesn't spread, and is highly treatable.

For most of my life, I've had a mole on my right cheek. Truth be told, I have moles everywhere. The vast majority are flat and just look like a large freckle. This one was the same shade as my normal skin tone and about the diameter of an eraser head, but somewhat flat like a coin. It hadn't ever been all that noticeable.

Over the last year or so, I noticed it had gotten significantly larger, more amorphous is shape, and several shades pinker than my normal skin tone. I decided to have it checked out and asked my primary care physician about it. He referred me to a dermatologist.

Even though I knew something wasn't right about the mole, I really didn't think it was skin cancer. I had this misconception that skin cancer was dark in color—brown or black—and this was pink.

My biggest concern was that it had become rather unsightly and I was wondering how much it would cost to have it removed, because I didn't think my insurance would cover any part of a purely cosmetic procedure. This definitely goes in the "be careful what you wish for" category.

The dermatologist took one look at it and said, "Oh yeah, that's got to come off."

Initially, I was quite pleased. She was going to remove it without me trying to convince her it was medically necessary. Yeah, there might be a bit of a scar, but it couldn't look as bad as the mole.

Right there in her office, on my first visit, she performed a shave biopsy, where she basically sliced off the entire mole from the top layer of my skin. First, she had to inject the mole several times with a numbing agent, which wasn't a big deal. It just felt like a few pin pricks.

I didn't feel her cutting off the mole at all. There was quite a bit of bleeding, though, and she had to cauterize the wound. Again, I didn't feel this, but I did smell it. A squeamish person may have had a problem with it. Thankfully, it didn't bother me.

I left the dermatologist's office with instructions to wash the wound with mild soap and water, coat it in petroleum jelly, and change the bandage daily. Honestly, I felt pretty good about the whole thing. I did wonder how sore my face was going to be after the numbing agent wore off, but it was practically pain free.

The biggest problem I had was finding the right size bandage to cover the wound. Then I had a problem with the bandage adhesive, which I'm apparently sensitive to. It irritated my skin so much I had to stop using them, but I kept the wound clean and coated in petroleum jelly.

For a week, I went about business as usual, then I got a call from a guy at the dermatologist's office. He told me that the biopsy showed it was basal cell carcinoma.

I didn't know what that was at that point, so naturally I asked, "What does that mean?"

He said, "It's skin cancer. We have to make an appointment for you to come back."

Somehow, I held it together long enough to make a follow-up appointment. I'm not going to lie, after I hung up, I kind of fell apart. Like I am most of the time, I was in front of my computer, so I immediately Googled "basal cell carcinoma."

I calmed down a bit as I read, but I slowly came to grips with the fact that it meant there was probably going to be more cutting into my face. I also saw that my fair skin and green eyes placed me in the highest risk group for this type of skin cancer. I had a pretty good pity party going on for a couple days.

The wound from the biopsy had just barely healed by the time I went back to the dermatologist and met with the surgeon. He's actually the husband of the dermatologist who removed my mole. They have a practice together. Isn't that sweet? I'm being serious, not sarcastic, I promise.

He told me that what they usually do in cases like mine is cut out a certain amount of healthy tissue around the BBC, then elongate the incision so they can close the wound. For me, that meant a pretty wide area and therefore a pretty long incision. He actually drew on my face with a marker so I could see what it would look like.

Again, as I looked in the mirror, I managed to stoically absorb the fact that I'd have a fairly long scar down the side of my face, about two and a half inches long. That was kind of a small miracle, because usually I tear up quite easily when I'm upset—which is really annoying when I'm angry. I know it was vain and it could have been something so much worse, but I wasn't thrilled about the idea of having a long scar on my face.

The surgeon, who is a very affable guy, was jovially confounded that I didn't have any wrinkles in which to conceal the scar. How's that for irony? He must have not relished the idea of mutilating my face, because he did something very un-surgeon-like and offered a nonsurgical option that would be just as effective—radiation treatment.

I thought, aloud, "Great. Radiation sickness. Hair loss." How much did I really not want a huge scar on my face?

But then he explained that it would be radiation localized to the area on my cheek where the BCC was. He said there might be some skin irritation and hair loss at the site, but I should otherwise be okay. However, it meant about twenty-five daily treatments. I agreed to have a consultation with a radiation oncologist, so I guess that was how badly I didn't want a big scar on my face.

The earliest appointment I could get with the radiation oncologist was coincidentally on election day, when the future of our health care system hung in the balance. Luckily, I'd voted early.

One of the first questions the radiation oncologist asked me was if I spent a lot of time in the sun. I said that I didn't. I'm a writer and spend most of my time inside on my computer.

Then he asked me if I went to tanning salons. The answer to that should have been plainly obvious by the paleness of my skin. But again, I told him that I'd never been to a tanning salon, which is true.

I'll admit, in my teens, I did lie out a few times and try to get the perfect tan. I was in Miami with all the beautifully tanned people and my complexion leaned more towards my mother's pale German/Irish coloring. Thankfully, I get bored easily and didn't have much patience for sitting around baking in the sun.

I have had a few bad sunburns in my lifetime—completely by accident. I'll also admit that I wasn't conscientious at all about wearing sunscreen. I rode around in a convertible throughout my twenties without any real sun protection. Also, I was in a couple marching bands, marching around in the hot summer sun. I may have worn a hat, but I don't remember using sunscreen.

As I got older, I became more appreciative of my pale complexion and more mindful about wearing sunscreen. But I wasn't as diligent about it as I should have been.

Anyway, the radiation oncologist thought I was a good candidate of radiation therapy. Since I was younger than most of his patients, he thought I should have a lower dose of radiation over a longer period of time. That worked out to be thirty-six treatments.

He also said there was an infinitesimal chance that, years down the line, I might develop another type of cancer at the site that could spread elsewhere in my body. But that the chances were worse than winning the lottery. More like losing the lottery, if you ask me. Regardless, I agreed to start treatment as soon as possible.

To be honest, I had another little pity party on the car ride home, because this isn't the first monkey wrench the universe has thrown at me—not by a long shot. At some point you need to shout into the ether, "What the fuck?!" I mean, I must have been a horribly vain and selfish creature in a previous life, because I'm certainly learning humility in this one.

A couple of days later, I went to the facility where I'd receive my treatments, so they could map the treatment area. That meant lying down on a table beneath the machine that would deliver the radiation, so they could draw on my face some more and take measurements that would go to physicists who'd calculate the proper settings for the machine.

The following Monday, my treatments started. It's rather humbling going to a place called The Cancer Care Center every day and seeing people who are clearly in much worse shape than you. I'll also say that everyone I dealt with there, all the technicians and staff, were exceedingly friendly and did everything they could to make the process as easy as possible.

The treatments themselves where rather uneventful. They only lasted thirty seconds, but there was the drive there, the drive back, and waiting around for the treatment. All told, it was about two hours out of my morning Monday through Friday—with some minor adjustments in the schedule for Thanksgiving and Christmas.

In the treatment room, I had to lie down on a metal table, turn my head so the cheek with the BCC was facing up, and they taped my head down—mostly, so I remembered not to move, I think. Then they brought the machine down close to my face and placed a pad on my cheek to limit the depth of the radiation. Once that was all set up, they left the room and the machine made a lot of noise for thirty seconds. I didn't feel a thing. There was absolutely no pain. Afterwards, they came in and released me.

After the first treatment, the technician told me I'd have to cover my face whenever I went outside. I couldn't use sunscreen or any other products on my face, because it might irritate my skin. I was only allowed to wash my face with unscented soap. She recommended that I get a big floppy sunhat.

So, I went to the nearest Walmart, thinking I'd find a sunhat in their accessories department. There was nothing! All they had were knit hats and scarves. There were a few of those little girly baseball hats that wouldn't work at all. They didn't even have bandannas large enough that I could use as kerchief.

Thinking I was missing something, I approached a woman near the handbags with her two little boys and asked her if they kept the sunhats somewhere else. She said no. Apparently, even in Florida, by November they'd switched out all their summer stuff for winter-ware. There are maybe two days a year that it's cold enough to wear knit hats and scarves. And then people would laugh their asses off if they saw you dressed like Nanook of the North.

She agreed that it was stupid and kindly suggested a couple other stores I might try. However, I wasn't in the mood to go all over Timbuktu looking for a sunhat, so I went home and found the perfect thing on Amazon. Two days later, I had a sunhat. Say what you want about Amazon, but it's damn convenient sometimes.

Every week, I had a check-up with the radiation oncologist after my treatment on Thursday to monitor my progress. There was no noticeable difference the first couple of weeks, then my cheek started getting pink. They gave me something called Aquaphor, which is basically petroleum jelly, to put on my cheek after every treatment to try to reduce the irritation. However, I had to make sure my face was clean before the treatment or it might interfere with it.

My cheek got pinker and pinker until it was a bright scarlet red. Even though it looked like someone had punched me pretty hard in the cheek, it didn't really hurt at all. It made my father a bit uncomfortable whenever he went out with me in public, because he was afraid people would think he'd smacked me around. I told him that if anyone said anything, I'd tell them the truth.

Still, when we went to see the Nutcracker ballet—one of his favorite things—in early December, I cheated a little and tried using cover-up on my cheek. It didn't work very well. It just looked like I was trying to hide that someone had beaten me up.

By the time I went with my father, my aunt, and my uncle to see the Aquaman movie, my skin had become so chapped that it broke open. I didn't want to risk getting an infection on top of everything else, so I didn't try to use makeup. Thankfully, no one asked what had happened to my face.

I debated showing pictures and decided to go ahead a do it. If anyone else has to go through radiation treatment for skin cancer, they might want to know what it can look like and how it can heal. I'll warn you, the first one isn't pretty. As bad as it looks, there wasn't much pain. The skin was just a little sore. I didn't think to take a picture of the mole before it was removed. The dermatologist did, but I'm not asking her for a copy.

Last day of radiation treatment.

 

Four months later.

I had my last treatment on December 28^th. I kept up the regime of washing my face with unscented soap and applying the petroleum jelly, and the skin gradually healed until I just have a faint mark on my cheek.

I'm happy to report that at my three-month check up with the radiation oncologist, he was pleased with the way the treatment site looks. Hopefully, I'll never have to see him again. However, regular skin cancer screenings with the dermatologist are now part of my life.

The point of this long story is for me to implore you to wear sunscreen whenever you go outside during the day. Always. Especially if you're fair-skinned, have blond or red hair, and/or have blue, green, or grey eyes. It may not stop you from getting skin cancer, but it sure can't hurt and it just might prevent it.

I know it's a hassle. Trust me, I made all the excuses. I didn't want to take the time. I didn't like the heavy, greasy feeling on my skin. Let me tell you, it's a much greater hassle going to daily radiation treatments. And having to put petroleum jelly on badly chapped skin feels much worse than sunscreen.

Don't be like me. Love your skin before it's too late and use sunscreen. Just make it a part of your daily routine. And if you do notice any unusual growth or if a mole changes in appearance, get it checked out immediately. The earlier you catch these things, the better. Regular skin cancer screenings with a dermatologist are also a great idea.

All the best,

Ria :)

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