Georgie crept into the bedroom and took off her t-shirt, jeans, and panties, strewing them over the carpet. Then, as naked as the day she was born, she climbed on the bed, to kneel – beside him.
Their intense mood was interrupted by loud banging on the door, a boy and a girl’s slurred, drunken voices,
‘Let us in!’
‘Come on! You’ve had your five minutes!’
He froze.
Georgie gently stroked his belly, gliding her soft hand downwards, into his hairy groin,
‘Ignore them,’ she soothed, ‘They’ll soon go away.’
The din outside ceased.
He groaned as she sheathed him,
‘There,’ she whispered, ‘Now keep still. Forget the world. Think about me.’
She straddled him. He felt the soft insides of her thighs rubbing against his hips. Her fine hair, brushing his hair. Her belly, resting, lightly, on his abdomen, as she fed him inside her. He loved her tenderness. She was tactile for him: relishing her impalement, fully aroused, holding his hands to her breasts, her nipples, stiffened by his firm caress. Her heart pounded. His chest heaved. He cried out for her,
‘I love you Georgie! Love you Georgie!’
She shuddered as his spasms subsided.
It was over.
His mind was riddled with guilt, ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t hold on any longer.’
She comforted him, brushing his cheek with her hand, ‘You felt good! You were great!’
Masking her disappointment, she dismounted him, carefully, grasping the root of his shrivelled stalk to ensure that his sheath didn’t slip off inside her. He felt her climb off the bed, watching her intently as she padded off to the bathroom.
Shattered, frustrated by his inability to satisfy her, he rolled onto one side and fell asleep.
The Giving:
Even as she went to open the bathroom door Georgie felt her guilt, mixed with a sense of shame at how she behaved. It didn’t help her that she was tired out, emotionally drained by the intense effort of seducing, and making love to the virgin – or that she was still left wanting him. She turned a handle with her clean hand and stepped inside, quietly closing the door, so as not to wake her sleeping…
Christ! What’s his name? I don’t even know his name!
Georgie pulled the light switch cord, the immensity of what she’d just done weighing on her mind. She’d played with him intimately on a garden swing, even though she knew the others were watching her thru the kitchen window. She’d borne her breasts for him, exposing herself to the sultry, summer evening air. Then, she had caressed him, tenderly, lovingly, leading him to believe she might love him. She thought of him, crying for her as he squirmed and wriggled, under her, on the twin’s parent’s bed.
Bizarre notions teased her confused mind. She thought of the black and yellow book her mother gave her when she was eleven: Peter and Pamela Grow Up, imagining she was Pamela and he was Peter.
Pamela Becomes a Young Lady she reminded herself, wistfully.
How careful was she? Could he have made her pregnant? How would she explain a baby to her mother in Oz? She squatted over the toilet and peed. Her mother was a devout who believed in the sanctity of marriage. What was it she told her, before Georgie left home to see the world?
‘When you fall in love with a man, find your husband, and marry him, it is only natural that you will want to kiss and embrace each other. You will want to come together in the closest possible contact.’
She’d smiled naughtily to herself, Come together?
‘Thanks so much for explaining that to me, Mummy,’ Georgie said, interrupting her.
Her mother continued, ‘Oh, and darling.’
‘Yes?’
‘This act of loving union between a husband and wife is commonly referred to as sexual intercourse.’
Another knowing smile, Really?
‘Commonly, Mummy?’
‘Yes, commonly.’
That was how she felt: common, soiled. The hand basin was porcelain white with original brass taps. One of the taps, the hottest one, was still running from her previous visit, when she prepared herself for him. Georgie picked up the bar of Cussons Imperial Leather and scrubbed her hands, ridding herself of him. There was a strange taste in her mouth – his taste. She shook her head despondently, daring herself to pluck the used pink toothbrush out of the mouldy beige tooth mug, applied a splodge of Colgate, then brushed her teeth.
The idea of her having a pen friend in England had been her mother’s. Ironically, Georgie started writing to Lyndsey when she reached eleven: the same age she became acquainted with Peter and Pam. As they grew older the teenagers became distant friends, confidantes, alluding to each other about the changes occurring in their bodies. Then, on her eighteenth birthday, she had embarked on her backpacking Tour of Europe starting in Italy, visiting Monaco, the South of France, Spain, Portugal, ending in London, from where she called Lyndsey – and heard about the party.
She rinsed the toothbrush clean, drying it on a pink face flannel, and returned it to its mug. There were four his and hers towels hanging by the handbasin. Georgie felt them all. The pink ones were sopping wet. She recoiled. She would have to use a navy-blue men’s towel after her shower. The shower head was unscaled. It protruded over a spotless four-legged bath. She turned on the twin brass taps, mixing the water to steamy hot, lifted the shower knob, and drew the curtain, ensuring it hung inside the bath. Then she climbed in, thrilling to the invigorating sensation of water cascading down her body, feeling all tingly inside. As she soaped her breasts, her belly and crotch, the lure of him, lying naked on the bed, returned to haunt her.
The delicious surge of arousal spread through her body. Just as the red light of anticipation lit her up mind. She had tried to use the young man, lying on the bed next door, for her personal gratification, and failed. He was at best inept, an awkward lover, but he held a fascination, a mystique, she found intriguing. His v-shaped torso, muscular physique, the smoothness of his skin, his warm hair, demanded her caress. There was no doubt: she’d lost control of herself, taking an incredible risk when she made love to him. But deep inside her heart, she felt an inner compulsion to be with him. Georgie wondered if this was what real love felt like.
She shampooed her hair with Silvikrin and tried to bring the intensity of her feelings under control, to rationalise her thoughts.
Tonight, she would tell him how much she loved sharing her precious moments with him, bid him a tearful farewell, kiss, embrace, and say goodbye. Tomorrow, if she managed to get out of bed, she would spend the day sightseeing in London.
Except, the time for rational thinking was over.
She rinsed her hair, turned off the shower, drew the curtain, and climbed out of the bath. Some of her hairs were stuck in the plughole.
‘Always leave the toilet, sink and bath as clean as you’d expect to find them,’ her finicky mother said.
Georgie bent down, plucked out her hairball, and threw it in the toilet. Dabbing her eyes, she took in the array of lady’s cosmetics crammed onto the vanity shelf. There was a Mum rollette deodorant. She rubbed it on her hairy armpits.
The mirror had steamed up. She opened the window and stared out at the starry night sky, feeling ridiculously small and lonely. On the shelf was a phial of perfume. Georgie took the atomiser and sprayed scent on the back of her hand: the heady aroma of roses. Feeling ashamed for using the mature woman’s fragrance, she quickly sprayed her fingers, dabbed the love potion behind each ear, fluffed her hair, wrapped the towel around her waist, then padded back into the bedroom. The music had stopped playing in the lover’s discotheque.
He was lying on his back, sound asleep, making stertorous nasal noises. Georgie sealed his mouth with hers, dangling her tongue inside his, teasing him delicately, savouring his strange taste, kissing him awake with a start. He smelt her fragrance. His head span. Their lips parted. She whispered,
‘I have to go now. Come and say goodbye to me.’
She switched on the light. He blinked in utter astonishment. Georgie looked sensational. They stood on the plush crimson deep-pile carpet embracing. He ran his fingers through her damp hair, down her neck, over her knobbly spine, as far the small of her back. She felt him stir against her belly through the towel. She wanted to know his name.
He mumbled incoherently, smothering his face in her clean, fresh hair, nuzzling her neck, behind her ears, loving the scent of her, kissing her soft earlobes.
Georgie sighed contentedly: so, this is the love, the tenderness, the intimacy, I need.
She felt him tear off her towel. His hands grasped her fleshy buttocks, drawing her to him. His rigid flesh stood proudly for her, pressing insistently into the slight round of her belly,
‘Want to please you, Georgie.’
She started to cry, venting her frustration, ‘You can’t! I don’t have any protection left.’
‘Wait!’ she added, after a brief silence, ‘I have an idea. Give me your hand.’
Please that we caught the next installment, not as we had originally assumed, thankfully. We thought that there was some deception afoot. We find it human adult females feel one way about making love to virgin men but an adult man will actively seek out a virgin female. We really like this piece Lady and always your model selection matches
Thank you xx