She's told him he must wait until the time is right — until she is quite sure. But that was at the end of August. It's early November now, and he's growing impatient.
Most evenings they lie together fully clothed on his childhood bed with limbs entwined, his hard cock imprisoned in his Levis incessantly pushing against her. Hour after hour of kissing, sometimes talking, only breaking off when he rises to change the vinyl, the albums that will become the soundtrack to their courting.
A year ago, he could not have imagined having a girlfriend even half as lovely as Kate. Back then he would attempt to picture it, live out that impossible fantasy in his mind even though deep in his heart he thought it as likely to happen as a win on the football pools. So often he had conjured in his mind a girl for whom he would be the centre of her world; this unimaginable person, the centre of his.
He'd always known Kate Robinson's name. She had attended the same primary school. Nine months younger, she was in the year below him, but not once had they needed to exchange words in all of those years.
It's six months since he'd first noticed her, catching sight of her walking in the opposite direction to him on the other side of the road. She had been on her way home from college wearing an indecently short, herringbone mini skirt, a slim brown leather valise clutched to her chest. Even though it was her long, shapely legs that first drew his eye, it was more in the way she carried herself, with such graceful nonchalance that made him stop dead in his tracks, turn to watch her continue on her way.
And then the following Saturday, out shopping in the town centre that Saturday afternoon, he and Mick were in Woollies browsing the albums. They had seen her thumbing through gift cards on the other side of the shop.
More often than not she'd be with that dark-haired pretty friend of hers, who they'd asked around about whose name they learned was Jemma Crosby. But even knowing Jemma's name, Kate Robinson and her mate was how he and Mick continued to refer the two girls.
In late August, Luca had asked Peter Wagner — who lived next door to kate Robinson and sold a little shit and was a big cheese with the local skinheads — to put in a word, suggested he point Kate and Jemma their way.
But Pete had gone one better than mere pointing, he had brought the two girls along to Luca's house the following Sunday afternoon, accompanied by an entourage of six other lads in Ben Shermans, braces and bovver boots, young boys ridiculous in their turnup-hoisted Levis. Bigging himself up, Pete had persuaded Kate and Jemma to come and meet the two "hippies" who owed him drugs money, said how they would love to meet two rock-chicks such as themselves.
Kate told Luca all of this months later, and he asked if she had believed Pete, all that the stuff about drugs and debts.
"Oh, please, Luca. You're talking about Peter Wagner from next door! Do you really think I was born yesterday?"
But that day, when fate wafted the two most beautiful girls in the city right to his doorstep, Luca happened to be out.
A week later, though, sheltering from the rain in a doorway near to where Kate lived, Luca and Mick saw her walking past dressed in her signature mini skirt and light tan tights, her long hair already lank and clinging from the sudden downpour.
"Hey, Kate!" Mick called out not expecting her to pay any heed. But she stopped dead and turned to face him, looking quite irked to be way-laid in the pouring rain in the middle of the day without makeup, looking bleary eyes and half-drowned.
Not giving her time to say anything, Mick fed her the line: "How would you and your mate Jemma like to come to a party?"
"A party?" she replied, her tone wary, sceptical.
"You know what a party is, don't you?"
"Of course I do. It's cakes and jellies, party hats and pass-the-parcel."
Luca grinned stupidly and Kate looked at him po-faced as she said. "What other kinds of parties are there?"
"Luca's scored some weed from Pete," Mick added as if such a revelation would clinch the proposition.
"Good for Luca," she replied, her expression morphing to that of a displeased schoolmistress.
"We can bake cakes if you like," Mick now proffered.
"Bakewell tarts?" asked Kate, her expression suddenly affecting excitement, as if Bakewell Tarts were the deal-breaker.
"We have the ingredients," Mick offered.
"No icing sugar, though," Luca interjected, "though there's always Mr Kipling."
"Well, why didn't you say that in the first place!. Where —and what time do you want us?" she asked, a hint of amused tolerance playing at the corners of her mouth.
"At Luca's house," Mick concluded, which was news to Luca.
But Kate was now looking at Luca, holding his gaze intently enough to unsettle him. A silence yawned between them, and he suddenly realised he was supposed to say something. "Yeah, tonight," he finally managed, "It'll be great if you and Jemma could make it. Tarts, you say?"
"Yeah, but they have to be Mr Kipling's. I won't put up with anything less. It's the cherry, you see." She was smiling knowingly.
And that was her parting shot before she turned and walked calmly away, continuing to Jemma's house in the late summer rain.
And so that night the two girls dutifully appeared, not seeming to mind in the slightest that they were the only other guests and that there was no Mr Kipling. The boys had tried the local shop, but not a tart was to be found anywhere on the shelves.
Glances and innuendos, leading to understanding and pairing off: Kate and Luca; Mick and Jemma.
But at the end of the evening, as he stood at the end of the mews where Kate lived after walking her the half-mile between their two houses, she said to him, "Jemma won't be seeing Mick again."
"Oh, why's that."
"She thinks he's childish."
Luca looked at her pitifully, expecting lame excuses and the dismissing axe blow to come down on his neck at any moment.
"But I'd like to see you again, Luca," she said, and then offered her lips for him to kiss.
And so they had made a date for the following week at seven-thirty. They had walked the streets hand in hand for a while in the warm evening air, had finally settled on the bench overlooking some fields up Coxeter Wood way.
He had never been good conversing with girls, but how easy he had found it to be with her, both of them so comfortable in the other's company. As an only child, he had grown up lacking the understanding of females that having sisters often brings to a boy. The girls at school had always intimidated him with their beauty, and he had never understood that their casual sarcasm could be a form of flirting. But with Kate, the right words came so easily and took and flight so readily from his lips. And she was more than happy to listen to his talk of bands and films. And so they talked all night about everything that filled their worlds, acquaintances in common, their old school and how their paths had never crossed.
Luca learned that her teacher father had died four years earlier, had said how sorry he was. But she said there was no need to be sorry, that it was so long ago and that her dad was fifty-two so had had a good long life.
He also learned that she was the youngest of five siblings, and that her next sister up, Kerry, had just gone off to Uni, and that Kate missed her so much, so that at night in the bedroom they used to share in that old house of theirs with its tall shakey sash windows, she would get frightened of the house's rickety old-house sighs, its heaving and setting as it decayed around her.
And so they would meet most evening and go to his room, if not meeting up with friends to go to that dungeon of a rock pub in town that served under-aged teens alcohol.
But after two months he was becoming frustrated with how things had stalled on the sex front. And he'd said to her, "If you really loved me, you'd let me make love to you properly." Kissing and breast fondling no were no longer enough for Luca.
"I do so love you, Luca," she had replied. "You don't realise how much I love you. And I will. I promise I will. But the time has to be right — right for me."
He did not push it, tried to understand her, her hesitance, imagining what it must be like for a girl to be fucked for the first time, to contemplate having another's body part rammed deep inside you. He wondered how any female could find any pleasure in it. But often his need for her would override his kindness, his love for her, his understanding, and he would push her boundaries, his hands insistent, his words and love used to guilt her.
But last week she had given a little ground, allowed his fingers a tentative expedition into terra incognito. And tonight, as he kills time before he leaves the house and walks the familiar route to her home, he relives the slide of his hand over the denier of her tights, her knee and inner thigh. And then his head giddy with disbelief as she allowed his hand to venture much further.
It had taken his breath away when her legs did not snap together after he rested his hand on her knee to try his luck, commencing the usual opening gambit. Unlike the previous occasions when his hand had begun its slow slide upwards, those fabulous legs of hers had parted unambiguously, like double doors thrown wide to welcome a multitude of guests. Hardly daring believe the moment would last, he had let his fingers linger on her mons. Its delicate fleshiness felt exquisite as he gently massaged between her legs, allowing the pressure of his fingers to send stretch-denier skidding wildly over the silk of her panties below. Then tracing the seam of her tight's over her abdomen, his mind still uncomprehending, unable to process what she was allowing him.
He'd had to lift the hem of her dress to find his way, fold it back on itself to locate the waistband her tights pulled high over her belly. And then looking into her eyes, just to make sure before proceeding further. He told her how beautiful she was, then leaned in and kissed her as his hand sneaked beneath the stretching elastic to slide down over the lingering veneer of puppy fat insulating her belly, down over its pliant softness to the moist, welcoming warmth below.
His goal reached, his two fingers mapped this new terrain, his mind trying to make sense of what his digits discovered there. But he sensed her tenseness and so reigned in his enthusiasm, his excitement. Little by little, her endurance turned to acceptance — then to pleasure.
In his room now, as he remembers that moment, his cock is harder than trying to understanding her. He stokes his arousal with details: the wire-tangle of her pubes, the tropical heat of her cunt, her unexpected acquiescence and her gasps.
When his fingers encountered her wetness, he had thought it her spiteful joke, her allowing him to touch her there during her period — done to teach him patience. He was sure that was it: punishment fo his badgering her. Anyhow, it's what he first imagined, not knowing that girls had desires too, could cum as readily as any man. In his callowness, he had imagined women merely endured men's lust, gave their bodies for unknowable reasons that did not involve pleasure, maybe to trap a husband and have his babies.
But he would not let a little blood stop him. He slipped three fingers into her, was thrilled by her succulence and how easily her tissues gave way to his probing. With three fingers sunk to the knuckles, the back of his hand was at such an angle that it tented her knickers and tights. He finger-fucked her gently, insistently, without any clear sense of purpose, an act performed for the sheer joy of achieving a long-planned objective, his mind wallowing in the visceral pleasure of the moment, lost in the joy of accomplishment.
Afterwards, it puzzled him to find his fingers were entirely unbloodied.
Last week, when he told Kate the house would be empty, she had asked if he had protection. And it had shocked him, and he had lied, said, "Of course."
Now in his bedroom, the portable electric heater battles the icy claw that chills the air. He kneels and chooses music to play, decides Nick Drake will set the mood.
The window's single-glazing is an invitation to the wind to bring its news indoors. The sudden lash of rain against the panes startles him, the first of the squalls that will sweep down from the moorland above the town to shake the panes. His mother calls to him from downstairs. She says she wants to speak to him before leaving for her sister's.
"I'm off now, Luca. I'll be back at about eleven," she says. "Now you be careful with that girl —"
"— Kate. Her name is Kate, Mum."
"Kate. Of course. She's a lovely looking girl, and these young girls can be very..." Her words trail away, voice baulks at saying the word she first intended. Instead, she slips in a replacement, "... Young girls can be so very, very ripe."
Jeez, Mum. Ripe!
"And there are coins on the mantle-piece if the leccy goes."
Back upstairs, he hears the front door slam, the wind catching it as his mum close it behind her after stepping out into the night. Then the sound of the car struggling to start before the satisfying sound of the engine idling, followed by the crunch of tyres as she pulls slowly away. He is left alone in the house with only the sound of traffic brought to him through the wind-lashed panes of his bedroom window.
He does not want to let Kate down, does not want to cum before he has even begun. But he knows that's what will happen unless he preempts such a disaster. He knows it because she excites him beyond anything he could have previously imagined before meeting her. And so, to release all the sexual tension that has built up over the day, he strips naked and masturbates on his bed while thinking of last week when she turned the tables, the time when it was her hand that slipped beneath his belt, where her fingers had instantly encountered his cock, its tip straining to push beyond leather and buttons.
Weeks later, she will tell him how the shock of finding his cock peeking had made her gasp, how when she had touched it she had been amazed how something so hard could be so soft to the touch. "Its skin is so silky," she had said before telling him it was then that her love of his cock was kindled in her.
It had happened when he stood up to take the vinyl from the turntable and put on a new album. Kate had stood up too, followed him over to the record cabinet on which the deck stood. Before he had time to stoop to inspect the line of slim spines, she had pressed her body against his back and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight, arresting him, her breasts cushioning against his back.
His cock was already hard from their kissing, and her breasts, when she lifted his T-shirt and sent her fingers to delve into his jeans. Such a deft and unexpected manoeuvre. But her progress was immediately halted when her finger-tips grazed the tip of his cock, straining to escape. Encountering it so soon had thrown her off course, stymied the flow of exploration. After a pause, she let her fingers continue, tentatively laying the flat of her hand over the length of him. Then more confident, she loosened his belt and zipper, adjusted his underwear to let his cock burst free. Her fingers, now with newfound confidence, closed around the length of his shaft squeezing hard, assessing and savouring a new reality.
No one had ever touched his cock before, and the thrill of it was too much to endure. He gritted his teeth, desperately trying not to humiliate himself. But his orgasm had an agenda, paid him no heed, washed over him like a land-slip sweeping down a mountainside. But his hands were faster than his cum. They rushed to find her massaging hand, extracting it quickly, so afraid of filling her palm with his tepid goo. Even all these years later, he still owns albums that show that night's tell-tale stains to their spines, his cock's unforeseen incontinence.
Months later, when they were unafraid, she told him how his rush to remove her hands from around his cock had made her feel clumsy, incompetent. She did not know her touch would be enough to undo him.
This afternoon on his way home from work, he caught the bus into town and visited the chemists, the one in the new pedestrian precinct. He had hovered by the window too embarrassed to go inside and ask, spent half an hour walking back and forth feigning interest in the neighbouring shop windows. Dolcie's Shoes and Wembley Books.
Finally, when he realised it would soon be closing time, he'd plucked up courage. And it was not that hard. The man behind the counter had called him "Sir" and wrapped his purchase as if soap or toothpaste. He had winked when handing over the change, his smile laden with male complicity, his eyes whistful for what this young lad's purchase might promise.
Now Luca lies naked on the bed, cock gripped by his fist. It feels inordinately engorged, stoked by the memory of her and what she allowed him, and an utter and unsustainable need for her. He rehearses what is to come — applying a condom, clumsy with the foil, its oily aroma adding something previously unknown and further stocking his excitement. The act of rolling latex over the tip and stem of his cock pushes its continence to the utmost. Palm clutched, it discharges its cargo into the nipple in a series mind-numbing, pumping shots.
Fifteen minutes later, he steps out into the night in duffle coat and scarf and begins the usual ten-minute walk to her home. The rain has stopped, though the wind harasses him as he walks. Half-way down one of the streets of terraced houses, he encounters a gang of lads collecting bonfire wood for the following night. They are a motley bunch aged ten to fifteen. They have captured an old three-seat sofa and are pushing their prize along the middle of the road, full of joy and loud excitement from the luck of such booty. The casters and the sofa's weight makes a rumble of protest as they pass him by. Only two years ago he would have been out scavenging for wood too. He knows a couple of these boys, the older ones, and they shout to him as they pass, "Hey, Luca!"
He raises his hand in acknowledgement but does not answer or stop to catch up on their world. They are caterpillars, while he is a butterfly now. He has a job that makes him good money. He knows how to dress and wear his hair, has a girl more beautiful than he could ever have imagined when he was fourteen years old.
She is standing by the enormous stone gate posts at the end of the Georgian mews where she lives, sheltered under tall trees as old as her house, the scatter of their leaf-litter about her feet. She is wearing her black maxi coat, her hair long and dark is blown back from her face by the north-westerly wind as she looks out for him. The sight of her sends his mind off to frantically ransacks her wardrobe, imagining what she might be wearing for him under her coat. Situated and looking as she does, it is as if she has stepped out from the long-gone past of one of the ancient houses, a time-travelling heroine from two hundred years before.
When she sees him, she starts briskly towards him, her smile broadening. Not a polite smile, but a genuine smile of pleasure, one entirely reflexive, unstaged, made authentic by love, and the joy the sight of him brings her.
"Hi," he says before he leans in to kiss her. Her cheeks are cold, but her mouth warm and lush. Her tongue has a new eagerness, and his cock responds immediately.
"Did you get them?" She asks.
"I said I would. Do you still want to?"
"I think so." She does not sound sure.
They kiss again, briefly, before starting back to his house. As they do so, he wonders if he should have wanked one more time before coming to meet her; just to be sure.
Back in his room, he stands behind her as he helps her out of her coat. Her cream mini dress is Grecian cut, breasts held snug by the cross-your-heart design above a silken curtain whose hemline hardly covers her buttocks. Her thighs in sheer black tights are framed between its hem and her knee-length dark suede boots.
"You must be freezing," he says, holding her to him, resting his chin on her near-bare shoulder. He can smell the chill of the November night in her hair mingling with her shampoo. He sweeps the tresses from her neck, kisses it while imbibing the recently applied fragrance of musk-oil dabbed undiluted. He breathes deep and allows its over-ripe pungency to vie with the November air that still clings to her.
"I was warm enough till I took off my coat," she says. "It's freezing in here."
"I'll soon warm you up when we're under the covers."
She turns around to face him, looks at him quite intently. "Let me see them."
He breaks from her and goes to his dresser, opens the bottom drawer and takes out the packet he has brought from the chemists. When he returns to her and hands them over, he watches her sheepishly as she examines the contents.
"It says three on the package. There's one missing."
"I've been practising."
She smiles and says, "Who with?"
"So you know what you're doing, then?"
"Of course," he lies, "nothing to it."
"You'd better undress me, then," she says, her voice suddenly laden with unresolved uncertainty as she turns away from him so that he can get the zipper of her dress.
He is beside himself with desire but does not fumble, quickly slides the pull-tab down the zipper teeth to the small of her back. Then returning his hands to her shoulders, he peels the minimal fabric away from her flesh and eases the gathering material down over her breasts, tugging hard to get it over her hips. She gives a little shake of her hips to encourage the garment to leave her. It falls to the ground and she steps aside when he stoops to retrieve it, takes it to the single chair and drapes it over one curved wooden arm.
She waits for his return in silence fixed to the spot, not once turning to monitor his movements. Behind her again, he tackles her bra, pulling two halves of elastic together to relax the tension before deftly unclipping hook and eyes. Again, he does not fumble. He considers himself born for this: the undressing of women.
He encircles her with both arms, each hand cradling a breast. He has only ever experienced them nested in the close quarters of her bra-cups. Now he lifts them gently, savouring their density, their firmness-in-softness, finally allowing them to rest heavily in his palms while he kisses her neck. His hips press into the substance of her upper buttocks, the shaft of his denim encased cock grinding against her coccyx.
Slow and easy, she shifts in his arms, manoeuvres lamia-like to send her tongue between his lips, her need as great as his. She is still half-naked, her bare breasts pressed against his ribs as her fingers scramble for the buckle of his belt, button and zipper. She holds his cock as they kiss. But he stays her hand, extracts it and guides it to his waist, putting it out of halm's way. He cannot risk losing control so soon. He moves his hands down, cradles her buttocks in both palms, pulling her hips against himself. He wonders if he will ever be free of his erection as his fingers relish the curve and substance of her buttock cheeks beneath the ever-shifting micromesh of her tights.
His cock, now fully set free, presses against her mesh encased soft belly. Her half-nakedness torments him, is petrol poured on the already roaring flames of his lust. He wants to be inside her, let all the sexual tension she has stoked in him explode at her core.
Lifting her off her feet, he carries her, three-four paces, to the edge of the bed and sits her down and then goes down on his knees to unfasten the long zippers of her boots. As he slides the soft suede from each small, elegant foot, he hears the hiss of the micromesh as leather brushes the ball of her heels and ankles. When the boots are gone, he squeezes both feet with his hands. Her toes are still chilled, quite cold to his lips as he bends and attends to each foot in turn, presses one sole after another to his cheek, his lips.
He takes her hand and encourages her to rise. Needing to ease her out of her tights and underwear, he sends snagging thumbs to catch waist-elastic, pulling the fabric down all stretch and static, bringing her black silky panties along for the ride. When she has stepped out of the discarded tangle of denier and satin, he remains kneeling before her and kisses her belly.
Should he go down on her? He has read about cunnilingus, knows it is what lovers do, wonders if she will expect it. His mind eggs him on to kiss her pussy, but he baulks at going so far so soon. And so his mouth travels no lower than her mid-abdomen. For now, he feels that to go further would be an intimacy taken too far.
When he stands up to undress, she stands up too and begins tugging at his jeans with hurrying hands. His cock has become like a half-starved dog chained and frantic to escape its tether. She too has no shame now; not for her nakedness, not for how her hands blatantly asses him, not for how her tongue sweeps his mouth like the worst kind of slut.
Both naked, they stand by his bed with arms tight around each other, kissing without understanding. But there is no need for understanding here. This is nature's plan; their youth, their beauty and desire are the product of a million years of evolutionary drive that renders thoughts unnecessary.
Even though hardly yet a full-grown man, his arms are muscular from eight hours a day lifting and shifting tea-chests of potter's ware. Gruelling shifts in a potbank warehouse. She is not a frail girl, her frame edging to athleticism if anything. Still, he senses the feminine vulnerability of her nakedness pinioned between his biceps. If he squeezes a little more, he might crush her like a wing-lame dove nested in his palms.
She whispers in his ear, her words all breath and uncontainable need. "I love you so much."
"And I love you," he gasps before letting his mouth stray down her neck onto her chest, that hungry dog let slip. He is ravenous for her breasts, his lips suckling one and then the other, her gasps provoking him to abandon all restraint. Then relinquishing what he tastes, finally letting fly his teeth's Parthian shots of nips and full-blown bites that make her groan. His mouth leaves her nipples a land ravaged.
When he eases her down onto the bed, she covers her herself like a political prisoner stripped for humiliation. "Let me see you," he says. And so she reluctantly shifts her hands to uncover the shadow of her pubes. Not satisfied, he insists, "Open your legs. I want to see your pussy,"
She is slow to respond. Her reluctance and bashfulness goad him so much that his voice grows harsher, much harsher than he intended. "Show me your cunt!" She does not know what he wants, and so he tells her exactly what it is. "Use your fingers to open yourself."
He has seen girls in magazines with legs splade, their long, painted nails drawing back vulvas to show labia major and labia minor, clitoris, urethra and vagina. He does not know these words — this substrate of half-hidden tissue now all-of-a-glisten with the sap of her arousal is a revelation.
He can't believe he will soon be fucking her — fucking a real live beautiful girl; his girl, the girl he loves like he never thought he could love anyone. He wonders if he will be able to keep it together, last long enough to achieve the passing resemblance of an adequate lover, make it right for her, on this her first time too.
Her eyes do not leave him when she exposes all of her sex. Her cheeks neck and chest flush crimson with something like shame now. To be looked at like this will soon become core to her sexuality. But for now, it is almost an act beyond decency. She is untrimmed, veal-pink.
He has to taste her, lays himself belly down on the bed with his head between her legs and imbibes her soapiness, her barely perceptible female animalness. The sight and smell of her cunt at close quarters make his head spin as he laps at her without purpose, licking from mons to her perineum. He has not heard of a clitoris and so does not focus, lashes with his tongue in a scatter-gun approach that he hopes will find its mark.
The taste of her is nothing he could have foreseen. Far from icky, he finds the zest and tang of her young pussy a delectable intoxicant. But his cock is burrowing into the mattress, the pressure and excitement about to explode from his cock. Her moans of pleasure do not help, stocking his arousal to the nth degree.
He breaks off, rises and kneels between her legs, wipes his lips with the back of his hands as he looks down on her from between her arched legs. He tries to calm his breathing, uses the moment to let the buzz and ache of his cock settle.
She looks up at him expectantly. "The johnny?" she prompts. He rises from the bed and kneels on the floor and retrieves the slither of foil from the pocket of his discarded jeans.
Back on the bed, she watches him apply the condom to the length of his cock. He sees her apprehension and smiles to reassure her, eliciting from her a smile of coy uncertainty. He pushes his cock against her pussy, using his hand to guide it. But it is not right, and she grunts from his cock's clueless bludgeoning. So she takes control of him and pilots him to the right spot where he pushes until her cunt accepts him.
She is so sodden that her tightness does not matter. When his cock breaches her, pushes far into her, he senses how something core to her adjusts to him — but grudgingly, like a half-hearted greeting for loved but inconvenient guests. When he has no more length to give her and their pubes rasp together, he ceases all straining and becomes still, sensing how her muscles grip his cock, relaxing and tightening over and over,
And then it begins. Slowly at first, still finding his pace, accustoming himself to her, the tightness of her, her tightness slackening with each retreat and thrust he makes.
She takes his head between he palms and draws it up to hers, his lips to her mouth, and holds it in place and kisses him as he fucks her. She does not want to relinquish him, wants him to be aware of her as a person and not just a body, a cunt. And so she fixes him with one hand cupping the back of his skull, her fingers tangled in his long hair. Their lips hermetically sealed, he exhales through his nose, desperate for more air to power his lust.
Both hands beneath her, they contain her buttocks, gathering the flesh of her hips and drawing it downwards so that his cock goes deeper still, as deep as deep can be. With each stroke, his balls rebound against her plump cheeks and its crack. He wonders if the slap of it tickles her arse.
Frantic now, his body has usurped his mind, and he is powering into her cruelly. He hears her moans of satisfaction. They coerce him into a frenzy of pounding, her crying out, "Oh-God! oh-God!" confirms his self-regard, his newly donned mantle of a skilled lover.
He wants to fight it, staunch the orgasm that is about to erupt, engulf him. But his body will not slacken its pace so that he cums inside her, offloading his jizz as if to revive her, bring her back from the brink of death he had delivered her to. He is full of glory, wants to join with her in praise of The Almighty as he ejaculates with ferocious jerking. But he does not cry out, cums like a stoic. His only sounds, a deep guttural groaning that lasts until his cock has discharged its freight and starts to grow limp.
He collapses onto her exhausted, and she calls his name in protest, "Luca! You're crushing me. Get off."
He rolls from her onto his back, and she turns on her side and faces him, kisses him sweetly and then thanks him. Sweat drenched, they remain locked in each other's arms, his head on her breast listening to her heart beating, the sound of it slowing and calming him.
"Am I really your first?" she eventually asks.
"I said, didn't I?"
He looks up and sees her eyes bright with satisfaction. For a while, they regard each other like that, each becoming lost in the mystery of the other.
Later, she asks, "There were two johnnies in that packet, weren't there?"
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with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.