“I don’t want you to. I don’t want you to. Oh, never let go. Never.”
“Never… never…” he gasped. He was moving again now, onto and into her. A joyous thrusting — a shaft of velvet and a silken lining. He was sobbing as he did, sobbing with joy — and she was too.
All the days of wanting and holding back, all those denials of the body and the animal within — all of it poured forth, melted into golden glowing tears and shining eyes, sparkling in rapture. At last he had someone, some-one to share it all with. He had someone to hold, to love, to touch.
And she did too. She moved with him, with love and with lust, the two blending into a whirlpool of colors and kisses. The caressing waves gathered them up, surging and crashing and gasping, sweeping them across a sweet sky of delight and at last leaving them gently on the shores of a sighing embrace. The waters lapped at the shore and gentled their touch, and their fingers strayed across the velvety landscape, exploring — familiar and yet always wondrous.
He was holding her tightly. He couldn’t stop holding her. She sighed — a sound of pleasure. He echoed it and smiled. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. He laughed. And kissed her. And kissed her.
And kissed her.
They spent Saturday falling in love.
Deeper in love.
It began before either was awake, with an unconscious fitting of their bodies, one to the other, with the purely animal reflex of erection, sliding forward, and he was onto and into her almost as reflex, so familiar was the desire. She eased onto her back, only slowly coming awake. He was aware now; he was inside her, warm and exciting, a silken motion.
She opened her eyes and looked at him. He paused in his motion. “I had the strangest dream,” she said. “I dreamed I was being—”
“Shh,” he said. “Don’t wake me up — I’m still dreaming.” And pressed deeper. She brought her legs up to help him.
This time, instead of melting into the experience, he was totally conscious of himself and his body. It was a new awareness he possessed, an awareness of the sexuality inherent in himself and in her. His hands gripped her legs and his loins pumped at her torso. He penetrated her flowing warmth. Poised above her in the morning, he was aware how truly beautiful she was — more beautiful in the act of love than he had ever seen her before.
She giggled. “This is silly.”
“Isn’t it, though?” he asked, and they both laughed and kissed and hugged again, embracing through the splashing suds of the shower.
They broke apart, and she sudsed his chest again. He let his hands slide up and down across her chest — her gentle breasts, her nipples. Her pink flesh glistened with the flowing water and the foam of the soap. Her green eyes glowed at him. Shone.
She played with the hair on his chest, a sparse little patch, almost lost in the suds. She let her hands trail downward, fingers straying into and twirling his coarse curly black hair, and lower, fondling his testes and the shaft of his penis. Her eyes followed her hand; she caressed that beautiful, beautiful organ. It was in a state which was neither soft nor erect, but a little of each. The skin of it was like velvet, and the cap of the glans was tender and pink. Her fingers traced the ridge around the edge of it, and she cupped it in her palm and looked up at bun, and they were both smiling and giggling like children in a schoolyard. “Can I touch it?” she asked impishly.
He grinned. “If I can touch yours…”
She giggled at the oft-told joke, still funny despite its familiarity. His hands slid down from her breasts toward her mons, her labia, majora and minora; his finger — strong, firm, gentle — slipped into that moist opening. The flesh was like silk, and the splashing foam of the shower made it even more exciting.
“It feels so… good…” he murmured.
“Mmm,” she said. “Mmm Hmmm. If you think it feels good from there, you ought to try it from my side…”
He laughed. She laughed. They had been laughing all morning — even at things that weren’t funny. Yet everything was funny; it was the laughter of delight — of rapturously lovely delight “Okay,” he said. “Change places with me.”
And again they laughed. But neither moved their hands from the other’s gentle warmth. They stepped a little closer. “Oh, look,” she said. “It’s growing — and I thought it was all tired out by now.”
“Mm,” he whispered into her hair. “You keep bringing it up again…”
She stepped closer, still caressing his penis, manipulating it toward her vagina, touching it to that sweet opening. The warm flesh of it slipped aside, though. “Oops, try again.”
But he kissed her first, deep deep penetrating kiss, tongues touching, lips pressing against each other, soft and gentle and passionate. Their wet soapy flesh was pressed together, slippery and exciting. He moved his hand around to her back, to caress her buttocks, then slipped his fingers downward and forward.
She had her hand between the two of them, was holding his penis again. Raising herself up on tiptoes, she slipped it into the depth of her and, sighing, eased herself down around and onto and into and she sighed again and he said “Mmmmm.”
And then they held each other tightly and pressed hard and moved against each other, once readjusting their position so they wouldn’t slip, and another time stopping for breath and to laugh again.
He lay down on his back in the tub and she laid on top of him, giggling at the thought, “I’ve never done it in a bathtub,” and fitting it in again and then starting to move against him, the warm flesh of her breasts moving across his chest, the water splashing across her back, and then they kissed again, and after a while he was on top and she was on bottom and the tub was slippery and warm and full of giggles. And sighs. And gasps.
It was later and they were down.
They were sitting in the kitchen, eating vanilla ice cream. It was sweet and cold.
And still he loved her.
David said, his mouth full, “I think I begin to understand it now—”
“Mm,” she said thoughtfully, taking the spoon from her mouth. “Have you ever lived with anyone?”
“Uh uh,” he said.
“I have. That’s when it stops being so easy.” She paused. “You have to work at love…”
“I know,” he said. “That is, I think I know.” He looked at her. “I’m willing to learn.”
“The first six months are the hardest — they’re also the most fun. There’s adjustments to make. Little ones. Big ones. Your whole life-style changes—”
He nodded slowly. The enormity of it was only now beginning to sink in. “I’m willing to try.”
“You’d better be!” She grinned wickedly. Noticing his empty ice cream dish, she said, “Want some more?”
“Uh uh,” he patted his stomach. “I’m still full from lunch.” He leaned back in his chair and sighed.
She got up and kissed him, then took his plate and her own to the sink. “I think I could enjoy living with you, Mr. Auberson.”
“Call me David,” he said expansively. They laughed.
She came to the table and began to wipe it off with a sponge. He leaned over and moved the HARLIE readouts off to one side. They had been left there overnight.
“Hey, leave those. I want to read them.”
“You do?”
“I said I did, didn’t I?”
“But it’s not necessary any more. That is—”
She took them from him. “I still want to read it I want to know what’s in it that you thought would have answered my question.” She tossed the sponge at the sink, then sat down slowly and began to unfold it.
Her face took on a strange expression. “You’ve been talking to HARLIE about me.”
“Uh huh.”
Her eyes skimmed down the paper quickly. She turned to the next fold of the roll. He watched her for a moment, then impatiently got up and went to the sink.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“The dishes. I’ve got to do something to work off this nervousness. Just read that and ignore me.”