The Words

Not having sex

When I met my girlfriend outside her dorm the following weekend, she immediately crushed herself against me, buried her tear-streaked face in the hollow of my neck, and whispered again and again how sorry she was. We both cried, holding each other tight, commiserating over how horrible those few hours after I'd departed the previous weekend had been. I told her I'd felt broken, shattered into jagged pieces of glass too sharp to touch. She understood and was so, so sorry.

Then we drove out to and around the park until we located a more secluded, private spot than where we'd spent our previous afternoons. It seemed that we'd barely climbed into the back seat before we found ourselves staring deep into one another's eyes, my shirt unbuttoned and pulled free of my jeans, her blouse unbuttoned, her bra shoved up above her naked breasts, and each of us with a hand inside the other's jeans. It was a huge line to cross. Could we stop ourselves if we went any further? We asked this of ourselves and one another. Did we want one another too desperately to care?

She had a solid hold of my wrist to prevent me from reaching deeper or pulling away. She closed her eyes tight, then, after an intense internal emotional battle with herself, she made a definitive decision. She shoved my hand deeper into her jeans until my fingers were inside her panties, touching the silky hair between her legs. She opened her eyes again to watch my reaction as she pushed her hand deep into my underwear. I was embarrassed and apologized for the sticky mess she found there. She pushed my hand deeper into her jeans, where I discovered her panties were also soaked.

I tentatively explored the damp folds my fingers discovered there. She took a hard breath, then encouraged my hand deeper until the center of her slick, slippery folds opened, and a finger slid effortlessly between them and inside her. Her eyes closed, her head pushed back against the car's seat, her mouth opened, and a groan came from deep down within her chest. Her fingers reflexively clenched my penis in response, and electricity shot through me, triggering a storm of my own emotions. Shame - since I remained embarrassed by the mess my bodily fluids continued to create in my underwear. Guilt - since I was aware what we were doing was wrong. But I couldn't make myself stop. I had no idea what I was doing, but my fingers acted of their own volition, reacting instinctively to the tension of her body in my arms while her fluids lubricated my hand.

I asked her, "Do you want me to stop?"

"No, don't, please," she pleaded.

I slipped another finger inside her and asked, "Is that good?"

She cried out, "Yes! God, yes!"

She grabbed my wrist again when I discovered a little nub within her folds. "There! Right there!" she insisted. As I stroked and explored, the nub emerged further from its hiding place, and her grip on both my wrist and penis tightened.

"Harder! Please," she begged.

I did as she asked, and her body suddenly arched from the seat, as though she was suffering a convulsion, forcing guttural sounds from deep in her chest with each spasm. Her sounds and spasms gradually eased as she settled back against the seat and gently extracted my hand from her jeans. I felt her aftershocks continue to pass through her body, waiting for her eyes to open and let me know she was okay. But she turned away instead and hugged her knees to her chest. She wouldn't answer when I asked her what was wrong. I already knew that what I'd done was wrong, and panic began to build. When my fingers brushed her arm, she pulled away. But when my hand gently grasped her shoulder, she allowed it to remain.

I asked, "Are you okay?"

"Sorry," she whispered after a moment. "I'm not sure whether I just broke my promise to my grandmother."

"I know. I should have stopped," I told her.

She nodded in agreement, then instantly shook her head and apologized again. "No. I didn't want you to stop. It felt amazing."