The Ghostwriter's Words

Sara: Bushwhacking, Busy Fingers in the Bath Water, and Other Hidden Truths

Sara recalled the afterglow from what she'd had no way of knowing had been her first orgasm before feeling the weight of Sammy's body. And a firm pressure between her legs, where Sammy had just been so attentive, met little resistance, followed quickly by a sharp stab of pain. Sara had no notion of virginity or that hers had just become a thing of the past but remembered Sammy pausing a moment when she'd flinched and made an involuntary sound in response. So, he must have had a sense of what happened or been a gentle, considerate lover, even in his dreams, as he'd always been, even the many times since she'd begged him not to be, to fuck her hard.

Sara remembered immediately forgetting that painful stab as his length filled her, and she felt his rhythmic movement inside her. She was lost again in new and magical sensations for which she'd had no name, only that they left her beyond caring about anything else. That glow from what he'd done with his mouth a moment, a lifetime before, still had a soft, round heat as echoes of the storm whose lightning left her feeling she would die faded. Then the storm turned, strengthening, and that thunder and lightning began to build again in her core.

Then he'd pulled away too soon as another wave of sensations swelled within her, pushing urgently toward the surface, and, instead, she'd felt something wet and warm shoot across her stomach. After a moment to recover, Sammy had apologized, awake, with no excuses. He was so, so sorry. He should never have.

Why? She'd believed she asked, but she wasn't sure the words ever left her mouth. Sammy glanced down so that her eyes followed his to several opaque lines of liquid on her belly.

Was that why he was sorry, she'd wondered. Or that he'd stopped just as a swell of sensations began racing to free themselves again? She'd closed her eyes, feeling a deep throbbing ache that wasn't unpleasant and like nothing she'd felt before. A moment later, another wet warmth surprised her. And her eyes opened to see Sammy gently wipe away the sticky substance left on her body with a warm washcloth which felt so good. Then he'd reached between her legs, and she'd cried out, arching her back and hoping again that he wouldn't stop. But he had, abruptly, apologizing again, seeing her blood on the washcloth.

Sammy had told her, "I should have stopped when I realized I wasn't dreaming about my wife. My wife is dead. You're alive and real. And I was aware enough that it must be your first time, and I needed to be gentle. I should have stopped if I was that conscious of what I was doing. What I did is unforgivable. I'm so sorry."

"Why?" Sara remembered demanding, this time certain she'd spoken the words, thinking whatever Sammy did was the most amazing thing she'd ever experienced. She'd asked, "Why are you sorry?" When she'd wanted to ask him to do it again and not stop.

He'd continued, "First, I hurt you, it being your first time, then, I suppose, because it couldn't have been very pleasant for you. For everything. When none of it should have happened."

Had he hurt her? Sara recalled the stab of pain quickly gone and those sensations swelling within her again. Then wet warmth on her belly and blood on the washcloth. And she'd wanted to know, "Why did you stop?"

"I had to," he'd explained, taken aback. "I couldn't hold back any longer and didn't want to... you know, inside you." She remembered him apologizing again, then asking, "Was it awful for you?"

"No!" Sara had insisted emphatically, still shaken by the orgasm that she didn't know was an orgasm or such a thing existed, and the other that had felt so close to bursting. She'd had no idea what he meant - done what inside her? Only that "I didn't want you to stop."

And Sammy apologized again, "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have, and...." Her pleading eyes had held his, and he'd nodded, finally agreeing, "I guess I can't see what more harm it could do now. If you want?" Which she had, more than anything she'd ever wanted before. But, pointing out his limp appendage, he'd told, "I don't think I can, yet, not what we just did, but...."