Snapping out of my reverie, returning to the present, I said “yes, of course I remember, Gwen; who could forget? Flustered? Oh, no.” But I hadn’t removed my finger tip and she hadn’t pushed or pulled it away. We lay together for probably half an hour, touching, caressing, smiling, occasionally planting light kisses on each other’s lips, bodies. “What are you doing?” she asked. I began then to withdraw, her whispered “noooo,” in my ear and quickly pressed back into her, relieved to hear her protest replaced with a deep “aaahhhh…”. “Nooo…” was her quiet protest as I slipped finally from her. I’ve read de***********ions of women’s breasts: “melons…34D…36D…” but nothing, either literature or my own experience with the women I’d known, prepared me for what I saw sitting calmly, if shyly, a few feet across the room, lit softly in the light of the fire. I kissed her lightly again on the crown of her head, slipped from the couch to kneel before her, reached out and gently pulled one ankle, indicating what I wanted her to do.
