Virgin Territory

I was sitting there beside her thrumming the deep keys of the piano, creating the rhythm, the anchor, that tried to tether her graceful, life-filled fingers, when before I knew it I’d kissed her on the cheek. She was two years older than I and had been tutoring me for the last five weeks.

            She looked at me, spryly, and the spot where I’d kissed her seemed to glow alive, her face giving life to my lips as if a seed were planted on her cheek and allowed light. Sanguine was the colour, and sanguine is how I remember her. She edged in towards me, and I to her, slowly, making sure to align ourselves in the perspective of our lips. We met, we kissed each other softly, our spittled lips like sponges whose fibres seemed to burst with sensation.

            We poured ourselves more deeply into that font, our rivulets wandering to an unknown and exciting confluence, and as we closed our eyes in kiss, our hearts seemed to rise, meeting something unknown that seemed to fall down into the dark cages of our bodies.

            We knew where it was going. I held her and she started removing her blouse, her small breasts cupped by her white bra. I wasn’t familiar with this rite of passage, but I worked it off easily. I was soon down to my briefs; her painted toes and small nipples were the same colour as blush. I held her and she begged me to touch her. ‘Touch me,’ she said, where she’d been touched before, but never with fingers that had only the urge to touch upon them.

            As my hand wandered down the inside of her leg, flicking the trim of her panties, I stopped. ‘Wait,’ I said. ‘This is virgin territory.’

            ‘It’s okay,’ she said, ‘don’t be nervous – you shouldn’t worry so much; I know you’re a big boy.’

            And as she lay back, my fingers doing the talking, she bit her lip and let a small sigh escape as her head recessed the pillow, but there was more in those words than she’d ever know.