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Goddess of the Moon

By: KierHardy



You come from Turkey. Somewhere in the east, I think. Your father is rich. He's in steel and owns a mine, or a mill, or something. He has always had money and you have always been spoilt, he bought you whatever you wanted. However he didn't always let you have your own way. He was strict and overprotective. He's quite religious, a Muslim of course. You wore Islamic dress from a young age, before you started to develop. Loose fitting clothes covering your body and the obligatory head scarf concealing your long black hair.

From the age of fifteen you begged him to allow you to go to London and stay with your mother's relatives. He was never going to allow that, no way! Your mum wasn't keen on the idea either. Not at such a young age. After you turned eighteen though, she came around to the idea. They'd brought you up properly and you'd always been a good girl. You'd studied hard and got into a good university. She knew you wouldn't get into any trouble. Besides a summer in London would be just the thing to improve your already excellent English.

Eventually, after months of pleading from you and persuasion from your mother, Daddy gave in. You could go to England for two whole months, on the condition you have lessons four days a week, every week. Also, you weren't to go out on your own, home before dark and absolutely no boys. You readily agreed. Anything to get to London! 

Little did your father suspect, his wife's family no longer keep quite the same traditional values as he does. After years spent in England, they have loosened up considerably. The women no longer wear hijab and the kids pretty much do what they want. They weren't going to enforce any of his rules upon you. 

Your mother was right though. You are a good girl and had no intention of taking too much advantage of the situation. You like studying so lessons weren't a problem. You didn't plan on going far on your own, you were afraid of getting lost in such a big city. You always went to bed early so you could be up at sunrise to wash and pray. And you weren't even interested in boys. Well, not much anyway. 

No, the trouble was their choice of English teacher. It was decided that you should have private tuition. Your dad was happy to pay for it because it eliminated the the chance of you being in a class with boys. Your cousin phoned the local language school, who passed her on to one of their best teachers willing to give one on one lessons over the summer. That teacher was me. 

Daddy had never even considered the possibility that they would choose a male teacher for you. And nobody thought to mention it to him. You didn't mind who taught you, as long as they were nice.

You arrive the first weekend of July. Unpack, get settled and your cousins show you around the local area. Your mum's family aren't as rich as your dad's. They do all right, but don't live in the opulence you're used to. Not that it matters to you. You're not a snob and are just so excited to be in a new city far away from home. You can't wait to see everything and experience new things. You've got it all planned out. The sights, the museums, galleries, theatre shows, tea at the Ritz, Buckingham palace. But first, lessons.

It's Monday, quarter to nine in the morning. You've taken the tube for two stops and are now walking the short distance to my house, following the directions on your phone. 

You are immaculately dressed in the designer clothes you and your mother went to Istanbul to buy especially for this summer. Clothes your father would never have approved of, despite being far from slutty. You have on a pair of fitted capri pants which expose a little calf. A long, unstructured summer jacket with a lacy top underneath. It is very see-through, but you wear a camisole to preserve your modesty. 

On your feet you have Gucci sandals, which show off your perfectly pedicured and painted toes. On your head, of course, you wear your hijab. You might be far from home, but god is everywhere. Today it is a brightly coloured and patterned scarf from Hermès. However, instead of being pulled tightly and pinned in the Turkish style as usual, you have it loosely wrapped. You even have a tiny bit of hair poking out from underneath. As long as you still pray five times, you are sure Allah won't mind. After university you'll go on hajj to Mecca, that'll erase any little sins you commit here.

As you walk you are aware of how nervous you are. You've never been alone with a man who wasn't a blood relative before, not even for five minutes. Now you are going to spend three hours with me, a man you have never met, at my house, in a strange country. It's not that you think I'll do anything. I'm a teacher, a respectable person, but you're still anxious. This is liberal London, it's perfectly normal for men to be alone with women here. You suppress your nerves and continue walking up the street of little terraced houses where I live.

You ring my doorbell briskly. I don't keep you waiting long before I open up. Immediately I am struck by your beauty. I was not expecting you to be this pretty. I don't know what I was expecting exactly, but I never imagined the vision of loveliness standing before me. 

You are wearing quite a lot of make-up, even though you don't need any at all. It doesn't look tarty or trashy in any way, it's expertly done. You have huge, hypnotic, hazel brown eyes, which you accentuate with lots of mascara and heavy eye-liner. Natural coloured lipstick on your full, perfectly shaped lips. Your nose is cute, not too big or misshapen in any way. Strong, pronounced cheekbones and little dimples in your cheeks as you smile timidly. Your eyebrows are thick and shaped so that they are completely symmetrical. Flawless skin, you can tell even with all the make-up. Your complexion is a wonderful shade of olive. I don't think I've ever seen a girl quite like you before. For a moment I am dumb. We just stand there, staring at each other. 

After I don't know how long, I manage to snap out of it and say, "You must be Selen. Hi, come in."

You don't say anything, just look down and giggle. I can tell you are a little embarrassed. As you walk past me, the air fills with a waft of heavy, Arabic style perfume. It makes me a little dizzy. I close the front door behind you and direct you through into the living room. As I watch you walk down the narrow hallway, you move with such elegance and grace that I feel unworthy to follow you. The perfume lingers. 

You sit on the sofa and fumble in your big Prada handbag for a pen, notebook and your glasses. I desperately try to make small talk. Why is this so difficult for me? It's my job, for Christ's sake. I've done this many times with pretty girls and it's never been a problem. Somehow you're different. I look at you and the words won't flow. There is more to it than just your stunning good looks. Your aura, maybe?

"Can I get you something to drink?" I ask, "Coffee perhaps?" 

"Er...çay?"

"Tea, sure, no problem." I turn on my heel and leave the room.

You are ashamed and curse yourself. You can't believe you forgot the word 'tea'. You can speak English, you always got top marks in it. Now, here in London, in front of your new teacher you call it 'çay'. You didn't even say please. You know the English are polite and you must always say please and thank you. While I clatter about making the tea, you wonder what I must think of you. 

I didn't notice, at all. I'm more worried about how I am going to teach you for the next three hours, let alone the next eight weeks, if I am so overawed that I can't even manage small talk. 

You make up for your perceived blunder when I come in with the tray containing teapot, cups, saucers, spoons, sugar bowl full of cubes and a little jug of milk. As I place it down on the coffee table you say, 

"Oh, thank you very much. Really, you are too kind. How lovely, so perfectly English."

Great, now you're speaking better than me. I need a drink. Something much stronger than PG sodding tips. I need scotch. 

You pour the tea for both of us, like a perfect lady. You add sugar to your own cup but avoid milk. I don't add anything to mine. I don't intend to drink it. Instead I disappear into the kitchen again and return with two glasses and a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label.

"Not for me, thank you," you say as I begin to decant.

You've never tried alcohol before. Never even been around it. The closest you have ever come was smelling the sickly aniseed Rakı on your pious father's breath from time to time.

"Oh, come on. It's traditional in England to have a little whisky with your tea in the morning," I lie, hopefully convincingly.

You stare at the glasses for a few seconds. I can see you are torn. Torn between wanting to try new things and wanting to be a good Muslim. Then you think of your father. If he can drink alcohol and still go to the mosque, why can't you?

"Alright then, a little bit, just to taste it," you say and smile your sweet smile.

I pour a healthy splash and push it towards you. You pick it up, hold it in both hands and examine the amber coloured liquid. I tap my glass against yours, say "chin chin" and knock it back in one. You gingerly bring the glass to your lips. It doesn't smell like Rakı. You don't know what it smells like, but you know you don't like it. You feel a little queasy.

You grimace before taking a decent sized gulp. You swallow and your grimace turns into a look of pure shock and horror. For a second I you think you are going to vomit, but you fight it back. You glug down some tea to take the taste away and sooth the burning in your throat. A wave of warmth washes over you, partly from the booze and partly from the still quite hot tea.

"Yuk. That's horrible!" You say in disgust. "Do English people really drink that stuff?"

"Almost everybody, every morning."

It occurs to me that you might, at some point, discover this is not true, but I don't worry about that now. You look a little puzzled and slowly sip the rest of your tea. You feel a tiny bit dizzy and your cheeks are slightly flushed. 

I feel better now, much more relaxed. Johnny always hits the spot. I take out the books and papers for today's lesson. You pop your glasses on. Channel I notice. You look so cute and innocent in them, I can't help but smile at you. You smile back and your cheeks flush redder. I feel something stir in my underwear, but I try to ignore it.

We progress smoothly. The usual stuff. I outline the syllabus, discuss the possibility of you taking the CPE exam sometime in the future etc. etc.

After that I give you an article to read and some questions to find the answers to. You work away assiduously. Highlighting sections and underlining bits here and there, making little notes. Occasionally your glasses slip down your nose and you push them back up with your pristinely manicured fingers, never taking your eyes off your work. You are adorable.

I don't read the article. I've been through it countless times with other students and I know it backwards. I'm content to just sit here and observe you. It's difficult not to stare. In fact, it's taking all my willpower not to jump on top of you and start kissing you and tearing your clothes off. 

I need a distraction, something to dull my prurience. I grab the bottle of Mr. Walkers finest restorative and tip some into my glass. Automatically I do the same for you. I am a good host. I throw mine down my neck. To my surprise you actually pick yours up and take a sip. Not a large sip, just wetting your lips really. You're probably just trying to be polite.

Soon you have finished your task and we go through your answers together. As we sit there discussing your ideas, you take a couple more little sips of scotch. On your third sip I pause mid-sentence and give you an inquisitive raised eyebrow. 

"It's not too bad once you get used to it," you confess.

Once we're done, I suggest a short break. You simply lie back on the sofa, a content smile on your delicate lips. You seem very relaxed. The whisky has done its job well. Thank you, Mr. Walker!

We lounge about for a while and chat. You tell me how delighted you are to be in London, how long you have been waiting for this trip and all the things you want to do while you're here. Your talk is punctuated by occasional, small sips of blended scotch. I just sit and watch you, smiling and nodding. I could look at you and listen to your voice all day. I have never heard music so sweet.

"I'm tired. Can I just close my eyes for ten minutes before we get back to work?" you ask, your eyes already shut.

"Take as long as you like. We have plenty of time."

This is where you take me by surprise. You put your feet up on me. 

I have been a teacher for a while. Students have given me countless compliments, presents, hugs and kisses on the cheek. This has always been after they have known me for a while though. We only met about an hour ago. Putting your feet on someone is an intimate act. It shows a level of comfort and closeness not usually reached between teacher and student. Certainly not between borderline alcoholic, male teacher and conservative, religious, female student. This is the kind of act only the water of life could induce.

I am astounded by your spectacular feet. They are perfect, so smooth and soft looking. Artistically shaped, each toe is slender and exactly proportioned to its neighbour. I have to touch them. You must want me to. You were the one who put them on my lap. I begin stroking, just your instep with my fingertips at first, but then I become bolder. I use my whole palm to caress from just above your ankle to right over and under your toes. I slip my thumb under your arch and stroke your sole. You sigh, with obvious pleasure.

You don't open your eyes, but use the toes from one foot to pry off the sandal on the other and let them drop to the floor. I now have complete unhindered access and I take full advantage of it. I use both hands to feel every millimetre of your exquisite peds and sublime toesies. There is not the tiniest patch of hard skin to be found, not dry, not clammy, pure perfection. The only aroma is from the scented cream you used after your morning ablutions. 

I start off gently, just stroking. I gradually apply more pressure so I am rubbing them, then firmly massaging. You let out quiet moans of arousal to encourage me on every step of the way. You wiggle your toes provocatively. Your very first time alone with a man and you get him to give you a foot rub. You are an instinctual seductress. 

I'm done being timid now. I lift one sumptuous foot up to my face and press my lips to the ball. I kiss and inhale deeply. I slowly slide it down and kiss the toes. You make no complaints, just lie there with your eyes closed, panting nasally.

I open my mouth slightly. Your toes enter and are met by my wet tongue. I lick them lovingly. I savour them. There is barely any flavour, it's all about the texture. The tiny ridges on your toe pads, silky and perfectly smooth skin in between. My top lip on the hard glossy nail, occasionally clacking against my teeth. You bite your lip and stifle a sultry moan.

I lower your foot back to my lap and let it rest there. I look at your face. You open your eyes to meet my gaze. We stare intently at one another for a few moments. A coquettish smile, I smile back. 

We both know exactly what is going to happen now. Well, you don't know exactly, you've never done it before, but you have a good idea of the basics. You and a friend watched a couple of naughty videos on the internet once, you understand how it works. 

You're anxious, but no more nervous than when you were walking from the station. The alcohol has definitely taken the edge off, loosened your inhibitions. You are eager too. You knew that people get up to all sorts of immoral things in big cities, but you never believed you'd be taking part. Somewhere in the back of your mind you had hoped that you'd meet a boy to talk to, maybe hold hands even, but not lose your virginity. That was meant for your husband. However, you know I want it and for some reason, you're going to let me take it. 

You press down with your toes on the bulge that has formed in my trousers. You know what it is and are full of curiosity. You want to see it, feel it, even taste it. I can tell you want it, you've made it crystal clear. You have already made the licentious first step, it's now up to me to bring this encounter to it's logical and inevitable conclusion. You want a man to take the lead, to guide you, to have you. You've managed to forget, at least for now, that indeed Allah is ever watching over you. 

What can I do? I have no other choice than to oblige. I hold out my hand, palm facing upwards. You take it. I grip your dainty fingers firmly and help you into a sitting position. I stand and then bring you to your feet. Without a word I walk into the hallway. I don't let go of your hand and you follow me meekly up the stairs. 

Into my bedroom and I sit you on the bed. I stand in front of you and clamp your legs in between my own. You aren't planning on going anywhere, but I am letting you know that I wouldn't let you if you were. You tilt your head upwards, trust on your angelic face. Those eyes, those magnificent eyes! I feel as if I could dive into them, get lost in them.

I had almost got used to your strong perfume, but standing so close to you now, it fills my brain again. It is a scent I shall remember for the rest of my life. I lean in and press my lips against yours. You close your eyes and we kiss. Your first kiss, the kiss you will never forget. The kiss you were saving for the man you would marry.

I keep it soft and tender. I don't want you to feel too overwhelmed. I hold your cheek in my hand, to steady and comfort you. As we smooch, I playfully flick my tongue out and lick your lips a couple of times. The third time your own tongue is there to meet it. Oral ecstasy! 

We break. I peer deeply into your eyes. You look straight back at me. Your lips simpering. You may well be totally inexperienced, yet you know you did a good job. You are a naturally good kisser. No need for you to practise, the ability is innate within you, you can sense it.

My fingers move quickly and confidently to your headscarf. A light tug in the right place and it unwraps itself. Your luxuriant hair tumbles out and the scarf glides onto the floor. This is the first time a man has seen your head uncovered since you were a child. You can't even remember when your own father last saw you like this. Usually the idea of being bareheaded, allowing a man to see your coiffure, would be enough to bring on an anxiety attack, but not today, not in front of me. You shake it out so it hangs pleasingly over your shoulders. You are transcendentally beautiful! 

Another kiss. 

You idly trace the outline of my fully engorged penis with your fingertips, feeling it's turgid rigidity still encased in several layers of fabric. It feels different to how you imagined it would be, but then you're not quite sure how you imagined it. It just seems different somehow. 

I release the button at my waist and you undo the zip. I pull my chinos down to mid thigh and assertively guide your head to the front of my underwear. You kiss my straining cock through the taught cotton jersey.

You toy with the elastic waistband and slide a couple of fingers underneath. Then, ever so slowly, pull down to free my manhood. It stands to attention. Straight, proud and ready. 

At first you simply ogle it, wide eyed and open mouthed. You drink it in with your eyes, observing every detail. The foreskin around the bulbous helmet. The broad shaft with thick blue veins snaking over the entire length. It is several shades darker than the skin on the my thighs and my balls are darker still. My pubic hair has been recently trimmed, but not too recently, it's a little untidy. 


Goddess of the Moon



You look up at me. I look down at you. With a little pressure on the back of your head I encourage your face towards my impatient member. You don't need much encouragement.

You rub your face against it. Over you lips and cheeks, under your nose, enjoying the slightly musky odour. You use your almost impossibly soft fingers to stroke and play with me as you savour the unfamiliar sensation.

You begin by planting little kisses up and down the shaft, then onto the head. You notice that it is wet from my pre-cum. You don't know what it is, your sex education was nowhere near that detailed. You glance up at me, a little confused, but my look assures you that everything is as it should be. You continue. You part your lips slightly and give one big kiss directly to the tip. Your tongue protrudes a little to lick up the salty fluid. 

Another glance upwards, seeking my approval. My face gives you all you need. You open up wider and take me into your mouth. Your lips form a seal around my shaft, just below the ridge. It feels huge in your mouth. You suck, bobbing your head just slightly. It is the shallowest of blowjobs, but you expertly use your tongue, curling it around and licking every millimetre of my cock head. 

Expertly? Yes, expertly. Your god given talent is not limited to kissing it would seem. Despite the fact that you only have a relatively small amount of my dick in your mouth, this is still some of the best oral I have ever received. I relish it.

My hand on your head tells you I want it deeper. You take the hint without me even needing to push. Slowly but steadily you take me as far as you can go. It's not all the way, not deep throat, but it's getting there. I decide not to push you further. This is your first time, after all, and you're doing such a good job, I don't want to choke you or make it unpleasant for you in anyway. I wouldn't want to put you off.

It is a rare thing to find a girl so enthusiastic and desirous to please. It is a beautiful thing. So beautiful in fact, that I can already feel my orgasm building. I get closer with every motion of your head. 

No, no, no, this won't do. I am not ready, I stop you. At first you seem a little distressed. You think maybe you did something wrong, that I wasn't enjoying it. Again my expression reassures you that this is not the case, nothing could be further from the truth. I lean in again and kiss you once more. 

Our lips lock together and I lift you up. Instinctively, you wrap your arms and legs around me. I support your weight with my hands on your firm, little arse cheeks. One fits perfectly in each of my palms. I squeeze hard. You squeal and giggle. I stand there, holding you in a tight embrace. Our tongues exploring each others mouths. 

I lay you down on the bed with your head on the pillow. I position myself half next to you, half on top of you. We kiss. We fumble. We pull. We tug. We search. We grope. We fondle. We caress. Some how we manage to end up completely naked. Our clothes scattered all over the bed and on the floor. 

I begin to kiss my way down your body, starting with your neck. I even sink my teeth in a little. You gasp, shocked. I don't bite you too hard, just enough for you to feel it, just so you know. You know I could be vicious, if I wanted to be. I could do anything to you right now and you'd be powerless to stop me. I choose to be tender and you are grateful for it. You know I am holding back for your sake.

You breath in and out slowly and deeply as I gradually kiss lower and lower. Your shoulders, collar bones, chest and down to your breasts. The breasts you had been so careful to disguise ever since they began to grow. Breasts you were confident no man, save for your espoused, would ever see. Never did you dream of allowing another man so much as a glimpse of your cleavage, let alone to touch, put his lips upon and take your nipples into his mouth. The merest suggestion of such a thing would have horrified you, shocked you to your core, frightened you even. Not now though. You lie there, not moving, not flinching, hardly making a sound, apart from your breath.

Your breasts are not large, but they are ample. Full and ripe, like apples ready to be plucked. Your areolae are round and dark. Your nipples are well sized and pert. I suckle on them aggressively before making my way down to your tummy.

I don't leave your tits unattended though. I cup them in my hands, squeeze them and playfully pinch and twist your nipples as my head and lips get closer to your navel. Your skin has a very fine, ever so slight, dark peach fuzz growing in a V shape from your bust, all the way down your belly. As I pass over your belly button, I can't resist poking my tongue in and twirling, giving you a clue as to what is coming soon. It tickles and you laugh.

I venture on ever lower to your mons veneris. Unlike most girls your age, you are not shaven or waxed. I am pleased to find a triangular patch of black pubic hair, left to grow naturally. As I bury my face in it, I get my first, faint whiff or your natural, piquant scent. Before now it was a heady mix of Arabian perfume and luxurious scented creams. Finally, trapped in your body hair, I smell the pungent fragrance that is uniquely you. I breath you in as if trying to absorb your essence. 

I plant kisses on your hips following the line down to where your thighs meet. More kisses gets you to part them and gives me the first sight of your labia. You are wet, very wet and they glisten with your juices. I gently stroke them apart with by fingers. Your wet vagina opens out in front of me and looks like an exotic orchid after the rain. Dark lips with a delicate pink interior. I linger for a moment, taking it in, trying to burn it onto my memory. 

I draw back your clitoral hood and expose your perfect, little button. I lick my lips, ensure my tongue is well lubricated with saliva and go in for a firm lick. A soft and sudden gasp tells me you weren't expecting it. I smile to myself. You are sensitive, helping you to orgasm isn't going to be difficult at all. I know you are going to come hard.

I kiss your pussy. Tiny, gentle kisses to start with, my lips barely making contact. Then more, my whole lips pressed to your wetness. Then little flicks of my tongue accompany each smooch. You taste divine. My lips become coated with your sticky, ambrosial liquid. 

My licks become longer. Licking slowly from your perineum, up on side, between your minora and majora and over your clitoris. Then again, up the other side, all the way to your clit. Once more, I lap my tongue right from your beautifully tight, puckered arsehole, right through the centre of your cunt and across your tingling nub. You can't help but let out a high pitched cry of pleasure. 

I know I've got you now. I am going to make you cum. You grip the bed clothes tightly as I eat you in a frenzy. Licking and sucking as I have never done for any other woman. I forcefully keep your legs wide open as I work you up to your climax. Your eyes are wide and you bite down hard on your lip as you desperately, but vainly try to suppress your squeaks and squeals of sheer delight as the euphoria wells up inside you. Each sound spurs me on further. 

I can feel your body starting to tense up. Your try to clamp your thighs together, but I am too strong for you and keep them separated. Your pelvis gyrates, grinding yourself into my face. Your moans get louder and more desperate.

Your can't hold back any more. You no longer even try to control your vocalisations. You cum with a scream as your orgasm explodes through your body. The head rush is intense, you nearly faint, but I don't stop. My mouth is clamped over your clit, fiercely sucking and tonguing hard. You push at my head.

"Enough...Enough!" you whisper in horse tones.

I release my grip and watch you gently quivering on the bed, naked, exposed, your eyes closed, trying to catch your breath. 

"Oh my god...Oh my god," you mutter quietly, to nobody in particular.

You are mine now, I have you.

I position myself between your legs, spreading your thighs with my knees, you offer no resistance. I kiss your forehead, your cheek, our lips meet, your eyes stay closed, we kiss.

My rigid cock brushes against your pussy. Instinctively you reach down, take me in hand. You guide me into you. With one long, strong thrust of my hips, I stretch you, your cunt envelopes me. I am inside you all the way. We are one.

It is quite painful for you, I can tell. You whimper and squeeze your eyes tight shut, holding back a cry. You clasp onto me with all your strength, even digging your nails into my flesh. I keep perfectly still for you, allowing you to regain your composure and enjoying, no revelling in the feeling of being inside of your hot, virgin quim, which grasps me like a vice.

Eventually you start to relax and I start to move. You have a pained, worried look. You think I'm going to hurt you. My soft kisses and gentle stroking comfort you and put you at ease. This is for you too. I am not merely using your body for my own satisfaction. You close your eyes and allow yourself to be taken.

I thrust with long deep strokes, but slowly and deliberately, careful not to slam into you. I want you to feel every centimetre of my length. You hold onto me tightly, but don't look at me. Your eyes remain shut and you concentrate on your breathing. Gradually I allow myself to pick up speed and force. You take it well and start to let out groans of gratification.

I hook your leg with my arm, giving me leverage and allowing deeper penetration. I pound you vigorously. Not really hard. It's not a violent screw, but a good steady fuck. You do not protest and accept every thrust. You trust me to know what you can handle and not give you any more than you are ready for. You groan louder.

I hear you murmur something under your breath. Did you just say what I thought you did? It sounded like you called me...no, you couldn't have done. I quicken the pace, pump into you harder. 

Then you say it again, still not loud, but you clearly say, "Fuck me, Daddy...please." 

Dirty talk in English. That puts me over the edge. I momentarily lose control. I take both your wrists in my hands and slam them either side of your head, forcibly pinning you to the bed. I'm nearly there. I'm going to explode. My last few strokes aren't controlled, they are pure, frantic passion.

Your eyes are no longer closed, they stare almost in terror. Your mouth gaping wide in a silent scream. You suddenly realise my strength, my power and it astounds you, frightens you even.

Maybe it is the increased stimulation, maybe it is the fear, perhaps both, but your own crisis comes upon you rapidly.

With deep, guttural, animalistic grunts I cum hard and so do you. I shoot my heavy load deep inside of you and feel your cunt spasm around my cock as if trying to milk the hot, thick spunk out of me. I feel every drop.

We remain locked in each others arms, not moving, just holding, still.

With a kiss I withdraw. This is a startling sensation to our now incredibly over sensitive genitals. I lie down beside you and you roll your body onto me. Head on my chest, arm draped over my stomach and leg hooked securely around mine. We lie in total silence, save for our breathing.

Although neither of us utters a word, we both know that we have fallen in love today. I don't know when it was exactly. It might have been just now, when we came in unison. It might have been after your first orgasm. Possibly it was when you took my dick in your mouth. It could have been when you took my hand and followed me up the stairs. For all I know, it was the moment I opened the door to you this morning and I first saw your face. The exact moment is irrelevant. The important thing is that it has happened. We both feel the same way.

A combination of guilt and shame wash over you. You know what we did was a sin, a crime against the almighty. Yet somehow it doesn't feel wrong. You are comfortable lying here naked with me. My touch feels natural to you, not wicked. Could god ever forgive you? Do you even want to be forgiven?

Then there is your family. Would they ever accept me? Your mother, maybe in time, might be able to tolerate me. Your father on the other hand, never! He would rather lose his fortune and die a thousand deaths than see his little princess with a man like me.

Finally there is the biggest problem of all. A condom was never even considered. The very idea that you'd be on the pill is laughable. It is far too early to know medically, but your female intuition is telling you what no doctor could. You are pregnant. It was your first time, but we made it count. You know for a fact that we made a baby inside you just now.

As I gently doze off, content to just hold you in my arms, a light breeze comes through the wide open window and cools our hot, sweaty bodies. Uncountable thoughts and feelings race through you, things you could not possibly have conceived of just a few short hours ago. A flood of emotion threatens to overcome you. In your turmoil you latch onto the one thing you know is solid, the one thing you know you can trust. You kiss my chest and hold me tight.