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They Call Me Barbi Ch. 01

By: Man_in_Chester



See also "Barbi made to bend over" which describes the events that made me tell this tale.

Some men stare at my breasts but men do not have to carry them day in day out. These men make me feel ashamed of my body and my breasts make me feel tired, especially at night simply because they have become so heavy. 

I always wanted to be like other girls but my mother told me that 'other girls' are all special in their own ways and it was high time I was taught to walk properly. She said she should have enrolled me at ballet classes when I was a toddler but now I would make up. This was just after she bought me my first bra. Nobody else wore a real one at that stage. I kept looking round and feeling out of place. 

However, the ballet teacher said she was pleased to meet me and asked if I liked music. I could see she wanted me to like music so I expect I said I did. Provided she did not ask me to describe it by classification I should be fine. It was unlikely she could understand the difference between garage and grunge, far less likely than between blues and country. She didn't ask me about my favorite group, which told me she wasn't interested in me. So much for this teacher! 

Then she played a piece of music and said she wanted to watch how I breathed. I knew there was something familiar about it, but I was impatient and something was making me angry. So angry I started stamping one of my feet before I realised it was picking up the beat of the music. 

"Walk with me," she told me and set off down the corridor. Every second time I put down my right foot I was stomping on it. 

Yet she seemed happy enough and even explained that the music had been adjusted to play fast so I suppose it was coming off a media player. The tune was familiar to me because it was "The Impossible Dream" in an instrumental version only. She had speeded it up to suit a child's faster breaths and shorter legs, she said. Then she got to the meat. 

"You moved to the music you heard. You are going to learn to move very well to many types of music. You will leave this school moving to the music you can make in your own head." 

So much was OK. Then she jumped in, both feet, "You came here an ugly duckling and you will leave gracefully like a swan." 

I left right there and then. I stood as high as I could on my toes, reached high up into the air just as the dancers did on television shows, turned round and walked out the door. Then I ran down the stairs screaming at being insulted and didn't stop until I got to my mother where she was waiting in the coffee bar. 

I probably told her that I would never go back. Never ever! I certainly remember raging at my mistreatment while my mother held me in her arms. 

Somehow or other she talked me round into going back. She changed and it was for the best really, maybe. I also got an introduction to classical music through her class and discovered it was not only about dead white men from Europe. 

There is this tune which I thought was supposed to be some woman unravelling a wool cardigan. But it sounded much like "The Impossible Dream" all over again and perhaps that was why I remembered it so well when I met Brad later on. You might have worked out by now what it is but I will come to that later. 

That was much later so I will concentrate on the present, when I actually was learning to walk more gracefully and more importantly I would always say, to let people know that I would go where I said I was going to go. 

That certainty helped me when I was helping Mom by getting my two little brothers to behave better. 

The watchwords here are Confidence, Communication, Self Determination and Achievement. Self Determination does not go first because you must first of all let everyone else know you are in charge. Certainly not that you plan to be. It worked from Senior School onwards and as my breasts grew and I felt out of shape I continued to hold my head high. You can follow! 

This does not mean that I often feel a freak and I know the boys started calling me Barbi but I refuse to believe that my feelings and their callings are related. They can believe it if they want. The problem lies in their heads and not in mine. End of story! 

My mother was my best friend. She is wonderfully practical and just keeps on moving, working, usually while she is talking and I have realised now that she actually is listening while you are talking. 

Now I am a married woman myself I have worked out that she probably gets it from my dad just when ever she wants it. 

Now my dad is a lovely big man, sexy too in his own way. When AOL started giving out e-mail addresses he managed to get one for my mother, mygreatyoni. 

A big brute of a man to be a comms worker, but there you are. One evening we were sitting on our soft chairs watching a basketball game on TV but this evening he smelled of beer and strawberries from the freezer. By and by he was paying less attention to the game and looking more at me. 

There even seemed to be a curvature in his spine leaning towards me. I started wondering if he was thinking the same thing as me: had my breasts finally stopped growing because I wasn't growing much taller any longer. 

Had it been my mother I would probably have asked her if that was what she was thinking. But my dad, lovely man that he is, well maybe it's only because he is a man, I did not feel it was quite right.

Nevertheless I blurted out something to him. In half a minute mom had put down her ironing in the room next to the kitchen and walked through. My dad was gradually straightening up when she walked up right between our seats from behind us. 

With one hand she gave me a folded scrap of paper and put her other hand on the back of my dad's neck. That didn't stop her movements. She just kept on going, slid her arm down his back, swung her legs off the floor and lowered herself onto his lap.

Over her shoulder she called out to me, "Tough about the game but Aunt Betty wants you to get the things on that list as fast as possible. You can see the end of the game there if you hurry." 

I unfolded the paper and looked at the list. There were only two things on this urgent list. 'OUT NOW' scribbled with a pencil which had broken when she started writing.

Even before I left the room I could hear the horrible sound of my mother, my best friend, purring against my father's chest. Aunt Betty let me sleep over. 

It was OK I thought then that she and a man might make love together, she was an aunt, even if she was well over thirty and definitely middle aged.. But my own parents! Ugh, Ugh. 

School never had prepared me for this.

By the time to chose where I should major my interests were dance, literature and debate. You don't need to guess how well I write but if you talk to me, just remember this: 

I know how you think. Say it again to yourself and remember it. 

That is the only reason I can give to explain to you why I am able to demolish my opponent, even if she, or he, is right. It also helps when the boys try to get too fresh, but then so does the dance training. 

Debate is intricately connected with Democracy and so after two years at college I took a summer off in Athens, Greece. That is where our ideas of democracy began thousands of years ago, as did theater. 

My plan was to research and turn in a project on Political Theater for my next year. Learning the feeling of the modern language was easy but the Ancients are all dead and all we have is their markings. 

It was another of their dry summers.

I had a day off because the air-con had gone down again. Concrete buildings are fine but most of them here are designed to rely on it. It is cooler down at the sea so I made to spend a time there under some rocks in the shade. So did many of the office workers, but I know how to move men. 

My body never really got off on sleeping midday, not like the locals, so the taverna just along a bit was pretty empty when I went in. I wanted squid, fish, potato, that sort of thing with a beer. Of course the workers only want to leer at me, not to give service. I got them off their butts but they still only wanted to leer at me. 

Then I said to no-one in particular, "Is that your mother going out the door over there?"

Two of them reacted and I guessed they were brothers. 

"Never seen you trying to make out with a woman before, has she? Except herself?" 

Two angry faces which the third one took as his personal advantage and knocked one of their hands away from my bottom. Scarface was about to move in and now it was his turn to be destroyed. 

"Second best, I see," I used a finger to imitate his scar. "Which of them was it?" 

"Neither!" I saw some blood was flowing now. The other two had got more active. 

"Which of you wants to be my personal servant?"

That put them off balance. One, they all wanted to be first. Two, none of them wanted to be serving a woman. Leastwise, not in public. By this stage I could probably chose, so I thought, but when I tried I discovered that I hadn't grounded them enough. 

"Would you like a drink?" I asked one of the brothers. He was going to have to take it to my table but his brother shouldered him out of the way. Maybe it was going to be a bit tight. Scarface got himself in front of me, his face flushed. The brothers were too busy with each other right then. 

We went into shadow. All of us looked at the door because that had been the main source of light. 

It was filled with the shape of a man. He grew bigger as he walked forwards. 

"Bring me a beer, and a white wine for my wife." A German, one of those languages which can make "Nice day," sound like words of command which had better be obeyed. He sat down with plenty room beside him. The waiters ignored me and somewhat sullenly went to the beer cooler. 

I sat down beside him, thinking how little German I spoke, but I made sure to brush my hair over his shoulder as I sat beside him. He was including me in his personal space so I did not feel threatened, even although I was in awe of the size and obvious strength of this stranger. Perhaps it was because I was in awe of him, surely it was not just gratitude, that I suddenly realised that this man could do anything with me, anything that he wanted and I would agree. I felt that familiar twitch at my pussy and knew it was getting moist. 

I waited till the waiters moved away and stretched up to his ear. 

"I'm sorry but I cannot speak your language well." 

"No, it is better if you are born there." 

I thought that was stereotypical Germanic arrogance but then put one of his arms round my shoulders to lift me up off the seat and whispered,

"Not a German. The people here used to ruled by Germans so they obey. Was soldiers. Then tourists. Now it is bankers. Squeeze them by their life. Are you Yankee?" 

He put me down and I nodded. 

"Your face is become red," he said, this time in English. 

I saw the opportunity to re-establish myself as the one in charge by picking apart the use of verb tense and the unnecessary use of other words and yet I could not bring the words to my mouth. Instead I just blushed outright. At the same time I felt my inner thighs twitch and my lower abdomen muscles began to tremble. I was in trouble. We had to get up and get walking.

Yet I was not in trouble. My head was more at ease with this big man than any other except my lovely big father, my mother's hunk. I could easily see how my own life as an independent woman could be ended as her's had been maybe a quarter of a century ago. 

I stole another glance at his body and asked in English what his name was. When I heard it, even although my eyes had been following his lips, I knew it was unrepeatable by me. My tongue swelled up inside my mouth at the thought of speaking it aloud. Hoping to find a way round it I asked,

"What do your friends call you?" 

That was what his friends called him back home. He smiled and told me that especially because it was me, I could call him, "Brad." Pronounced with a "th." That afternoon I got a lot more of his story.

He comes from Croatia, he is a Roman Catholic, that a section of the population there do not like what he and his people stand for: mostly I gathered that his grandparents and all of their friends had been in league with the Nazis so they could take their opportunity to get even with what the other lot had been doing beforehand. 

The name had come from one of his uncles when he had been adopted as an interpreter by English soldiers who had a tank they christened 'Leeds.' 'Bradford' was what they called his uncle. It is a castle near Leeds and the soldiers could pronounce the name. 

After his school became too dangerous to attend he left the area and he had been very busy carving tombstones but otherwise tried to learn from books, the radio and displaced schoolteachers and the like when he encountered them. 

I think I missed some of the details but they were as nothing compared to simply being in his presence that afternoon. It had happened to me before but never so strongly that I could not tell that time was passing. I only found that out later, after we had parted. 

He never told me if there had been any trouble in his parents' time, when his country had been forced into a tight coalition of other communists. It could have been a situation where they were peaceful but which Tacitus might have described as, 'They enslaved themselves thinking it was civilisation.' 

I can assure you, my Brad was never a slave. When I was a child my parents were able to control me in one way or another. I can look back now at the ways I have learned to understand people thanks to my college training and I can see this now even if it was not obvious at the time. But my Brad just melts me. I love him and would trust him in anything he asks. 

It is patently obvious he thinks the same about me. 

When we parted late that afternoon we told each other where we were staying and I was not surprised to hear him say that he was in the back lot of a stonemason's yard. He was still plying his trade as a sculptor of monuments for wealthy Greeks who left quantities of money behind them. Tomorrow he would take me to see some examples of the work which was funding his studies. 

For this evening we had made arrangements to meet inside a church and then have a slow meal in a simple restaurant. It was a tremendously highly charged meal on his part as much as mine I am sure. I did not and still do not care what the waiting staff thought of us for paying so little attention to their food. We wanted to enjoy each other. 

Anyway I had no stomach for food even if I had been able to taste it. By this time the feeling from my moist little place had spread down to the tops of my thighs and up into my lower stomach. It was vibrating. Then I had some rest. 

Someone had started up some music and it distracted me. Naturally they played a tame version of Zorba's dance - it could certainly not be wild enough for the dance described in the book! Shortly I was driven to abandon, not just by the sight and sound of this lovely man sitting across from me, rubbing my knees with his. 

It was the soft insistent rhythm beginning the first piece of 'Classical' music I had enjoyed. The one I had originally mistaken for "The Impossible Dream" but which was actually Ravel's "Bolero" and I was back in Dance Class. Before the violins cut in I was on my feet, head back, looking down on my partner, swaying towards him then stepping back. He got up and there was wonder and excitement in his eyes. 

His height made me stretch, trying to go up on point wearing sandals. As he again turned to face me I knew I would do it. My head and trunk curled slightly down and my legs bent. 

Then right on the beat I exploded! He was still smiling, welcoming me as if I had been lost when my legs slid over his right shoulder. Almost perfectly I had my left hand behind his neck, my legs straight out behind him and was sliding my right hand down his broad chest to his waistband - and my fingertips went beyond. 

This is where you want to kiss your partner but dare not else you lose balance, unless you are extremely skilled. But it is also a position which means, "I am yours to take wherever you want." 

Automatically he had his hand up to press me against his neck and the other on the shoulder of my rigid body. Then he began to dance with me. Rather clumsily I thought and kept my body like a steel spring against an elastic band, but at least he knew his limitations. He swept me down to the floor and up again in an arc so I finished on my feet with his body pressed to mine. 

"How you know? You are not enough age?" he said. Astonished. Then, "six six, six six," and burst out laughing. 

I made no reply and he asked this time, "How do you know? Sarajevo nineteen eighty four. Perfect sixes. Torvil and Dean, their Bolero." 

But I could not speak. The Bolero was rising again, ramping up in its insistency but I was doing something I never did in class. I could not stop myself; I clung to him and he was hard against my stomach. I just wanted him on the spot, well the spot where he stood and the spot which I kept private. So I climbed up onto him and began to grind myself in. 

Do you know Ravel's Bolero? Almost certainly. By the age I am now most people must have orgasmed on the floor with their partner to its rhythm. Of course I orgasmed against his body! 

I have felt the shaft of many hard cocks inside their owner's clothes, mostly bursting to get out at me. If I were willing then they would have got out but I kept them where they were. Where they belong. But now I hung on my partner, clutching at his face and trying to kiss him. 

He was gentle with me, but like a rock. It was while I was up on him that I heard the clapping that made me bury my face below his chin. Whatever I had done, he would fix. 

And he did. I felt him carrying me forward and turning from side to side. He pulled my head back and kissed my eyelids till I opened them. He looked down on me with a very serious look on his face that made me afraid. I knew I had done something that I had never done before, made my self cum on a man and I had done it without his permission. 

"Be kind to me," I pleaded. 

Behind me everything was normal. The music player was doing one of it's tunes, nobody seemed to be looking at us, the tables were still there. 

He hooked my arms around his neck, put an arm underneath to sit on and he chose one of my breasts to squeeze. It was strangely calming and somewhat oddly it made me wonder how my mother had felt nursing me. Would he be my baby? 

I must have decided then that I wanted to keep him. I was hooked on him in more ways than one. 

He took me down on to my chair once again and sat on it beside me. I was exhausted so he fed me with the remainder of my meal while he wolfed down his own. Every few mouthfuls he made me take a few sips of sweet wine and then I was allowed to rest against his body. 

Outside I walked by his side. Wherever he was going, I was going. He took me to the side entrance of the sculptor's where he worked and let me through the small gate, locking it behind us. Then to the back yard where he was sleeping that summer and locked us in beside huge bandsaws and heavy A-shaped steel frames. I was overawed by these huge shapes but not so much that I did not realise he had me where I wanted him to have me. There was just one problem I had not resolved. 

"We are Roman Catholics and we are not married yet," I said. "I want to be a virgin when I marry you." But I never said I would actually marry him. 

"I am able to make sure you are a Greek virgin, even in tomorrow morning." And so assuring me he laid me on his greatcoat. His body's scent was there and it did not so much smell as create a feeling in my lungs which opened me up. He lay down beside me and gave me an arm for my pillow. I sensed he would soon give me his body for bedclothes and began to undress him. He took my clothes off as fast as I took off his and we started laughing at each other. Then we rubbed our naked skin against each other and became more serious. But we could not keep that up. 


They Call Me Barbi Ch. 01



I sprang up on his prone body so we were face to face. I wanted to do something to him that I had dreamt about. I leaned down and smothered his face in my breasts. For once they were not going to be an embarrassment. They would be my twin towers of love. I had crossed my ankles across his stomach to prevent intrusion. 

"Now tell me," I said, using the threatening voice that quelled my little brothers, "what do you mean by 'six six'. Or you won't breathe again." 

Of course he just lifted me up by my shoulders and grinned as he chose which breast to lick first. I was helpless, suspended in midair, then he started to render me helpless with pleasure. But not in the way to crush my spirit because I could feel myself start to float in his arms, arms that gave me so much security that I felt as safe as I had been in my mother's womb. 

"Sarajevo. You know Sarajevo." 

I knew about the siege but shook my head. 

"Olympics of winter nineteen eighty four. On ice."

I tried to concentrate on the arithmetic while he applied his mouth around my nipples and eventually said, "You are too young." 

"Movie," he had broken off sucking me, "watch dancers on ice, Torvill and Dean." 

He was kissing me hard again now. Mostly it was my breasts listening to his mouth. 

He held me up a a little more so he could study my breasts before he carried on. 

"Stupendous! They came out like two birds mating on the wings." Something I know twitched. "Always touching and turning and flying over the ice like air, and the music, They dance to the music," he tried to sing to it but just named it. 

"Ravel's Bolero. Then all the judges vote." 

"They get two votes, one to six, each judge. Then each judge holds up 'six' one hand 'six' the other hand. Extremely perfect. And we all cry." 

So I was extremely perfect. 

He laid me gently on my side with a leg pushed up in front of me and his thigh over it so keep me still. I promptly fought my way round till I was looking towards his face. Then I realised that front to front with an amorous man puts a girl at risk and wriggled until I was safely facing away from him. 

One or two of his fingers went to that place which is no longer private to him and he quickly found what he was looking for and I was now longing for. I felt very glad that he knew his way round a woman's body even in the dark, even lying behind me. 

One hand was exhilarating me, the other was calming until he took it away from my breast and let me suck his fingers. I never realised what he would do with them till I felt the first one probing at my back passage. But I was feeling too good to object and all he was doing was just tapping at me till I surprised myself by opening up to it. It was sucked inside with no help from my conscious mind. His thumb started pressing me at the front. 

My stomach started to send up little thrills of excitement. They were faint but they were soon beginning to shoot up to my waist and affect my breathing. 

It had become short and sharp, so much so that I was not taking enough of a breath to get new air to my lungs and I knew that unless fresh oxygen got into the lobes there would be no gas exchange and I would effectively suffocate myself. Already my heart was beating faster in it's attempt to get oxygen to my brain and into it's own muscle. I was going to have a heart attack. 

"No!" I called, but it came out more like, "Oh" and he did not relent. 

I lost track of him in my orgasm. When I came back he was holding me tight, smoothing my skin and I discovered he had used the time to send up another finger. We were exciting each other's bodies, I knew it. I could feel it. Now he could do anything with me that he wanted because I wanted it too. And he had promised to leave me a virgin. 

I reached back and wrapped my fingers around the first cock I had ever touched. I was shocked at how big these things are! Still, I reasoned, not so big as the baby they would produce and if my mother could let one pass I too would learn. That is what I was thinking as I felt his stretchy satin skin, sliding up, down and round the hard shaft. I would have thought more about how I would care for it had not another wave of orgasm distracted me. 

Vaguely I became aware that he had placed a third hand between my breasts and even more slowly realised what had happened. My hand flew back round to grab at empty air where his cock had been. 

"Oh no," was what I said, or sobbed. My body was trembling. No more than that, shaking. 

"You stay a virgin girl," was what he said and the pressure stopped. My hand found his cock and it was oily and slippery. I wiped it off on my bum and quickly he hooked my fingers round the cheek and pulled me further open.I relaxed again only to feel another thrust beginning. I clamped down on him and again the pressure eased. Another thrust, stopped when I clamped him. 

But then his hand was back on my breasts searching for a way to hold me calm. 

So calm that I took my attention away from him and thought only of my breasts. Until now they had brought me embarrassment and shame by their size. They attracted unwanted men to me like flies. 

Their only good point was how, in a crowd, I could push other women aside with them and they did not demur, knowing it was their lot to be obedient. 

This was something I only discovered by many incidents, like being able to claim the last remaining pair of jeans when a crowd was fighting over them, or getting under a shelter if the rain came on. A grudging sort of respect I imagine. 

Brad was so successful with my breasts that I did not realise he was still verging slowly inside me until I felt the pressure of his body across my hips and abruptly I stiffened. 

That made me clamp down on his penis, my body had not yet come to terms with it being inside me. Then, while my eyes felt as if they were popping, he grunted deeply and this time I felt him pulling back out of me. 

I breathed in and he felt it as a sucking from inside and a relaxing anus. His slippery penis came in with controlled determination. 

Automatically this made my sphincter grip him but he had already put most of himself inside and when my body felt his thrust it gripped him harder and locked him there. 

He cried with a rasping cry and I wanted to loosen up on him. I knew he had the strength to forge right in. My head was fighting one way with my body screaming the other way. But after I had done so I started to enjoy him being in me even as he penetrated me further. 

He had hooked me and I felt was on him. We were almost perfectly united and I wanted perfection. 

He had better finish me now he had started. Between sobs into his greatcoat I started urging him to go deeper with cries of "Take me." He obeyed. 

His hair started to annoy my smooth cheeks and it made me try to wriggle. It let him push in further then pull out only to push back into me again. Then this feeling started to build in my stomach and sparked down to his penis which made it bounce back up again spraying every organ, every nerve and up my spine to my brain. It was not hair I was feeling on my skin any longer, it was mains electricity, the kind of current that can paralyse your muscles or lock them rigid. 

And then I wasn't simply floating. I was the rowboat when the over-vigorous oarsman missed the rowlocks. Suddenly adrift on the lake with neither control nor controller and the man I had been carrying a moment before writhing about helplessly in my bottom. Whether he was in agony or ecstasy I did not care. 

When I came round I was both frightened and triumphant. My eyes were wet, I was shivering but I knew I had made a wonderful man cum in me. 

He rolled me on his stomach and let me rest, holding my feet high in the air. I wanted to kiss him and he knew but all we could manage was a timid attempt. He still had something hard inside me to amuse us with as he stirred me around, laughing softly at my indignity. So I grabbed his testicles and squeezed a little. 

Now it was my turn to laugh out loud when he threw us up in the air till I realised that big hook of his was still embedded in me. When he came down below me he leaned back just a little to make me fall on it so I was impaled frighteningly deeply. 

As I struggled up he forced me down, my legs balancing against his arms, my bottom trying vainly to hold him still. 

How easily I made him cum again that dark Greek night, not by trying but rather by self-preservation. 

He softened and held me cradled in his arms, holding me the way a drunk man holds a pole for support and gradually I realised that he had fallen asleep still inside me. 

With this realisation I was left feeling so lost and lonely. I had never been so vulnerable in all my adult memory yet somehow this was a moment of triumph for me, I had quieted the savage beast that had ranged in me and around me. I even removed the used condom. 

By the time the sun began to light up the sky we were lying face to face again and I realised my danger. So I just held it pointing to the ground and brought him off as he awoke. When he opened his eyes he soon discovered why I had the wickedly innocent look in my eyes. So I let him put his big arm round my shoulders and kiss me while he made up his story. It was very simple. 

"Not all Greek Virgins," he told me, "Sparta in particular. The girls all virgins when they married and all of them anally active long before." 

That was a new one on me. Spartan men were soldiers on bad rations, so bad they would rather die than retreat back to camp. Each one a qualified murderer, that I also knew. 

So much for his ancient history. What I was now looking forwards to was next to a murder. It was going to be the end of my independent life, so soon. 

I had never intended to let myself be taken: never on this project, far less so easily. I was having to rewrite my future life plans. At least he would not have made me pregnant with child, though what he had put inside me had changed me utterly and I could not define why. For a brief moment I felt I hated him. 

Hate is a bad feeling. It does not belong in the heart of a Christian, that I knew from childhood, but I also felt I had done very wrong last night. How was it possible for me to allow a man to take such advantage of my position? I had slipped badly. 

He had to get ready for work. I staggered to my feet and held him to get my body in balance and put my head against his chest. Holding on to him I managed to tilt back my face and look up to him.

"Six, six," I told him and prodded his chest. 

In Greek terms this man from the East had come in through my Hot Gates and from now on it was up to me to control him more closely as my act of my love for him. Yet for the moment I felt so unsteady when I stood up, even to the point where I did not want to walk. My priorities were a sip of water, ablutions and food. Now was the time when I really appreciated the Greek toilets combined with shower. 

Afterwards I thought it was worthwhile to spend a lot of my money and have a burger: my stomach knows what to do with them. I needed my strength to work out how to control Brad. 

Now I thought that if I got him to visit Bradford Castle as a tourist when my program in Greece was finished it would give me a few weeks alone with him and the chance to make him mine. 

All that the next month required was to keep him on the boil while I studied him, just to examine him more thoroughly and to make certain of my plans for him. Basically I suppose that I had already decided. 

He had certainly been able to look after himself without a woman and I did check that he did not have one hidden away somewhere. My feelings about his independence without me were mixed. On the one hand he was a mature adult yet on the other, I felt that he ought to need me and know that he needed me before I made my pitch. 

Certainly he wanted my body and I made sure he could not have anyone else's. Other girls tended to shrink away from my breasts. They could not compete and now I revelled in that knowledge. 

However it meant that my underwear got moist more often, each time I had fun facing down a possible threat. 

Of course, he needed to have relief. As seldom as possible at this stage I thought. But he was hungry for me and I surprised myself that month, for I was eager for him. 

His body was a temple and his penis was its pinnacle. I was in danger of worshipping it alone. However he did not try to penetrate me at every opportunity and this counted in his favor. 

Nearly a week later I was ready to take him in me again. He promised not to violate me, just to take me the same way as before and now I knew what to expect. There was no cause for fear. But it came as a disappointment to me. 

It did not seem to be the same although he did much the same. 

I could have shaken him and demanded he tell me why it was not so special and yet he looked so, I will use the word, Satisfied. 

He rolled on his side to rest and from what I have learned about men, would probably have fallen asleep. I pushed him flat on his back and lay on his chest with my arms around his neck. 

Despite his strength he would be unable to go anywhere until I let him know he had not fulfilled me. My tears falling on his cheeks did the trick. He turned from satisfied to curious and curious to worried. 

He was worried that he had not been as good to me as I had been to him. 

I know that troubled him to the extent of stimulating his body from near torpor to a man once again determined to conquer his woman with love as well as zest and skill. 

I adore being loved. 

This incident was an important lesson to me, at least. It backed up the ideas I had formed years earlier about firstly having the confidence to know you will succeed before you communicate. And it enforced the need for communication with one you are very close to physically. 

I got a shock when I tried to make travel plans for us.