Meet the Parents

Meet the Parents

Rachelle was 12 years old when her mom married her step-father. He already had a 16 year old son, Darien, who had been nice to Rachelle from the start. Stephanie Huntington had possessed sufficient taste to ask for a June wedding, and Delancy Drafter had been well enough endowed to grant her request. It wasn't really a “May/December wedding,” but Rachelle considered the term “May/September wedding,” a serviceable substitute.

Stephanie had married her high school sweetheart straight out of high school, with predictable consequences. Her husband had trained as a welder, and obtained employ in the oil industry. His drilling rig schedule would have challenged a healthy marriage, and his own was far from well maintained. Within two years, Stephanie was a single mother. Her native intelligence led her to train as a technical assistant, first for one field, then another, settling on Pharmacy Technician for the stable part of Rachelle's early childhood.

She met Delancy at a Gym. Whatever her failings, Stephanie always maintained a diligent workout regimen, and it paid off. Her sleek physique had drawn the dilettante’s eye, and she had capitalized upon it well. He had made his money in the oldest of traditions: he had inherited it. His wife had been a socialite of his parent's choosing, and her shallow experience of human existence could not compete with Stephanie's intimate knowledge of adversity. By comparison to Ariadne, Stephanie would always be deeper and more genuine.

By their second summer as a family, Stephanie had begun to watch his son, Darien, mature in much the same way that a vine-dresser in a vineyard watches his grapes mature. It was by no means perverted. She simply didn't want his father to hinder his dating life, while at the same time sincerely hoping for him to avoid her own mistakes. Rachelle was present when she passed various remarks at the dinner table intended to inform his attentions to opportunities, and the talent rubbed off on her.

However, Darien's application of the precocious, led him to seek out sexual situations with his tutor. Rachelle's first contemplation that her mom and dad had sex was when she caught Darien trying to watch. At the tender age of 13, she didn't “rat him out,” but it somewhat sexualized her view of her step-father; he occasionally found a place in her nightly ritual. The problem didn't go away, but Darien was a quick study, and took adequate precautions that Rachelle should not discover him again.

By this method, he was soon more knowledgeable than his peers about the bedroom. The result of this mismatch of maturity was hardly predictable.

One Thanksgiving, Stephanie prevailed upon Delancy to spend the long weekend together, away from the children. Darien was quick to abdicate responsibility, and asked that they should provide a baby sitter for his step-sister. He was even prepared to recommend a high school senior (from school) for the task. The girl did not know him well, but easily accepted the assignment; it would be a big payday in baby sitting terms. His parents talked with her parents, and without intending anything of the sort, their long weekend with each other, translated into his long weekend with the baby sitter.

Her name was Sandra, and Rachelle had no clue of the significance of Darien's early risque comments. His steps were not practiced, but Stephanie and Delancy were scarcely out the door before Darien was persuading Sandra to rent an “R” rated DVD for the evening. A curious Rachelle joined him in his efforts, pointing out that, at 14, she could reliably defeat parental supervision at the theater. The first sign that Darien had chosen well was when Sandra acceded.

Saturday afternoon, cuddling on the couch led to the speculative foreplay that teenagers call “petting.” Rachelle took this in stride, and Darien followed initial success with the suggestion that Sandra use the master bath (in their parents' bedroom,) for her toiletries. From there it was a small step to offering his parents' bed in place of the sofa.

Rachelle regarded this escalation of favors with some reservation, and began to watch the two of them like a naturalist watches birds. The use of the master bedroom apparently necessitated running the vacuum cleaner which he asked Sandra to do, only to turn right around and “supervise.” His various cleaning instructions soon precipitated the “accidental” discovery of his parents' KY and so on. Sandra got the idea just before it became ham handed, and tested him by asking him to clean the bathtub and shower. To her amusement, he complied.

Meanwhile, Rachelle had discovered some of Darien's accommodations for spying on the properly authorized occupants. Somewhat understandably, she didn't perceive that they were contrived by another – she simply supposed that she had discovered an oddity. She was far more curious about her step-brother and his quarry than she had ever been about the adults; she would probably not have bothered to secretly observe her parents, but her peers were another matter.

That night, after they retired, Rachelle's clandestine reconnaissance was totally unsuspected by the principle actors in the play. Sandra went to bed, correctly expecting Darien to appear upon some pretext. But Rachelle correctly predicted the same. She made no effort to go to sleep, but instead listened for Darien's sortie. The two love birds were still grooming each other experimentally when she took up her position at Darien's crow's nest. The evening's activities were very informative for a 14 year old.

At the conclusion of the tryst, she was easily able to retreat into her room before Darien finished dressing and returned to his own, and Rachelle fell asleep wondering why Sandra had accepted his advances.

It was not the end of the matter.

[03/23/2012 - there is now a sequel called Triage for Love]

If These Walls Could Talk

If These Walls Could Talk

Although, Rachelle made no effort to blackmail her brother with her knowledge of his peccadillo, it is not in the nature of an adolescent to keep a secret autonomously. She saw no problem in telling a confidant; it was merely a matter of deciding in whom to confide.

Her choice was a statistical outlier, but her reasoning was cogent enough. Delancy is “cool,” she reasoned, and so she could reasonably share the knowledge with him, free of concern that he might over-react. Underlying this belief, and the reason she considered Delancy at all, was the observation that Darien was Delancy's son, and if Darien was to be disciplined, Delancy was the responsible party. New Year's celebrations had come and gone before she found an opportune moment, but in due time she confided in him.

From Delancy's point of view, this was a supreme affirmation that he was being a good parent. All kids make mistakes, and it is only when these are badly addressed that they become disastrous. Yet here was his step-daughter, trusting him above even her own mother. Sadly, teenagers are not the only one's who make mistakes.

Darien's offense was no longer fresh, so Delancy took some time to let the problem percolate. He thanked Rachelle for her good opinion of him, and assured her that she had “done the right thing.” His best avenue of advancement appeared to be to test Darien again. Would he attempt to repeat his indiscretion? The answer he did not know was a resounding “YES!” Not only would Darien re-offend at the earliest opportunity, he was exerting himself to capitalize upon his “success,” to re-offend even without opportunity. Despite his optimism, Sandra was not receptive.

However, the universe appeared to be on Darien's side. When Delancy suggested another long weekend away, Stephanie regarded it as reciprocation, and leaped at the chance. When the opportunity for another payday fell into Sandra's lap, she had incentive to agree beyond any social constraints of school mates. Plans were made, and the ever onward march of time made them reality.

Rachelle and Sandra did homework on Saturday morning, but the afternoon and night went as before... almost EXACTLY as before. Rachelle was treated to a new demonstration that was, if possible, even more instructive than the first: Darien convinced Sandra to let him leave a track light on, to improve his enjoyment. The holographic Civil War era cannon glowed subtly, and Rachelle could see everything that Darien could. Sandra's obvious enjoyment affected Rachelle by causing her to view her step-brother even more sexually than she had previously viewed her step-father. If it was a play, she left after the second act; she needed to attend to her libido.

Stephanie and Delancy returned, and Delancy took Rachelle aside almost immediately to query her. “Did Darien spend the night with Sandra again?” he asked. She verified what had happened without reservation, and Delancy had his smoking gun. However, he was not one of Elliot Ness's “Untouchables.”

Unbidden, the thought entered his mind that this was an excellent opportunity to make the baby-sitter squirm. It would be enjoyable to watch her reaction when he let her know that her activities were common knowledge. His avenue was simplicity itself; he would withhold her paycheck until they had their little chat. When it came up, he simply announced that he didn't have cash, would she come by the office.  His excuse went unanimously unchallenged - even Stephanie took it in stride.

The plan evolved over the next two days, into a quiet meeting after hours. No need to make Sandra's prospective embarrassment public, by holding court in front of the whole family. He didn't talk to Darien because he didn't want him to warn Sandra. Sandra thought nothing of coming to his office, and her school schedule conspired well with his work schedule.

The appointed hour came, and she knocked on the door of his office, entering at his invitation. She looked around the room. His status was reflected in two ways; the lighting was incandescent (instead of florescent,) and he had a lounge chair facing two perpendicular sofas, for impromptu small conferences.

Delancy rose from behind his desk, and waved her to a sofa, taking his own place in the chair. “So I noticed a few things at the house,” he began.

Sandra said nothing, but was slightly apprehensive. She hoped nothing was broken or had gone missing. “Is there anything I can tell you?” she inquired.

His chosen response was extemporaneous. “Did you make use of Darien, in my bedroom?” he asked. It would be hard to misconstrue that!

Sandra contemplated her options. Her father was not the forgiving type, and if he discovered that she was having sex “on the clock,” so to speak, he would castigate her as a whore. She was not a paragon, or Darien wouldn't have selected her, and the solution that presented itself was inexpensive and burned calories. She was not an experienced enchantress, but seduction has a built in incentive of its own. Her legs fell apart not too subtly, and she began to unbutton her blouse. “Is there anything I can do to keep it just between us?” she asked. She had no opinion of Delancy's age, but he was a pretty acceptable specimen... Stephanie knew how to pick them!

Delancy hadn't planned to blackmail her, but this assault on his moral fiber exceeded his weakened will. Experience counts, and his practicals were better than Darien's theoreticals. Sandra's pleasure compensated her well for her ethical lapse. By the time he was done, she was WELL done, and he finished with a thorough kiss, both before and after they got dressed again.

Delancy felt that compensating her for babysitting now, might be impossibly awkward, but he tried mightily to sidestep offense. “Would you like me to punish Darien by making him mow your lawn every week, till he's paid it off?” he offered. The words had hardly left his mouth before he perceived the possible double entendre.

Sandra was a practical girl. She knew that he could not blackmail her anymore. Meanwhile, her parents were not likely to welcome any arrangement that called for them to pay her, for work her “boyfriend” did. As a bonus, she actually found herself in a position to blackmail Delancy. “I won't be a bitch about it,” she replied charitably. “If you want to give me a check, I won't take it the wrong way.”

He took out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead, partially for the theatrical benefit. The check was on his desk, mercifully sealed in an envelope. “Sandra, thank you for baby sitting Rachelle,” he concluded. Their eyes met. “You did an excellent job.”

This was nearly the end of the matter.

Hell Begets Hell

Hell Begets Hell

Delancy made no overture to supply Sandra with spending money, and Sandra made no effort to court Darien with a view to more babysitting. Stephanie got banged half-blind by a guilty Delancy, and Rachelle wrote the matter off as being dealt with by Delancy in private.

Sadly, Darien was not inclined to desist. His efforts so far had been very fruitful, and he had no incentive to stop. When Sandra was cold to him, he took revenge by letting the cat out of the bag to his classmates. He reasoned that such a move would permanently ruin his chances of doing it again, but this appeared to be impossible anyway. The increased social standing was just a bonus. So he spilled the beans.

Sandra retaliated by telling anyone who would listen that Darien had struck out with a Goth girl in his own league. In three hours, it was no longer clear which comment had come first, and the whole exercise became a wash.

This too was nearly the end of the matter, but Sandra was stung, and could not to be satisfied without retaliation: she wanted revenge. This took the form of an unobtrusively whispered comment in his ear, that his Dad was a way better lay than he was.

Revenge, when it is successful is universally characterized by overkill, and this was no exception. Darien could doubt it with all his will, but he could not shake the angry feelings of jealousy and inadequacy that such a comment spawned. All attempts to smear her as a slut were hopeless: everyone would simply interpret this as more “he said, she said,” relating to the earlier argument. His classmates were not good prospects with whom to discuss humiliation. Instead, he chose to continue basking in their hollow approval, and approach a more trustworthy audience in whom to confide; Rachelle.

Since Delancy had never broached any discussion of Sandra with him, Darien had no way to guess that Rachelle knew anything at all about these events. He simply presented it as a conversational gambit. “Do you think Dad boned the babysitter?” he asked.

Rachelle was literally shocked by this comment. She wasn't sure what to say in response, but she took pains to ensure that Darien didn't divine that she had ratted him out to his father. Unfortunately Darien had chosen his moment badly, and Stephanie overheard from the kitchen. She turned the faucet on to make sure that her silence didn't give her away, and moved to the door, remaining quietly out of sight.

Meanwhile, Rachelle was quizzing Darien to see how much he knew. What made him think that? Sandra had said as much to his face. Why would she say that to HIM? Well, remember when she babysat the second time... Darien had fucked her then. Was Sandra mad at him? No, he had given no provocation (a lie, but his answer nonetheless.) Rachelle was rapidly coming to the conclusion that Delancy had not talked to Darien at all. Why wouldn't he talk to him about it? The answer had started the conversation: he had probably fucked the babysitter. She was stunned, but her blood stream registered titillation as well. Her answer to Darien was far less informative. “Darien, it's a great theory, except for one thing: Delancy's never even been alone with Sandra!”

Stephanie returned to peeling potatoes. Darien's soon to be “ex” girlfriend was certainly a vicious little bitch!

Darien was mollified by Rachelle's response. It had all the hallmarks of objectivity, and it reinforced his belief that Sandra was just being cruel. Perhaps the extent of her success had been accidental. On balance, the argument that she had serviced his father, as well, provided an excellent explanation of why she would be cold to him at school. Nothing seemed to alleviate his conflict.

Meanwhile, new considerations of whom to choose as confidant ran through Rachelle's brain in seconds: who should be responsible for disciplining Delancy but Stephanie? If he was screwing around, Stephanie arguably had a right to know. The very next time she was alone with her mother, she blurted out her intelligence: “Mom, I think Delancy did the babysitter!”

A body blow from a trained prize fighter could not have surprised Stephanie more. It was the work of 5 minutes questioning to come up to speed on Rachelle's reasoning... and it was persuasive! If Sandra's revenge had been motivated by anger, Stephanie's was a more mature and dedicated version of the same. She already held the germ of how to do so in her desires; this was merely the excuse to yield.

“Rachelle, I'm glad you trusted me with this,” she ended. “I understand why you went to Delancy with the other thing, and I think you did the right thing. You are much smarter and more mature than you know.” Rachelle preened in her soul. There is no drug so gratifying in the world, as justifiable parental approval!

They concluded matters by binding each other to secrecy, and went on about their business. Stephanie was going to shake Delancy's world to the very foundations, and she knew just how to do it.

She moved even before putting supper on the table. A brief trip to the bedroom sufficed to change into a work top. Scrubs were the traditional attire of medical assistants in every aspect of medical services; her modification was simply to omit a brassier. She always wore a V-neck that fit loosely; it was cool, and accommodated “flopping her titties,” at a man if she so desired.

At the evening meal, she served the small family individually. When she served Darien, she made sure he got a lingering opportunity to view her creamy bosom unobstructed, before moving on. When it was Delancy's turn, she did not neglect to favor him with a similar presentation, and he predictably appreciated the effect. If her order had been reversed, Delancy would have noticed.  However, he did not.  Darien enjoyed a spectacular display, and when Stephanie favored Delancy with the same demonstration, he supposed that this was the deliberately intended audience. However, he enjoyed an advantage of which he was not aware: Stephaine favored his cause!

Over the coming weeks, Stephanie exploited similar opportunities to acquaint Darien with the ebb and flow of her libido. Eventually Delancy would not be in the mood at a time when Stephanie was, and if Darien was responsive, he would take advantage... and she could take advantage of him, in turn.

As the incidents accumulated, Darien concluded that his step-mother enjoyed being in close quarters with him. She never asked for a back rub when his Dad was around, but he could expect her to stand near him when doing dishes, or folding laundry. Without speculating that she was horny for him, he perceived that the object of his sexual desire had sexual desires. He was lost before she began, and the fruition of her plan accidentally coincided with his most fantastic dreams.

For her part, Stephanie did not succeed for clandestine purposes. Her objective was Delancy's eventual humiliation when they were finally discovered. One tryst became two, and she made Darien's indiscretions commonplace. Her rage justified picking “Green Apples,” but she made no preparations for acquiring the taste. Her patience endured for three weeks before she betrayed him to his father.

She contrived to be caught in the act, but, in response to Delancy's predictable outrage, she denied any pattern: in the very presence of her co-conspirator she bluntly asserted that, “it only happened this once,” and anyway, what about his little babysitting bitch?

As a revenge, it was a spectacular success. Since she had pointedly neglected to berate Delancy over his own indiscretion, he could hardly respond otherwise. Meanwhile, the knowledge that he had stolen a march on his son, only served to further mute his retaliation against either of them. He was buried in a mountain of guilt, and it would be months before he recovered.

From Darien's point of view, he got cut off, but the dream had been gratified; repeating it could not make it sweeter, anymore than a second visit to the summit of Everest could intensify the jubilation of the first. The experience he had gained soon translated into other conquests, and the arrival of his 18^th birthday was a mere technicality to all concerned.

Candor in the Dark

Candor in the Dark

Three months later, family relations had returned to status quo. It was nearly the Fourth of July, and Delancy had recently informed his family of a promotion at work. He had just returned, and he called his characteristic version of “Honey I'm home,” without getting the normal response. Wondering if Stephanie was out shopping, he wandered from room to room, looking for her.

When Delancy walked into the bedroom, Stephanie was waiting for him. There were no rose petals, or other extraneous things that would make cleaning up a chore, but she was dressed in a bathing suit that was revealing and, if possible, sexier than her nakedness. Her chestnut hair flowed over her back like a dark waterfall, glistening in the artificial gloom. The gas fireplace was aglow, but other than that, the only illumination was from the track light trained on the Civil War hologram.

"Hello stranger," she said quietly.

He smiled and kissed her, not absently but without exaggerated passion. He was lukewarm to her current affections, and needed the encouragement. "How's Samson?" he asked.

She made a face, and remembered the reason he had such a low libido. Her revenge was three months old now, but he still suffered twinges. The trust had certainly been damaged, but there was a depth of love to his attentions that went beyond her indiscretion. He had responded by buying her a puppy. He didn't name him “Hosea,” (the biblical prophet who married a whore,) or “David,” (the famously adulterous Bible hero.) He passed up variations on the name of his son, as well; that would have been too specific in serving it “for breakfast.” He had finally settled on “Samson,” notable for his dalliance with Delilah, who betrayed him. Should a book of morals really have such a variety?

"I fed him," she replied, "but I thought of YOU when I did it." The available double meaning filled a brief silence. He could see that she was nettled, and regretted it. Dwelling on bitterness was not the way to have an enjoyable evening. "Do we still have that bottle of Burgundy left over from New Years?" he asked, as an olive branch.

She replied in the affirmative. Anticipating his wishes, she left, soon returning with the open bottle in her hand.

He knew that alcohol impairs performance, but small amounts ease inhibitions... he struck a careful balance. For her part, inebriation was much more a part of a pleasurable evening, and she imbibed freely. He selected one of the longer play-lists on her iPod, and set it playing through the stereo. The inequity of consumption was not cause for comment.

Her excuse was Swedish massage. As she rubbed his shoulders and worked him over, his mind had time to wander. He reflected that, what he got simply by observing her nakedness, she needed physical contact to obtain. She was rubbing him down like a horse, but she derived pleasure from it, almost like he did. He soon reciprocated, and the swim suit was an early casualty of war. The gas fireplace flickered pleasantly.

Their mutual attentions had started languidly, but he soon brought matters to a head. Arousal might be like a buffet, but there was no point waiting for a prayer to get started on an act of congress.

They finished their first encounter before he spoke again. "Your boobs are like my high school sweetheart's... did you know that I have never had a more intense desire, or urgent longing for a grown woman, than my unrequited desires for her teenage affections?"

Her grasp became fierce for a moment. This was “sailing near the wind,” but she chose to respond with a slight bravado. "I always wanted bigger ones,” she admitted; it was apropos, after all.

He could appreciate a good rack, but he knew how to allay her worst concerns. "The smaller ones have less fatty tissue to compress the nerves. As a result, smaller ones deliver more sensation," he responded. “Bigger nipples are still better, though,” he ventured.

She believed him. She decided to build on this foundation. "You know how Magicians misdirect the audience while they do another part of the trick unobtrusively somewhere else? Girls can do this to guys without even trying. I've had some success with it myself. A guy walks up, and you know everything about how he dresses, how he looks, where he came from and where he's going, before his eyes rise above your chin."

He smiled, more inwardly than he manifested, but she was able to discern it. "Oh yeah... and they don't JUST look at our BOOBS, either!" she added, underscoring her point.

He came back better than she anticipated. "Well, sex sells right? Women with bigger boobs have bigger advertisements! If sex can sell utensils and cookware, why can't it sell sex? That's biologically what they were intended for, right?"

She giggled. "Not strictly speaking, but pregnancy might be more challenging without them, I'll admit." She paused and then added, "...but if you linger too long over my sex in public, I'll be creative and motivated about embarrassing you back!" Recent experience had shown it to be well within her capabilities.

He responded by turning his oral attentions on the optical stimuli under discussion. His hands were firm, and her flesh was yielding to his touch. When he mounted her for pleasure, she cooed, and told him that she wanted him to make it last; her initial urgency now demanded a more enduring performance.

A challenge in the bedroom was not like a challenge on the sports pitch, and he wasn't sure he liked it. However, if she didn't inform his efforts with information as to her desires, these same efforts would be badly targeted in application, timing, and intensity.

They compromised in a new way. He was seated at the head of the bed, as she accomplished full intromission. She spoke in a low guttural. "Don't reduce me to involuntary servitude," she said, before he suckled her too long. "I don't want you to be used for a sucker." When he got the right idea, she rewarded him with a wiggle and a message from her Kegels. Her pubic bone found his pubic process, and it was surprising how much mileage you could get out of a very small reciprocation.

She put her hand behind his head and held him close. "I'm going to see how long I can keep you hard inside me," she added.

He turned his attentions to thrusting, and she allowed her mind to wander back to one of the more visceral blow-jobs she had ever given him. It had not really been pleasant, but the experience had been acid etched on the holographic photo-plate of her mind, and it helped overwhelm her senses.

He started to cum, and showed every evidence of losing control. She could have allowed an orderly withdrawal, but this was not the humor of the hour: Her legs coiled around him like a constrictor, and she began to do double duty with her Kegels. His stimulating efforts at her breast were the first to go. She responded by wrapping her arms around his torso, and clinging to him like a limpet mine. His voice rose in... something, she was not quite sure what, but pleasure was the topic of discussion. When he was TOTALLY limp, she released his trapped property. "God!" he whispered.

"You're better than you think," she replied by way of encouragement. "I think that's what I feel like, when you use your thumb on my clitoris while you make two fingers work my G-spot. You know that when you do that, you never let me go!"

"Yeah? Well... I'm not sure how often I'll DO it again, if that's what happens!"

The biological trust of oxytocin flowed in her bloodstream. Mixed with her earlier consumption of alcohol, she forgot normal inhibitions. Pillow talk is famously unguarded, and not even reliably about sex, but sex was the context, and sex was what her blurted confession was about.

"I was a virgin until the 10th grade," she began. "I was an ugly duckling, and ALL the other girls in my class had lost it. Even my neighbor had put out. It's not like I didn't WANT to... adolescence was no less a crucible of desire for me than anyone else. But the Mayor's son was in my class, and I ratted him out for cheating on a test in the 6th grade. Puberty came and went while he reliably destroyed my chances with classmate after classmate.

“It wasn't until 10th grade Chemistry that anyone had mercy on me. My Chemistry teacher was married, but rather than using that as an excuse to ignore me, he took my needs and desires into account and understood me. For example, he told us we'd remember that '...when Blue litmus turns to Red, it's Acidic,' better if we made it an acronym out of it. But when he said it, I caught his eye, and I was sure he noticed me. Our tutoring developed into a tryst at a no-tell motel. I had never been fucked, but I'd investigated myself enough that it didn't hurt when we consummated. You can't believe how many things I remember from that day.”

She paused in her telling, but her audience made no such mistake as opening his mouth. He had recovered enough to supply her with a towel for the anticipated wet-spot, and she continued. "I remember how happy I was to feel him put it all the way in, for the first time. Then the surprise at the pleasure available from a bump and grind. Then my little sphincter squeezed, with inexperienced Kegels, as I discovered a new way to please and gratify myself. I'd given myself orgasms before, but when I had an orgasm generated by another person, I felt a tremendous gratitude. Pretty soon, desire mixed with ambition, and I decided to give him one back. He laughed when I suckled at his breast, but he didn't fail to respond. He knew I was telegraphing my own desires to him, and did it in return. Soon after, I got a diaphragm fitted at the pharmacy, and he taught sex as well as Chemistry. We never got caught. He said I made him the King of the world, and his wife learned from ME. Do you think that was possible?"

Delancy felt like he had been progressing well with the painting of a garage floor, only to look up and see no avenue toward the exit. His eyes met hers. "If I did that now, would you learn from the object of MY new desires?" he queried.

Her answer betrayed surprising trust, but was totally against his expected idea of her conclusion. "If it improved your appetite? No telling WHAT I'd say!"

He decided to venture an experiment. He was tumescent, so he instructed her to mount him reverse-cow-girl. She was amused, and relaxed as he drew her to him. His hand sought her out where her own was sometimes to be found. His left hand exercised her left breast, nipple and all, and his words directed her left and right hands to abdomen and right breast respectively. When she had positioned her left hand just above her hairline, his used pressure on her clitoris to announce the commencement of ceremonies. "You tell my dick how it feels with your Kegels," he instructed, "and I'll tell your clitoris how it feels with my hand."

She couldn't kiss him, and she was powerless to direct his efforts with her hips... her Kegel muscles were her sole means of communication. On balance, he was skilled, diligent and thorough.

"This defines feedback," he explained by way of appreciation. Before long she had a reaction like microphone feedback... and not all of it was fake.

When they finished, she turned to him and whispered, "American innovation triumphs over the Kama Sutra.” Their eyes met, and he answered an unspoken prayer. "I love you," he said.