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‘I Will Survive’
Paul had an ease about him which I found refreshing and unfamiliar.
He was attentive and lustful and plainly enjoyed my company, but,
if I told him that I could not see him for any reason, or if some
other man had invited me out for a drink, he just shrugged and smiled
and wished me well.
We wanted one another. So much was obvious. Many a patch of turf
and passing Basingrad duck, many a park bench and sofa could have
testified to the gasping and panting, the growling and the purring,
the bleary eyes and scrabbling fingers, the sodden gusset and the
towering jeans as we wrenched apart from one another, and it was
still I who was holding off, I who did not feel quite ready, I who
begged him to wait just that little bit longer.
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What seemed so strange, however, was that, whilst I was left tottering
and aching so much that sometimes I was bent double, he accepted
my prohibitions with a smile and helped me to put myself together
again before facing the world. I might have felt insulted had he
not continually urged me to become his lover and had his longing
not been so apparent.
#
I was not prick-teasing. I genuinely felt that the moment of penetration
would be an irrevocable transition. Why? I have no idea. I had been
a married woman. I wanted to be free to find happiness and sexual
satisfaction elsewhere. Paul’s fingers had delved into me.
He had tasted me in my excitement. What sort of demi-vierge terror
made me resist that obvious step forward?
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