An Awkward First Date

"But—why do I have to help?"

She sighed, and spoke as if addressing an idiot. "Because I can't do it myself. When I get into that shower, I'm going to have to hold onto the towel bar with my right arm and keep my left foot raised up. My left hand is useless—my wrist is broken, remember? So you're going to have to—you know, wash me."

He thought he was going to hyperventilate. "But—but I'll see you naked!"

She smiled wryly. "Yes, I suppose you will. It's not an especially good idea to take a shower with your clothes on. But Harry"—and her look suddenly softened—"you've been so nice to me these last few days, nicer than anyone has ever been except my parents. So I trust you, and I know you'll be a gentleman and respect my . . . well, respect me."

Harry just gaped at her.

"And I guess," she went on, "you'll have to take most of your clothes off too. Maybe you can leave your underwear on if you like. Harry, please do this for me. Please!"

He could tell that she hated to be in this position—hated to beg someone (and, in spite of what she'd said, someone who was still almost a stranger) to do this huge favor for her. But how could he refuse?

"Okay," he croaked. "When do you—?"

"How about right now?"

He had to hold onto the sideboard to prevent his knees from buckling. "Okay."

She held out her hands to him, and he helped her to get out of bed. The two of them managed to hobble to the bathroom, right next to her bedroom. As she stood there, holding onto the sink and with her left leg raised up so that the foot was off the floor, she said:

"Please take my nightgown off me—over my head."

He bent down, took hold of the garment from the hem, and slowly raised it up. Inch by inch, her naked form was revealed—first her dainty feet, then her tapered calves, then her fleshy thighs, then her flat stomach, then (Omigod!) her round, firm breasts, nipples erect, then her shoulders as he took the nightgown entirely off and tossed it aside. He did his best not to look at the thick patch of black fur at her delta.

She groped her way into the shower and clung to the towel bar with her right arm. That revealed her backside, which was just as heartstoppingly lovely as her front: the sculpted back, the curvy bottom, and everything in between.

"Joelle, you're so beautiful," he breathed.

She twisted her head around and smiled. "Thank you. Please get undressed now."

As she turned the water on, Harry took his clothes off—shirt, pants, and socks. He kept his boxer briefs on: he figured they could pass for swimming trunks, so he wasn't quite as exposed as she was.

The water soon reached a nice hot temperature, and he stepped in. He hadn't showered that morning himself, and the cascading water was invigorating.

"Just take that soap and lather me up. You can start with my backside."

It was with trembling fingers that he did as she asked. The soap created a lot of lather, and he made sure to cover her shoulders and back thoroughly. When he bent down and started on her bottom and thighs, he seemed to get tentative.

"Harry," she said, "don't be shy. I want a thorough cleaning."

He scrubbed those parts vigorously, using only his hands. She didn't seem to use a washcloth, and he was grateful: the incredible feel of her bare skin against his hands was an experience not to be missed. Had he done anything remotely like this before? He'd had a few girlfriends, and had been intimate with them—but somehow what he was doing now seemed so much more intimate than anything in the past.

As he began washing her legs, he was extra careful not to injure that left ankle. She seemed grateful for his consideration, but made sure to raise up her left foot so that he could wash the sole.

"That's good, Harry," she said. "Now I'm going to turn around, and you can wash my front."

It took her a little while to balance herself so that she was now facing him. The sight of her face, breasts, stomach, and pubic area was so transcendently lovely that he spent many moments just gazing at her.

"Harry," she said gently, "can you get started? And maybe"—she paused briefly—"you should take that underwear off. It's sopping wet."

It was also severely distorted. He put the soap back on the soap dish and peeled off the wet briefs. Joelle glanced only briefly at the fully erect eight-inch cock that was revealed. But he could tell that she was breathing more rapidly, her chest rising and falling irregularly.

The lathering of this side of her body was done with patent care and tenderness. Harry had no compunction lavishing attention on her full breasts, then moving down to her stomach and abdomen. Then Joelle placed her injured leg up on the edge of the tub and said:

"Please wash—that area—thoroughly. I really like it to be clean."

Again he fell to his knees, taking the soap in his hands, creating a lot of foam, and then using his right hand to wash the space between her legs while holding onto her hip with the other hand. He thought he was scrubbing a bit too hard, because Joelle was letting out little cries or moans—but then he sensed there was another reason for that.

He finished the job. She didn't want her hair washed, so the time had come to get out of the shower. He stepped out first, drying himself quickly. As she emerged, she stood clinging to the sink again and said:

"You'll have to dry me off."

He did so lovingly but forcefully. There's nothing worse than not being fully dry after a shower! Her pink skin seemed to be glowing to an almost unnatural degree, and she seemed even more beautiful than before. Aphrodite would not have held a candle to her.

Harry experienced a big letdown—although his cock didn't show it—now that the experience was over. But it wasn't quite over.

As Joelle was trying to navigate her way out of the bathroom, the hand holding onto the sink slipped, and she started to fall to the ground. Harry, acting instantly, seized her by the waist and held her up. She instinctively threw her arms around his neck.

"Are you all right?" he said breathlessly.

"Yes, yes," she said. "I'm fine. You really saved me from taking a tumble."

He didn't want to let go—and she didn't seem to want to be let go.

She had placed her head in the crook of his neck. He could feel her entire front—especially those heavenly breasts—pressing up against him. His hands were firmly clutching her lower back, just where the swell of her bottom began.

She pulled her head away from his neck. Staring him in the face, she raised her head up in that unmistakable feminine gesture: I want to be kissed.

The first contact of his mouth with hers was soft as a butterfly's wings, and both of their lips seemed to be fluttering uncontrollably. As the kiss went on, they pressed harder against each other's mouths, and Harry could feel Joelle's arms wrapping themselves more tightly around his neck and shoulders. He couldn't help slipping a hand down to her bottom.

He now began kissing her cheeks and neck and shoulders and even her earlobes, unable to control himself. His cock was so hard it was almost painful. She sensed it: while keeping one arm around his neck, she brought the other down, squeezed it between their bodies, and took his member in her hand and began pumping it.

The sensation of that small but strong hand on his organ made him dizzy, and it now seemed that he was clinging to her so that he wouldn't fall in a heap. He continued pressing burning kisses to her face and neck, and she started pumping harder and harder. The cumulative emotional impact of the last several days was too much for him, and in minutes his cock was shooting out his seed, moistening both his stomach and hers. She kept on with her stroking, making sure to drain him entirely of his discharge before she let his organ go.

His face was beet red, and he was breathing raggedly. She gave him a blank look that suddenly burst into a smile that wrung his heart. "Was that nice?" she said.

"It was fabulous," he replied.

She reached over and snatched some Kleenex from a nearby box. Pulling away from him just slightly, she mopped up the fluid that had stained both of them.

"Men make such a mess," she chided.

Harry would have liked nothing better than to remain standing here in this tiny bathroom holding onto her, but she said, "You'd better take me back to bed."

He was certain she didn't mean any sort of double entendre with that remark. But when he asked if she wanted a nightgown, she said, "No, I rather like being naked."

They made their way back to her bed, and she lay down on the far side, leaving him plenty of room to lie down next to her.

Now all he wanted to do was to gaze at her naked beauty—but then a thought occurred to him.

"Um, Joelle," he stammered, "would you like me to—you know, reciprocate?"

She looked over to him, lost in thought. She remained silent for a long time.

"Just with my fingers," he clarified.

More silence—and then, at last: "Okay."

She knew she was in for a singular experience. Sure, she'd had plenty of orgasms in the course of intimacy with several men—but never had a man made it the sole focus of his attention to bring her to climax. As she watched him extend one hand to her sex, stroking her labia and clitoris, while the other hand seized a breast, she saw that he was watching her just as fixedly—her face, her chest, her stomach, her delta, her legs. Never had she been under such intense scrutiny by a man, and she felt alternately a huge embarrassment and an inexpressible excitement.

His ministrations began tenderly, but he was skilled at increasing the tempo as her feelings began to overtake her. She clutched the sheets with her right hand and pounded the bed spasmodically with her right foot; her injured left hand and leg had to remain frustratingly motionless. At one point their eyes locked, and seeing his soft brown eyes peering at her as his delicate fingers caused a virtual river of her fluid to leak out of her sex was one of the most emotional experiences of her life. It was no wonder that, soon thereafter, a sharp cry burst from her lips as her orgasm progressed from her clitoris all through her body, producing a blinding explosion in her brain.

She was left breathless and choking. Between gasps she said, "Those are some magic fingers you have."

He only smiled, as if he had been serviced by her rather than the other way around.

But she noticed something else that struck her, almost amazed her. He was hard again.

"You gotta be kidding me," she said.

He looked down at himself. "Sorry," he said. "It's all your fault."

She smiled at his mild flattery. "You—want some more?"

He nodded sheepishly.

"Maybe . . . my mouth this time?" That wasn't her most favorite activity—especially the swallowing part—but she felt a sense of gratitude toward Harry that needed to be repaid.

But Harry didn't respond at once. His face took on an inscrutable expression. At last he whispered, "Can I go you in you?"

Now it was Joelle's turn to fall silent. What they had done—both in the shower and afterwards—had undeniably created an emotional bond that couldn't be undone. But was she prepared to go all the way to copulation? In some senses it seemed absurd to hesitate; but she knew that a monumental leap forward in their relationship would be the result of giving in to the act.

She hesitated only a few moments before saying, "All right."

But she added quickly, "Please take care of my ankle—it's still quite tender."

He positioned himself carefully on top of her as she continued to lie flat on her back. As he mounted her, his cock didn't seem to need guidance as it slipped quickly into her crevice—so quickly and unexpectedly that she gasped loudly. After all, it had been almost a year since she'd felt such a sensation—and Harry's member wasn't small. It plowed inexorably into her, stretching her almost as if she'd been a virgin. At the same time, he lowered himself gingerly onto her and began kissing her all over her face, using his hands to squeeze her breasts, back, and bottom. For her part, she managed to drape her right leg over his hip in customary female fashion, and her right arm was flung around his neck. She received his kisses, caresses, and thrusts with unusual calm, even though his actions were generating the rudiments of a second climax in her just as it was in him.

His sudden, forceful discharge into her vagina caused them both to cry out, and in his excitement he momentarily forgot to be careful of her injuries, and he pressed his weight on her as his emission continued far beyond normal bounds. When he was finished he pulled out of her and slid down her body so that his head was buried in her breasts, even as her chest was heaving with exertion.

She wrapped her arms (both of them this time) around his head as she cradled it against her globes. It was in some ways an even more tender moment than his climax, and she detected strange little cries or moans from him as he squeezed her breasts against his face so tightly that he seemed to be smothering himself.

"Harry, are you okay?" she said.

He didn't reply for a long time. Then, in a choking voice:

"I love you, Joelle."

She was struck dumb. She'd known this man for all of four days—four of the most intimate days she'd ever spent with a man, certainly, but still only four days. As she now detected actual wetness leaking out of his eyes (just as wetness of another sort was leaking out of her sex), she held his head more closely to herself as if trying to suppress the turbulent emotions that must have been going through him. She didn't fully believe his words, but there was no way she was going to mock or scorn them. As for what she felt—she had no idea at all, but her feelings were perhaps not as distant from his as she thought.

"You're such a sweetheart, Harry," she said, kissing the top of his head.

*

Both of them decided that being naked was a nice way to go around the house. Naked is not a good look for most people, but Harry and Joelle found in the other's nudity both an indication of abstract beauty and a token of their mutual desire. With each passing day Joelle's ankle was getting better and better, and she was able to hobble around without holding onto Harry or the furniture or using the crutch.

And they found themselves giving way to copulation at odd moments—light-hearted, intense, laughter-filled, or almost grimly passionate in accordance with their shifting moods. Oftentimes this took the form of Joelle placing Harry on an armless chair and sitting on his cock. This had (for Harry) the added advantage of allowing him access to her glorious breasts, which he repeatedly used as pillows for his face. Joelle sensed that he, like many other men, found in a woman's breasts a kind of haven of comfort and safety that soothed the boiling emotions coursing through him.

On Wednesday, as they were in this position, Joelle bouncing happily on his cock, he looked soulfully at her and said, "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure thing, dear," she said without pausing in her actions.

But when he refused to speak, she said, "What is it? Do you want something?"

His face pressed against her breasts, he mumbled, "Can I go into your bottom?"

That made her stop bouncing. She pulled Harry's face away from her chest and said almost severely, "Is that what you want?"

"Yes."

"Have you done it before?"

"No. I haven't found a woman who'll let me." After a pause: "Have you done it?"

"Once," she said in a tight voice. That was what that scoundrel had done to her ten months ago.

"You—you didn't like it?"

"Not particularly."

"Okay. Just forget I ever said anything."

Joelle resumed her bouncing on his cock, but in a more contemplative way. She hated the thought of disappointing him, after all he had done and was continuing to do for her. But surely there are limits to a woman's accommodation of a man's desires?

"We can do it if you want," she said.

"Really?" he said, eyes wide like a little boy's.

"Sure." She pried herself off his cock and made her stumbling way to the bathroom. "We'll need some lube."

Finding some hand lotion, she lubed herself up. Returning to Harry, she turned around so that her back was to him. Placing her legs outside of his own, she seized his cock and directed it toward the chosen aperture. She figured this position would allow her to be in control of how far it went into her, but her bad leg unexpectedly slipped and his cock plunged almost its entire length into her anus, causing her to cry out.

"Joelle, please don't hurt yourself!" he cried.

She managed to regroup and began thrusting lightly on his cock as she had done when it was in her other aperture. After a while she seemed to get used to the feeling, and actually started liking it. It was certainly tight! But the lube was helping a lot. Maybe there was something to be said for this procedure after all, even if she had violently disliked it when that other guy had all but forced her into it. She began bouncing more and more vigorously, feeling his cock driving deep into her while Harry wrapped his arms around her and took hold of her breasts. Later he snaked one hand down to her delta and began stimulating her sex—a feeling that was so intense that her vision began to blur. She was now plunging down so hard that slapping sounds emerged from the contact of their bodies.

And then they achieved that rarest of experiences—a simultaneous climax. They both groaned as Harry shot his seed into her nether orifice while continuing to squeeze her breasts with one hand and stroke her sex with the other. Both of them thought their climaxes would never end, and only after minutes she Joelle let up on her bouncing, allowing his member to remain firmly embedded in her.

But at last she felt the need to pull away, and she did. The resulting feeling of emptiness was so poignant that she immediately turned around and placed his still-hard cock back into her pussy—not thrusting on it, but just letting it rest in her. And once again he buried his face in her breasts.

She knew what he was going to say. "I love you so much, Joelle."

And she knew what she was all but compelled to say. "I love you too, Harry."

*

Friday morning, after breakfast, they continued their exhibition of nakedness. They had reached stage where wearing clothes was beginning to seem ludicrous and artificial. Joelle was at the dining table sipping a cup of coffee while Harry was in the basement tending to the laundry (dear man!).

That was when the door opened and Joelle's mother walked in. She was a fine-looking woman of fifty named Frances, with plenty of luscious curves and a demeanor that made her seem no more than thirty-five.

The house was so small that she saw her daughter at once.

Her jaw dropped. "Joelle, what on earth!" she cried. "Why are you sitting there naked?"

A surge of embarrassment washed over Joelle, and she covered her breasts and pubic area as best she could with her hands.

"Jesus, Mom!" she cried. "What are you doing here? You weren't supposed to come until tomorrow!"

"I got the day off from work, since I figured you needed me. Will you tell me—"

That was when Harry, blissfully oblivious, thundered up the stairs in his birthday suit.

He let out a choked cry when he saw the older woman. Hands to his groin, he stood at the top of the stairs with mouth open.

"What the—?" Frances cried. "Who the hell are you?" She turned to her daughter. "What the dickens is going on in this house? Who is this guy? Why is he naked?"

Joelle turned quickly to Harry, hissing at him: "Get me a nightgown! And put some clothes on!"

Harry shuffled off, Frances gazing raptly at his retreating form. Then she returned to interrogating her daughter.