Moody for You (Lisa Wu #02)

"The secret is not to fight it. To let your body have its way. And communication. When something feels good, let me know. You don't have to say anything -- body language can say a lot, or perhaps let out a little moan of pleasure."

He was so full of instructions, yet he seemed to know what he wanted. I relaxed. What I was doing now seemed to be all he was asking of me. Perhaps this was going to turn out all right after all. I started paying attention to what he was saying, eager to demonstrate my womanly credentials.

I felt his hands on my knees, gently parting them. A short time later a finger ran along the slit of my pussy, very lightly, almost tickling, triggering another shiver. What had he said? Let out a moan of pleasure? I wasn't at all sure about that, still scared of spoiling something with ham acting. My eyes were still firmly closed.

The finger was back, firmer this time, poking not stroking, slipping right inside me. I let out a little gasp. The finger moved in a slow circling motion -- I was conscious of its coldness against my heat -- it pressed, but not deeply, then slid upwards, bringing the moistness with it, up and over my clit. I let out a sign of satisfaction. Remembering my instructions, I rocked my hips, urging the finger to continue its moves.

"That's the way," he told me and I felt a little added glow of pleasure, thinking I might be good at this after all.

I felt his body reposition, then a tongue on my nipple. I wriggled and squirmed, gently though, so as not to put him off his stride, emitting little gasps of breath. What he said before about moans of pleasure made a lot more sense now.

I think I understand better now why I chose this day to tell Paul my story. Just like today, my wedding day had been a long one, had left me tired. Stretched out on my wedding bed, eyes closed, hands grasping the bedhead for all they were worth as my new husband went about his work, I felt the same sense of grateful abandonment, of surrendering to the moment.

Then suddenly he stopped. Opening my eyes, I watched as he shifted around to the end of the bed, climbing up between my legs. Was this the moment, I wondered? But then he did another thing I would never have expected, pushing his head into my thighs and running his tongue over my clit. I squealed. The sensation up until this point had been one of warmth and tension -- now the wet roughness of his tongue transformed it into something sharper, pushing me in a direction I had never gone before. My body clenched, for a few moments enduring this sudden upturn in sensation before an involuntarily hand reached up and pushed him away.

He looked up, his face confused. "You want me to stop?"

"No," I whispered. I must have looked as confused as he did. My act had been automatic, and yet the moment his tongue lost contact with me I knew I wanted it right back again. "Gently," I murmured, not knowing what else to say.

This time it was him doing what he was told. Knowing this time what to expect, I let out a long sigh, part whimper, part grunt. The interruption had toned things down a fraction, but not for long. This time I steeled myself as the intensity built once more. He was moving more slowly now, lick, then pause, then lick again, drawing out the exquisite torture. And then the dam burst and I was squirming with the release of it, bucking as my first ever orgasm washed over and through me. When it was over I just lay there panting.

But of course there was more to come. He grabbed me by the legs, pulling me down so my ass was poised at the end of the bed. Directing my legs upwards with one hand, he used the other to position his cock at the entrance of my pussy, sliding it around to lubricate the tip with my juices. Then came the thrust. It hurt, for sure. And as I saw later there was blood. But I was as ready as I was ever going to be and it wasn't that bad. The pain mixed with the flood of other sensations that had just washed through me, a heady combination in which I no longer cared to distinguish one from the other.

And in any case it didn't last long. He was primed and ready. It seemed like only a few strokes before he had pulled it out again. My eyes were wide open now. I levered my head up and watched with fascination as the tip of his cock, now sliding between my thighs, erupted, spreading cum across my belly. One thing for which I will be eternally grateful is that, right through our time together, he was very careful about not making a baby.

Afterwards I couldn't make up my mind. His intricate staging of everything, the way it all felt like the reenactment of some pre-written script -- was it an act of kindness, a generous gesture aimed at smoothing my initiation into the sexual world? Or was I just a vehicle for him to act out some fantasy he'd dreamed up or borrowed? Could it be both at once? Is there a difference when sex is by nature something simultaneously so selfish and so shared? Whatever it was, the more we got to know each other, the more certain I was that it was stolen -- this wasn't something he'd come up with on his own.

I suppose I should have asked him about it, but then -- outside the bedroom -- we never really got past that sense of strangers just introduced. Both of us too stilted in our own respective ways to make the breakthrough. Had I forced the issue, had we had that conversation, then maybe my life would have been entirely different. It might have been the catalyst that made the connection between us. I might never have left.

Instead my dwelling on the subject only opened my eyes. My tits might have been on the small side but I did have one outsized teenage attribute my upbringing had failed to subdue: a fully functioning bullshit detector. What he had done was the whole community in microcosm. All of the rituals and the palaver that ruled over our daily lives. All of it scripted for the benefit of those in positions of power. It took a little while for that latter realization to sink in, but when it did it just seemed so obvious. It was all done to feed the lusts of certain men wanting to place themselves over everyone else. My eyes had been opened. Within six months I was out of there.

Your impression of 'cult survivors' is probably that we're damaged goods, that we emerge from the experience all flaky and prone to New Age fruit looperey. But that's not how it works. The kids I grew up with were just kids. In fact, one of the weirdest experiences after leaving it all behind and taking my place in the real world was to experience public displays of Christianity. I had become so used to religion as something imposed from above by authority figures that the idea of people getting all happy clappy on their own time just didn't compute.

Readjusting to the real world, it turned out, wasn't as hard as it might have been. I was young, smart, mostly sane, and I'd received an education that at least covered the basics pretty soundly. And all that time I'd put in as an unpaid child minder looking after the Community children -- brat herding, as I later came to call it -- turned out to be surprisingly valuable training for my subsequent career supervising a team of computer programmers.

I was lucky, too, to hook up with an organization for assisting cult survivors. They helped me in all sorts of ways, including getting me into some remedial classes. Within a year I was off to college. The rest is history -- I'm now a solid and upstanding member of mainstream society.

What the more perceptive of you are probably wondering right now is: what about her parents? Yeah, well, I broke their hearts, I guess. But that's what teenagers do. Isn't it?

"So what do you think of my story." I'd shifted to the other end of the couch during the telling, my legs stretched out over Paul's lap. The better to see his reactions.

Paul was thoughtful. "I'm not sure whether I want to punch him on the nose or pat him on the back."

"You want to encourage him?"

"I was thinking more in terms of commiseration. Poor guy had no idea what he was taking on."

I levered my leg a bit further into his lap, confirming a suspicion.

"Ha, you enjoyed my story after all." The version I said out loud was a somewhat edited version, but still essentially the same as what I've just told you.

Paul grumbled something about it having its moments.

I grinned back at him from my end of the couch. Then I rolled over onto the floor, shuffled across and popped up between his legs -- elbows on his thighs, head cupped in my hands -- looking up at him with what I hoped were puppy-dog eyes.

I narrowed my gaze and adopted a determined expression. "Hold still," I told him in a tone that brooked no argument. I reached up and undid his jeans, pulling them down his legs, underwear and all. Uncovering my prize.

I stood up, sliding my panties down as I did so, casting them off in the general direction of Paul's discarded jeans. I was as ready as he was. I climbed on top and eased him into me, beginning to roll my hips in a rhythmic motion. When he started to rock in harmony, I stopped him. "Don't move," I told him. "Leave this entirely to me."

Without breaking my rhythm, I slowly unbuttoned my blouse and cast it off, staging my own little striptease play. Next went my bra. I began to stroke my nipples, adding to the sensation. Paul reached up to help, but I batted his hand away. "Hold still," I repeated, my voice noticeably huskier than before.

Sex can be trance-like, building a rhythm that takes you to a place that is almost not of this world. This was the exact opposite of that. I felt more awake than I had ever been, sensitive to every smallest sensation. I rode the feeling, sliding myself back and forth over Paul's pelvic bone, regulating the stimulus, edging closer. Feeling a sense of absolute clarity and control, I stalked my climax like a cat, playing with it, letting it slip away from me just so I could sneak up on it again.

I shifted my right hand down over my belly, lifting my body slightly up and leaning back to allow a finger to slide in around the base of Paul's cock, herding the juices back over my clit, which I began to stroke in a slow circular motion. Putting on a show.

Through all this I kept up the slow rhythm of my hips, clenching and unclenching to savor the sensation of Paul's hardness inside me, keeping my eyes on his face, studying his expression.

As readers of my last story will know, I have been known to make a bit of noise during sex. But not this time. Still in that peculiar condition of crystal clarity, I worked toward my orgasm in total silence, savoring each movement, each twinge of pleasure. A mime show for Paul's benefit, but most of all for my own. Edging up to my climax time and again until at last my prey turned on me and pounced. I let out a grunt, my body shuddering as the pleasure pulsed through. Collapsed down on Paul's chest. I summoned my last ounce of will, lifting myself up to plant a big fat kiss on his lips, then slumped back down, my head nuzzled into his neck.

But Paul hadn't finished. He'd been an obedient boy, holding still at my command. Now he placed his hands on my buttocks, began to work his own hips. Silent before, now I began to moan, letting my body go loose, a rag doll bounced up and down on his lap. I had thought I was completely spent, but no. I could feel the warmth building again in my groin. I offered no resistance, attempted no control, conscious of my tight nipples sliding over his chest as my body vibrated to his thrusts. It didn't take long. Paul let out a groan of satisfaction and it was enough to take me with him. For a time we just lay there.

What had just happened? Had I taken control? Or had I merely abased myself before my man. I had no idea. Perhaps I'd figure it out later. For now, all I could feel was an inordinate sense of happiness.