Twice Ten Point Zero (10.0)

She didn't object to the silence, the silence did not mean lack of communication, for he was using a whole new language and vocabulary to tell her how much he enjoyed her body. A truly nice language, too. Then his face was free again, his voice was floating up to her through the odd haze in which she found herself. This man was telling her how much he liked her womanly crotch-shapes and textures, how pleasing this part of her body was even to his taste-buds and to his nose, and she was caught between marveling that he could think so, and gasping at the wonders his touches were producing.

Then, eyes still closed, he said "Your turn, if you would like. Shall I stand?"

He stood up when she said nothing.

Then, gently, "Missy, shall we open our eyes now, together?"

She was tingling from head to toe, feeling as if she must be physically glowing from her inner heat and excitement. "Not yet," she told him, no eyes together yet. Not ready for that. But soon.

Right up to this moment she had been genuinely frightened about the upcoming reciprocity, about her first-ever real exploration of a man's body. In her uncertainty she kept her eyes averted, let her fingers do the initial exploration, but as she started, the anxiety was replaced almost instantly by enjoyment of the reactions her touch was producing. She found that could make this huge man shiver and shake at her will! With just a fingertip. And oh, my, how blatantly he was enjoying her touches!

All of a sudden her attitude changed -- in a millisecond she was no longer afraid of being seen, or of facing him. In fact, it seemed that now mutual vision was required, not something to be feared. Things were changing so fast for her this evening, so terribly fast!

She followed her instincts, and shyly reached for his face, set fingertips against his eyelids, raised them as he had done for her. Their eyes met, she smiled, he returned it but said nothing. She let her eyes explore him now, at last.

She gasped slightly at her first unimpeded view of the full, hard, up-curved erection he was sporting. It was as big as she had thought, as she had feared. She had no frame of reference, of course, except for the few "always-in-the-dark" experiences with her husband, and he'd been a small man generally. Hence Doctor Barry's entirely average-sized cock seemed enormous.

Nevertheless, she gamely resumed her exploration of his body. She exclaimed over his strong buttocks and thighs, spent minutes enjoying the delicious tickle of his golden hairs against fingertips and palm. Tweaked his nipples to see his reactions. Smelled him, odors of cleanliness overlaid subtly with gentle maleness, many different odors, all interesting, all new.

At length, she arrived at his cock. He watched her fingertips trail across his smoothly-shaved crotch. She paused there, just at the base, to ask "You shave here? Why?"

He explained, a personal preference, better access to nerves, nicer to the touch than a mat of tough pubic hair.

She nodded, murmured her understanding, at least in the abstract... it did make sense. Her fingertips explored: he shifted, spread his feet: she recognized the invitation.... to give her access to his balls if she wished. She kept her eyes fixed on his face as she cupped, stroked, tickled: she liked, liked very much, the reactions she was getting... they were totally trans-cultural, a language in which she found herself quite unexpectedly fluent, the fluency being an odd occurrence that both surprised and pleased her. Barry was in heaven, and she was the cause. Her ego ratcheted up several clicks.

Finally, she let her fingers trail delicately up the shaft. He made it twitch heavily, repeatedly, wrapped her fingers around it, showed her how the skin slipped and slid over the hard core. This mystery, this new-found representative of a class of objects for which she had developed such distaste, laced with such actual fear, was genuinely FRIENDLY! That was unfathomable. It was hot, hard, very much alive, with almost a separate being, separate will, nearly a conscious thing on its own: this cock-thing was a very new and very different sort of entity. She was fascinated, but also frightened and worried: it was literally almost as big in diameter as her wrist, completely different from what she had felt, but never really seen or explored, with her husband.

And the HEAD was naked, pink, swollen. It was either beautiful, or horribly ugly: she knew that was a matter of taste, so she decided it was going to be for her a beautiful thing, since it was attached to this man and giving him such pleasure. Besides, on closer study, it was nicely textured, and symmetrical... much less worrisome, and more attractive, than she had first thought.

Barry taught her, gently, carefully, how to touch him, used his hand to guide her, showed her how fingernails could be used to best advantage on the back of his ball-sack, around the rim of the helmet. He gasped repeatedly as she played. She smiled to herself while keeping her eyes locked on him, judging his reactions: this unknown territory where man and woman intersected was proving to be both interesting and manageable.

She played that way for several minutes, steadily gaining confidence in her ability to give pleasure. Perhaps her husband's opinion of her body and its behavior had been wrong, as Barry had insisted?

Then the game reached a changing point as Barry sighed deeply, picked her up and effortlessly carried her to the bed, set her gently down. She curled up into a ball for a moment, then rolled onto her back and opened her legs widely. She turned her face away from him, and put one wrist over her eyes. She was trembling visibly again: in the ten feet from mirror to bed, in that short time, all her new-found confidence and happiness evaporated. Gone like mist in a sudden burst of sunshine. She was back where she hated to be, naked in bed with a man looming over her. She was deeply upset with herself for the change, but couldn't control it.

Barry sensed and understood.

She lay there on her back, face and gaze averted, as Barry knelt on the mattress beside her. Before he could say anything, she whispered "Doctor Barry, I don't know how to make you happy. Not in bed. My husband said I am a terrible woman in bed, that I do not have any idea how to make a man happy.... but he never would explain what he wanted me to do. I was just supposed to know it, I guess. But I did not know! Nobody teaches these things to girls here. So, I must ask you, am I doing this right? You will have to tell me! This is the way my husband wanted me to be. Perfectly quiet and still, those were his demands. He never wanted me to move, just to lie beneath him. I did not like that. I never thought that was the way it should be, but I did not know what else to do, either."

She sniffled once, loudly, and went on: " He always hurried, and always complained that I never got wet, and therefore he could not enjoy himself, which was his only goal. That made him terribly angry."

She glanced at Barry, took in his expression, correctly read and understood the mixture of distress mingled with concern, and ended with "He always hurt me, Doctor Barry. Never pleasure. Not hurt badly, but very uncomfortable, not nice, certainly not at all enjoyable for me. And he was much smaller than you are, down there, so how can I possibly get you inside me? It will hurt me and I don't believe I can give you any pleasure at all. I'm so sorry!"

Tears trickled. Barry tilted her face towards him with a fingertip's pressure, and stared down at her until she finally met his gaze. He smiled at her and said "Missy, when we make love, it is my duty to see that you feel good and enjoy yourself. If I don't do that, then I have failed both you and myself, because if YOU don't feel good, how can I?"

She nodded, and more tears came: "But Doctor Barry, that must mean that I have the same duty to you. And I do not know how, so I am doomed to failing!" She sniffled again, very much the little girl panicked and angry with herself, with an icing of fright.

Barry shook his head: "Not so! Missy, everyone needs a teacher in these matters. I had mine, and she was very good." She looked startled at that, but he just grinned and kept on. "If your husband didn't teach you, then he failed in his duty to you. He should have taught two people... first you, and second, he should have taught himself how to work with you so that you could have enjoyed one another in making love. I'm very sorry he failed in both tasks, but that is not YOUR fault."

He smiled at her, friendly, lovingly, not scornfully. "And besides, HIS failure means that now Doctor B gets the privilege and responsibility of being your teacher. I don't particularly want or expect virginity in my women, but I really do love to teach and to surprise and delight them. Especially you!"

"Now, Missy, I want you to just relax and FEEL what happens. I can tell, even if you CANNOT, that you are a very sensitive and very sexual person. Okay? It's really easy, you know... just pay attention to your teacher, follow his directions. Teacher will do nothing to hurt you in any way. And believe me, I will be getting intense pleasure all the time -- and later, we can turn things around! I promise. Now, are you ready?"

She managed a tiny grin, and wiped her eyes. Barry leaned forward, hovering above her like some immense blanket, and licked the tears from her cheeks. She relaxed a little, wondering what...?

"The instructions are simple, just three things... RELAX, trust me, and enjoy yourself. Believe me, Missy, you will be giving me great pleasure. I will enjoy every second of what we do, and later, we can come back and you can learn other things to please me even more... but for now, this is going to be YOUR pleasure-trip. Okay?"

She nodded, amazed at the whole idea. He really was a strange, wonderful person, this Doctor Barry! He paused, then whispered, "Before we start, we need to decide about birth control... I don't think you need another child... I can't make you pregnant. I've had a vasectomy..." He watched her face: she knew what that was. "...but Missy, lots of men will say that when it's not true, just to avoid using birth control. That's a very dishonorable thing, and I don't want you to worry about whether I'm telling the truth. So if you want, we can use something else as well."

She shook her head and said "No, but thank you. I believe you. But no other method is necessary, because I take birth control pills. To control my period. Without them it is very irregular, and very painful. So we are safe."

Barry just nodded and smiled. Both were relieved: no obstacles left. Except al her years of emotional roadblocks. Then his head was moving gently down the front of her body, staying precisely on centerline. The tongue tickles were very nice, she thought, and then she caught her breath as he hit her navel: he didn't seem to be slowing down or veering! She gasped mentally: was he really headed that way with his mouth? Did real people actually do what this intimated... did they do those things that all her girlfriends, even advertisements, hinted at but never really discussed? How could he want to do anything like that?

Memories flooded her. Traveling with the team. The night in the Amsterdam hotel, her first international trip, she was 13, sharing a room with her friend My Ling. Missy had been in their room after dinner, fascinated by the thirty-channel television with its variety and color and fast pace and obvious freedom: many languages, too, but nothing oriental and certainly nothing in Mandarin. My Ling had burst in, terribly excited about the latest team gossip: apparently one of their coaches, an ancient old woman of about 26, had managed to "escape" from the relatively tight control of the Chinese custodial staff last night. She had spent the night, the entire night, with one of the Dutch male gymnasts, an absolutely beautiful man, at his apartment!

And she had told someone who told someone else, who told My Ling, about the incredible, sexy things he had done with her. Including something unbelievable, involving his mouth and her crotch, something she apparently thought was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to her, she had told someone that it made her feel as if she were plastered to the ceiling, and on fire, and in direct contact with God, all at once.

Missy and My Ling giggled and sputtered, red-faced, as they turned these few data over and over, trying to understand just what might have happened. Later, lonely and craving closeness, they shared one of the two beds. There, perfectly innocently, My Ling had whispered into Missy's ear, wondering whether the two of them might explore one another, see if they could figure this mystery out, but Missy couldn't bring herself to do any such thing. Discussing the possibility, however, was very exciting.

Eventually, they decided that it must just all be a rumor or a made up story, since real people couldn't possibly behave in such a bizarre, almost disgusting way. Could they?!

Now, back inside her brain and settled into the present, she floated through a mental sea littered with all the disconnected bits and pieces of erotic knowledge, rumor, folklore she had accumulated. Ideas, imagined imagery swirled. Bits of advertising, scenes from novels and movies, carefully-phrased tidbits from friends repeating and enlarging upon similar sources.

Blind leading the deaf through a valley of smells? It seemed that a person was just supposed to KNOW all about this stuff, but HOW? By some sort of cosmic osmosis? What did she actually know, really? Not all that much, she supposed.

And, too, just what did she want from this sex-business? Did she even KNOW what she wanted? It wasn't easy to sort it all out. Buried in her belly, down low, there was this funny heat, like little embers glowing. The closest thing she could compare it to was the sensation in her gut when she had once taken a big swallow of good Japanese whiskey. She investigated her own knowledge, mentally: the bits of erotica she could summon fueled the glow. She studied it more: how could a fire possible maintain its glow through the dampness she was experiencing down there? What did she want? What indeed?

He waited patiently, sensitive to her bout of introspection.

Then, when she surfaced again, his hands arranged her legs like a coach working with a new student. He was very calm, slow, and totally self-assured; all of which made her feel better. He dropped onto his knees between her legs, face downwards, approaching: she held her breath, like a deer in headlights, as his thumbs spread her outer lips wide apart. Then there was his voice, soft, low, delicious, she could feel his breath as he spoke, tickling, stirring her insides as if it were an oar in her bowels. Odd how such a tiny stimulus could generates so powerful a response, and so distant from the site! Missy hadn't yet discovered that the brain was the big erotic organ, but she would, eventually. He was talking into her pussy as into a handset, saying "You have the most beautiful pussy, Missy... gorgeous... I love this part of your body, it's so pretty, so sensitive. Lots of colors, lots of textures, every one is different..."

She tensed visibly as his breath wafted over her clit, and he stopped. Her crotch was gorgeous, exquisite, precisely what he dreamed about in a woman... small, symmetrical, prominent, with sharply defined creases and folds. The sparse black pubic hairs were concentrated on her mound, the lips themselves were nearly naked and fully visible just as he most preferred... no concealing jungle, no dense Brillo-pad here.

He could see plainly how swollen and ready she was -- as ever, the body was really in charge and doing its own thing -- matter over mind in things sexual. The smooth outer lips were now swollen, hot and blood-full and taut, the inner lips exposed and swollen enough to separate the outers, revealing the dark inviting pink tunnel of the entrance. All glistened wetly: Barry couldn't imagine any man not being entranced by the sight, and said so.

When Missy didn't respond, and continued tense, he stopped entirely, and whispered to her: "You know, Missy, this part of you looks for all the world as if you are a twelve year old virgin!"

He did know how to relax her, didn't he? She giggled and protested the impossibility, but he persisted: "No, really... it looks as if nothing has ever been in here, not your finger, not your husband, and certainly not a baby's head! Your pussy is absolutely beautiful! Very exciting. I love it. You should, too, because it is going to be your best friend soon."

She managed another tiny giggle that further broke her nervousness. The entire idea of talking about such things was alien, but she did like what he was telling her.

Barry kept on, knowing that explaining would help. "Missy, I can SEE that you are excited and dripping wet... it's so obvious that I don't even need to touch you to know. That's very unusual, it's very nice, and I find it really exciting. It tells me something, something very important. Want to know what?"

Missy opened her eyes, met his, and nodded.

He continued: "It means that your BODY is working independently from your mind... your mind may have been misguided by your husband or by your upbringing, but your BODY is in fine shape and knows exactly what to do. Give me your hand!"

Silently, she slid her hand down her belly to meet his: the size mismatch between their hands was enormous.

She wondered what he proposed to do, and quickly found out. He took her middle finger and slid it down her slit, through her lubrication, across the erect lips, over the top of her clit. She shivered. He placed the tip at her entrance, and only then did he settle just one of his own fingertips against the opening. "Feel here? You are as wet, Missy, as any woman I've ever encountered. You are DRIPPING! Your husband was completely wrong, Missy... he just didn't know what he was doing, and neither did you, so you couldn't help. Your body is working perfectly, whether your mind knows it or not! We just have to educate the mind, and that is not going to be difficult."

He gave her a few seconds to explore herself, then said "Here... Follow me." He rotated his fingertip around the inner edge of her opening, slowly, gently, taking her finger with him. As he moved, he pressed forward, sliding his finger gently inside, taking her finger along, until they were both embedded inches deep alongside one another, sharing the tunnel's warmth and closeness.

He murmured to her "Nice in here, isn't it?"

She looked at him, took a deep breath, smiled a tiny smile, and nodded, with his finger doing a long, slow writhe.

Barry gave her his analysis: "Missy, what happened to you with your husband was unfortunate... because you have an absolutely first class sexual body. In this body of yours, you own a Ferrari racing car, high powered and capable of enormous things sexually. It is a very sensitive, sophisticated machine. The problem was that your husband was just a clumsy tractor-driver, not a racing driver. And he mistreated you as a result."

She giggled openly at the "tractor-driver" comparison, finally relaxing into the situation, loving the feelings their two fingers were generating. She found herself, indeed, swollen and dripping wet down there, something she had never managed with her husband, and that alone was wonderful. The idea that the "not wet" difficulties he had complained of were her husband's own fault and not hers, was a revelation. There really truly was nothing wrong with her body. Or with her mind, from the way she was rapidly beginning to enjoy every little nuance of contact with this man! She didn't need much more from Doctor Barry to convince her that he was right: not her fault at all!