“I will do it this way,” said she, “you will like it so.” But I refused. “I will give you such pleasure,” said she again, “all the gents...say I do it better than any girl.” But again I refused. “I am afraid my monthlies are just coming on,” said she. But up I put it, and went home satisfied. Two or three mornings afterwards I felt a slight itching at the tip of my prick, but took no notice of it; the next morning piddling, to my horror I saw a little yellowish fluid oozing, and sat down in. There was a streetlight that had just lit up outside her window and a tempting restaurant across the way. Pasta would be nice. Very nice. There was a tongue slipping over her lower lip. She was unsure which might happen first, but one was mundane and the other intoxicating. He had created a world for her to escape to. The kiss, still gentle but teasing now was a frontier. His tongue running over her lips was a sentry. And hers: the reluctant traveller, hesitant at the border – still not quite. More

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