In the morning, Patrick engineered an excuse to get Winston alone.  It actually wasn't much of an excuse; both of them loved golfing. But the end result was that Amanda had Kerri all to herself.  She was scared she'd get all sorts of grilling from Kerri over breakfast, but maybe Patrick had stopped that too: Winston took his wife aside for a palm-cupped comment, and suddenly sex was the furthest thing from Kerri's mind; it was like a personality transplant had happened.  Amanda didn't know what the clinical definition of nymphomania was, but she was convinced Kerri was one anyway.  But the reckoning could only be delayed, not averted completely; after breakfast and kissing their husbands goodbye, they retreated back to the suite for their discussion.

"So, Winston tells me there were some problems last night," Kerri said.

"Yeah," said Amanda.

She told the whole story from beginning to end--it didn't take long, since of course the whole problem was that nothing had happened.  Kerri, to her credit, kept her comments to herself, limiting her responses to nodding and gesturing for Amanda to go on.  And once Amanda was done, Kerri stood up and came over to her and wrapped her in a hug.  "Oh, you poor thing," she said.  "I can't even imagine how I'd feel if I couldn't satisfy my man."

"You were completely right," Amanda mumbled.  "You were completely right.  Because I can't satisfy him, not...  Not like..."  Not if her body refused to work the way it was supposed to.  "God, I feel so damaged."

"Why?" said Kerri.

"Well, just...  Why doesn't my body work right?  Nobody else has problems like this when they get married."

"Well..." said Kerri.  "Actually, hon, I don't know about that."

"What do you mean?"

Kerri sat down on the sofa next to her.  "Well...  Do you remember back when you first heard about the birds and the bees, and what was involved?"

Amanda had been ten years old, in a 5th-grade public-school classroom.  She had learned via the school district's mandatory sex-ed program.  "Yeah."

"Do you remember how weird it sounded?"

"What?"

"I mean, seriously, Mandy.  It's a weird thing.  A man takes his penis and he does what with it?  It gets hard?  And then he puts that dirty thing in my dirty thing, and somehow this makes babies happen?  How bizarre can you get?"

Now that Amanda thought about it, she could indeed remember having thoughts along those lines.  "Yeah, I see what you mean.  And I could never figure out just why anyone would want to do that.  Like, voluntarily.  ...Come to think of it, I still can't."

Kerri poked her gently on the nose.  "Bingo."

"What?"

"I think we're getting to the source of your problem."

Amanda tilted her head.

"Did you ever ask your teachers why people would want to have sex?  Did you ever ask anyone?"

Amanda shook her head.

"Me neither.  Nor did anybody in my classroom.  I had a hunch that the teachers wouldn't tell me—I mean, this was all dirty stuff, you know?  About private parts.  Of course they aren't going to tell me anything.  Plus, you know—bunch of ten-year-olds trying to be grown-up, trying to look like they know what's being talked about.  You remember how it was.

"But I had an advantage.  I was able to learn why people would do it, voluntarily."

"Why?" said Amanda.  "Did you do it?"

"No," said Kerri.  "I'd been masturbating since the age of seven.

"My mom had told me all the stuff we always get—you know, wipe forward so you don't get an infection, don't let the boys touch, babies come out of there, things like that.  When I started my first period in sixth grade, I knew what was going on.  But I also knew that my private parts were good for something else.  I wasn't sure even my mom knew this about her body...  But I knew that, if I touched myself in certain ways, I could make myself feel really good."

Amanda, who was genre-savvy enough to see where this was going, said, "And you didn't think your mom knew about it?  Even though she'd had enough sex to have you and your siblings?"

"Well, like I said, I didn't make the connection until later," said Kerri with an artless shrug.  "And even then, it wasn't until I had the chance to do some research on the Internet that I understood what was going on.  I was wondering what they meant by 'oral sex,' and that led to the clitoris, and—  Well, whatever, you don't care about that part.  The point is that, eventually—like, four or five years later—I started to understand why people would voluntarily undergo intercourse."

"Because of the stuff that made you feel good."

"Right.  I realized that that response, that feel-good part of my body, would be involved in sex.  I realized that sex would—or at least was supposed to—feel good.  And that realization was enough to get me into real sex, where I started finding out about the emotional stuff."

"There's emotional—?  Never mind, I'll find out about that once I get there, I guess.  So, how come I'm broken?"

"Hey."  Kerri took her by the chin and made her look up at her face.  "You're not broken.  Don't give me that crap, Amanda.  You're not broken and you know it.  That's the whole point—that you're not broken."

"Then why doesn't it work?"

"Well, that's what I just went through a whole storytelling session to explain.  I think that it doesn't work because you never had the chance to make that connection.  Because that's the thing, the thing that's been such a defining factor of female sexuality throughout all of history: it's completely possible for a woman to go through her entire life without ever having an orgasm—much less a healthy enjoyment of sex."

Amanda felt a surge of indignance—and then a spike of amusement.  I was going to be one of those women, without ever knowing I was one.  Why am I so angry?  "Why is that?  What's the difference between a man's orgasm and a woman's?"

Kerri peered at her.  "You know men have orgasms?"

Amanda gave her a look.  "I'm not that oblivious.  I know that a man needs to have an orgasm to ejaculate sperm and semen."  She decided not to mention that it was mostly Patrick who had taught her this.  That part of her wedding night, at least, she had known about.

Kerri shrugged.  "Coulda fooled me."  Before Amanda could protest, she continued: "The difference between men's orgasms and women's are that, number one, a woman's orgasm is a lot stronger.  Women climax harder.  We don't know why, it's just known.  The second is that pregnancy doesn't require the woman to climax, only the man.  There's no equivalent or whatever where a woman has a physical deposit of genetic material.  In fact, if you wanna get down to it, scientists aren't yet sure why women have orgasms.  It seems to contribute nothing from a biological standpoint."

"Weird," said Amanda.

"Yeah.  Now, quality-of-life standpoint, on the other hand...  But that's not really what science concerns itself with.  The point that concerns us is that young boys are encouraged to explore their sexuality, or at least not discouraged from it.  Young girls, on the other hand, are supposed to keep their hands out of their pants and not know anything about their sexuality at all.  At least, until they get married."

"Well, speaking only for myself, that's not working out too well."

"I know.  Our culture is backwards about sex in so many ways."

"So, what should I do?"

"At this point?" said Kerri.  "I think what's warranted is a two-phase plan of attack."

"Okay," said Amanda.  "What's the first phase?"

"The first phase is, we're going to the spa," Kerri said, waving her credit card with a wolfish grin.  "W're gonna get you exfoliant and luxuriant and feeling good about yourself.  Maybe go do a little shopping too."

"I like this plan," Amanda said, grinning.  "What's phase two?"

"Phase two is, we get you some privacy and you start to explore."

"Explore what?" Amanda said.

Kerri fixed a deliberate look on Amanda's crotch.

"...What?" said Amanda, apprehensive.

"Hon, we already talked about the crucial step you missed," said Kerri.  "You know that people have sex, but you don't know why because you've never experienced sexual pleasure before.  Which is understandable, considering that you've been expressly forbidden from learning.  Well, this is your chance.  We'll set you up with my vibrator and you'll get to just play around until you find out what feels good.  You need to get to know yourself."

"Know myself?"

"You know, like in the Bible?  I thought you might appreciate the reference.  Adam knew Eve; Cain knew his wife; those girls who knew their dad because that was the only way to get pregnant...  They knew each other.  Carnally.  Biblically."

Amanda said, "My understanding of the matter was that the first person to know you... is supposed to be your husband."

"I'm sure it was," said Kerri, not unkindly, "but, Amanda, look where that got you."

Amanda couldn't argue with that.

"You...  You have a vibrator?" she said.

Kerri nodded.

"You brought a vibrator on your honeymoon?" Amanda said, grinning.  "What, did you think Winston wouldn't satisfy you?"

"You're one to talk," Kerri said, laughing.

So they went to the spa, something Amanda had never done before.  She let Kerri walk her through the process and recommend the various treatments.  Amanda herself felt very out-of-place—walking around with only a robe on, having all these people fuss over her—but Kerri urged her to enjoy it, and Amanda had to admit that she had never been pampered like this in her life... and maybe would not be again, for a long time.  Kerri walked her through a mud bath, a whirl in a hot tub, and finally a massage that left Amanda feeling as though her muscles had all turned to goo.  At least she was getting used to the idea of being around someone while she had no clothes on.  Most of them were women, and most of the time she at least had a towel draped over her, but there it was nonetheless.

They stopped for a late lunch, and unfortunately by the time they had gotten back to the room, Amanda had been forced to trade that delicious gelatinous relaxation for a much more rigid stance—one, at least, that was capable of walking.  Too, she had begun to work herself into a state of high anxiety over the prospect of masturbation.  The simple fact was, she had no idea what to expect, and she didn't like the idea of having to walk in blind.  What exactly did a vibrator do?  What if it was painful?  What if she somehow misapplied it and damaged herself?  She kind of wanted Kerri to stay in the room with her...  But she couldn't decide which was more embarrassing: having to masturbate, or having to masturbate with Kerri watching.

When Kerri handed over the vibrator it was smaller than she'd expected—a little plastic bullet smaller than the length of her little finger.  But even that had its own pitfalls.  Was she supposed to put that inside her, like a penis?  What if she lost it?  How embarrassing would that be?  What would she tell a doctor?  What would she tell Kerri??

Maybe some of this was clear on her face, because Kerri sighed and put the vibrator on the nightstand.  "Amanda, sit down.  I want you to just concentrate on breathing..."  She felt Kerri's hands kneading her shoulders, shifting deep into the muscle, melting away some of the tension.

"God, Kerri," she breathed.  "You're really good at this."

"You pick up some things in life," said Kerri, and Amanda heard the grim smile.  "Now, I want you to lie back..."  Gentle hands helped smooth her down to the covers.  "And, I want you to just relax and be calm.  And then, whenever you feel the spirit move you...  I want you to just reach down and play around with yourself.  Nothing weird, nothing goofy...  Just the most natural thing in the world.  This is your body—the one God gave you, so that you could please yourself and your husband.  Why don't you spend some time getting to know it?"  When Kerri put it that way, it seemed so much less... bizarre.

"If you need me, I'll be in my room," Kerri said, and shut the door behind her, leaving Amanda alone.

She wasn't at all sure how she should start this process.  Be calm, Kerri had said.  Very well.  She began by breathing—nothing more, just breathing—and trying to listen to everything that was going on around her.  The rough cotton of the bedspread; the whoosh and swish of the waves outside; the cool air-conditioned air on her skin.  Her name was Amanda Greer.  There would never be in all of human history another person quite like her.

She was a woman.  That could mean any number of things, depending on the circumstances.  It meant being shorter and having a higher body-fat percentage; it meant being less prone to certain types of cancer, living longer average life spans.  It meant not having the vote until the early 1900s, being looked down upon and guarded, not being allowed outside unless chaperoned in some countries and eras.  It meant having to endure whistles, jeers, cat-calls, unwanted flirtation; it meant being a second-class citizen in a world that, despite everyone's best efforts, was still a male-dominated society.  It meant menstruation, monthly cramps, sanitary napkins; it meant breasts, ovaries, fallopian tubes.  It meant being able to bring forth life out of her body, being able to bear children.  And it meant a vagina, and it meant a clitoris.

At least I know about those.  It could be much worse.

She let her fingers wander over her own body, testing, tasting.  What did a man think when he felt what she felt now?  Her breasts were heavy, the C-cups so beloved of modern America; she had small nipples but large areolas.  If one day she should bear children, she would nourish them from those breasts.  Today, though...  Well, Patrick seemed to like them; he seemed to like them a great deal.

Her belly was flat, but not as taut as once it had been; she'd been meaning to hit the gym, but never had time before the wedding happened.  Below was pubic hair, dark and ruffled, and below that her own feminine secrets.  It was funny, now that she thought about it, that she had been so discouraged from exploring her own body.  Weren't these her secrets?  Why should she ignore them?

Still, she wasn't entirely sure how to go about this whole 'explore yourself' thing.

Her hand down her pants, she began to re-acquaint herself with the geography; half-remembered anatomy lessons floated through her head.  Here was the outer padding; down here was her rear; there was her clitoris—ooh, too sensitive.  Her opening she found easily enough as well; she was always aware of this area, she realized, but just didn't tend to pay a lot of attention to it.  She was sure the same must be true of anyone else.

She felt a little silly, lying here with her hand down her pants.  So, after a moment's thought, she shimmied out of them, leaving herself bare from the waist down.  A moment later her shirt was off too; her bra followed it, and now she was as naked as she'd been in the spa.  She hoped Patrick wouldn't walk in right then; that would be too embarrassing to be borne.

Her fingers continued their walking tour of her body.  Now she could spend more time on herself—on the smooth texture of her own skin, the tiny bumps ringing her areolas, the softness of her pubic hair.  Still, her main goal was to learn to understand this pleasure thing her body promised.

It soon became clear that just touching her clitoris directly was not going to work: oh, sure, it made her feel something, but those feelings were so strong they were almost dizzying.  Did it feel that way to Patrick when his penis was being touched?  Or was it because her clitoris was so much smaller?—the same number of nerves being packed into a very dense package.  Whatever the case, she soon found that she could achieve something by, not stimulating her clit directly, but by moving her fingers up and down on her mound right near her clit.

That was when she felt it—a tingling sensation that swept through her, faint but unmistakable.  She had never felt anything like it before, but she knew instantly that this was what she was seeking.  It was ticklish, almost, and a little bit squirmy, but it made her whole body feel alive...  And her whole mound tingle.  And she knew that, whatever this was, she wanted more.

She began to masturbate in earnest (at least, assuming this was masturbating) and soon she noticed that there was wetness under her hand.  Had she urinated on accident?  There didn't seem to be enough of it, and when she raised her hand to her nose the smell was not the sickly scent of urine, but rather something more acrid.  She decided to ask Kerri about it later.  And, as she moved her hand back down, her arm brushed against her breasts and she noticed, almost by accident, that her nipples were tight and hard, as though in cold weather.  But it wasn't that cold.  The connection was to remember back to that first night with Patrick—all of sixty hours ago—when this had happened too.  She'd wondered about it at the time, but decided not to ask; obviously, he'd had other things on his mind, and she too.  Now she began to wonder if all this was normal.

Curious, she slipped one finger inside herself, encountering ridges and folds half-remembered from childhood exploration.  She noted that her whole area seemed more slippery—and that the moisture she had encountered seemed to be coming from inside her.  Of course, she could hardly say with any certainty, but maybe this was her body's way of making intercourse easier.  Another thing her classes hadn't covered—when she first heard about sex, she had wondered how this could possibly be comfortable.  Would her vagina grow substantially as she passed puberty?  It hadn't.  Would it be rough and painful to have sex?  All in all, it had seemed as though sex must be something you only did to have babies; surely there was nothing else to recommend it.

Boy, was she learning.

Now she had lots of questions, and so she donned her clothes again to go ask Kerri for some help.  True to her word, Kerri was lounging in the common area of the suite, reading a book.  "Hmm, is that pussy juice I smell?" she cried.

"...'Pussy'?" said Amanda.  " 'Juice'?"

Kerri took the hand Amanda had used down below and smelled it.  "Yep, that's pussy juice.  Amanda, you've come a long way!"

"So it's supposed to make that stuff?" said Amanda.

"Well, of course it is!" Kerri exclaimed.  "How else do you make yourself hot and wet for your man!  Did you come?  Did you have an orgasm?"

Well, evidently there's still a lot more to go, Amanda thought.  "No, I didn't wanna strain myself, you know?  Like you said, I've come a long way."

"That you have, that you have," Kerri agreed.  "But don't forget to try it, hon.  It's the best!"

Amanda was sure that Kerri might've dug further, but that was when the men returned—Winston in his plaids, Patrick with his silly visor that she'd always laughed at.  They seemed to have had a very productive day, at least as far as the golf chatter seemed to indicate: topics ranged from the consistency of the fairway (excellent) to the quality of the golf clubs available for rent (excellent) to their overall scores that day (excellent, with both of them convinced that, with a little luck, he would've beat the other).  They were so excited they could barely sit down; eventually Kerri plunked herself down in Winston's lap to get him to calm down.  It seemed to work, and it certainly saved Amanda any embarrassment when she decided to do the same thing.  Her explorations in the bedroom had made her suddenly and intimately conscious of Patrick's presence in her life.  He had been a perfect gentlemen for the three years of their courtship, and an even bigger one for the three days of their marriage; he had unending patience and a generosity of heart, and she felt sure that, given time and what she'd learned Kerri that morning, he could've brought her to the arousal and understanding she'd gained for herself, but in a lot faster time.  As it was, she couldn't wait until they could be alone together and she could put her knowledge to good use.  (Suddenly she realized that he must have felt much the same eagerness about her, except for the past three years.  This, if anything, only strengthened her resolve.)

It was her first real experience with delayed gratification, with wanting something and having to resist that want, and it left her antsy.  Despite the beautiful environs, despite the tasty and creative cuisine, despite the gorgeous moon-lit beach which she and Patrick strolled along, her mind was elsewhere.  It was so hard to focus when something she wanted was just out of reach!  Kerri must've seen, or maybe even Winston, because the two of them retired early; but it was then that Patrick insisted on the beach-walk.  She should've been delighted.

"What's going on, honey?" Patrick said to her.  "Ever since we got back from golf you've been just on the edge of your seat."

Oh, go figure that he would choose this moment to suddenly become observant.

"Winston had some more ideas about how to...  Ease you into things," Patrick said.

"So did Kerri," Amanda said.

"Oh," he said.  "Did any of them seem like they would work out?"

"You mean, of the ones I tried while you were gone?" she said.

He stopped short and stared at her.

"I mean, why do you think I've been edge-of-my-seat this entire time?" Amanda said.

"I, umm.  I take it you'd like to head back to the room."  He was grinning.

"About time!" she said.

For the first time, she was an active participant in the kissing, the undressing, the eagerness.  It felt good to be active, to be a part of it, to not be at his mercy.  Not that she thought he would abuse his power over her, over her body.  But it was nice to be in the driver's seat.  It was nice to feel that, for once, she had some control over her fate.  Proudly, she presented her breasts to him, and settled in to await that tingling feeling of excitement.

It never came.

"Umm, honey—"

"Keep going!" she said.

But it was no good.  He suckled at her breasts, and she tried to make herself relaxed and open, but all she felt was empty.  His mouth, his lips, his brassy hair—they did nothing.  She even opened her legs and bade him work below, but all she felt was that intense over-stimulation.  And then gradually she felt nothing at all, and she realized there were tears burning on her cheeks.

"Baby?" he said.  "Baby?"

"It worked earlier," she said, her voice shaking.  "It worked earlier but it's not working now and I don't know why and it's not working—"  And that was the end of speech, as she flung herself over, face first into the pillows, and wept with rage.  She felt his hands gentle on her bare back, and his kisses, and knew that he still loved her—and yet his touch made her feel worse, and she gave an inarticulate roar and felt him jolt away.

Finally, she had cried herself dry.  She was cold now, bare in the air-conditioned room.  She could hear from his breathing that he had not left her side.

"Well," Patrick said, "if they're listening at the door, they'll have a hell of a time interpreting that noise."  It was a lame shot, but she laughed a little.  ...And then some more, remembering the noise that had torn loose from her throat.  "What did I say, anyway?"

"I'm... not entirely sure.  There were vowels, but I'm not sure which, and some of them might have been imported from foreign countries."

She laughed again, and then turned her head back.  Patrick was still there.  He sat at ease, one knee up, the other arm down to support his upper body, like a statue of some reclining Greek god.  A wave of remorse ran through her.  He deserved so much more than this.  "Baby, I..."

"Shh," he said.  "It's okay."

"You probably wouldn't've married me if you'd known it was gonna be like this."

"I told you to shut up once, lady, don't make me do it again."  He smiled, and then opened his arms to her, and gratefully she came to his embrace, and felt his heart beat against her breast, and his warm arms around her, and knew that she was the luckiest woman on earth, to be this loved.

"Thank you for having so much patience with me," she said.

"Honey," he said, laughing, "what did I just tell you about—"

"No, sweetie, let me finish," she said.  "I...  I love you so much.  Even if I didn't enjoy it, I would do it for you.  But now I can't even do that."  She grimaced.  "I think I'm defective."

"No," he said, "not defective.  Just a woman—a beautiful, normal woman, who is facing some... challenges."

"Chyeah, 'challenges.'  More like 'defective training.'  God, and I was so sure that Kerri and I had this figured out..."

"What did you guys talk about?"

She outlined the basics of the explanation.  Patrick nodded.  "That makes sense.  There's this weird... assumption going on in American culture that you should just, I dunno, naturally know how to have sex.  And, I don't think that's true.  I think it is something you have to learn."

"But, shouldn't everything at least work," Amanda grumped.  "I mean, getting... aroused and all that."

"Well...  Forgive me for trampling on Kerri's theory, but I think there might actually be three phases," Patrick said.

"Oh?"

"Yeah.  The first one was to relax and get comfortable with your self, right?  And the second was to play with yourself and see if it all worked."

"Which it did, so I don't get why it didn't work for you."

"Well, that's just the thing.  It didn't work, for me, because...  I dunno how to explain it, I went to boot camp instead of college.  But...  It's one thing to be sexual with yourself, and another to be sexual with someone else.  I mean, there's all this...  I mean, you take off your shirt, and you're like, 'Oh, god, is she gonna judge me, is she...' "

She touched his bare chest, a comforting gesture.  "I would never judge you."

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.  "I know you wouldn't, darling.  But I know that intellectually.  Insecurities, on the other hand..."

"Yeah.  Maybe that's...  One of the nice things about waiting until you get married.  Then, at least, you know you're with somebody who isn't gonna just judge you and then walk away."

"Well, that I don't know about," Patrick said.  "One marriage in two ends in divorce nowadays.  But that's besides the point.  The point is that...  I think that's the third step.  The first one is being sexual, the second is being sexual with yourself.  But the third is learning to engage all that with someone else.  Learning to...  To overcome all those nerves and insecurities and relax—completely, totally relax—in the company of someone else."

She grimaced.  "And you've been telling me for years that I never do that to begin with."

"I can tell you something, my love.  Out of the, you know, vast annals of my experience."  They sometimes joked that he was some sort of Casanova, having lost his virginity during his first tour of duty, but the truth was that it had been with a prostitute overseas, and of the girlfriends he'd had since, only one had slept with him, and then only a few times, before the break-up.  "You can have sex, sure, where, you know, it's an activity.  Where you're just doing it for the sake of doing it.  But it's when two people are really...  Are really open to each other, and are sharing, and don't have any walls up.  That's what it's supposed to be like."

"So that's step four," she said.  "God, I have a lot of work to do."

"No, maybe more like step three-and-a-half," he said.

"At this rate, it's gonna be, like, months before we get there," she said, feeling tears in her eyes again.  Months before they could do it?  Months before she could give her body to her husband fully?  "I feel so defective."

Patrick was silent for a long moment.  "Well..." he said finally.  "If...  If it's that important to you, there are other ways, you know."

Had it been any other time, she might've accused him of trying to take advantage of her fragile emotional state.  Today she merely said, "What do you mean?"

"I mean that...  There's other ways to share our bodies with each other.  To give each other pleasure.  To have sex."

"And you want me to..."

"Hon, it's totally up to you.  I love you, and I will support whatever you decide is best for you."

It was a set-up.  But she felt too wretched to look the gift horse in the mouth.  If he was going to offer her a way to redeem herself, she would take it, no questions asked.  "Tell me what to do."

"Well...  You probably noticed that...  While we were trying to make things happen...  I would sometimes put my mouth on your...  Down-there."

"Okay, and...  You want me to put my mouth on my down-there?  Umm...  I don't know if I'm flexible enough."

"No, that's not what...  I wanted you to put your mouth on my down-there."

She decided not to think about the hygienic aspects.  "Okay, umm...  To what point?  Is it just like kissing you in another place?"

"No," he said, "if...  If you do it right, I might...  Have an orgasm."

She frowned: "Great, another thing for me to fail at."

"No, not at all.  First off, Amanda, you need to stop getting down on yourself like that.  Haven't we talked about relaxing?"

"That involves you not judging me."

"That involves you not judging yourself either," he said.

She said nothing.

"And second...  Well, I don't know why this is, but it's easier for men to have orgasms than women.  It's something you can probably learn pretty quickly."

"And if I can't?"

"Then I'll teach you," he said easily.  "You're already learning about your own body; you can learn about mine too."

"Aren't I just...  Supposed to know?" she said; but even as she said it, she knew it was foolish.  "No, of course not.  I don't even know how my body goes, and it's my body; there's no way I should be able to know yours."

He smiled.  "See?  You're learning already."

There were about a thousand things she would rather talk about than her lack of sexual prowess.  "So what do I do to you and your thing?"

"Well, you should..."  He shrugged.  "You should feel free to explore."

"Explore what?"  It was a little more caustic than she'd intended.

He shrugged.  "Me.  Hon, of course there's all this stuff about how a man comes into ownership of his wife, and his body belongs to her.  You know that angle of it really well.  But the woman becomes the master of her husband's body as well.  That's one of the reasons infidelity is such a mess: you're giving to someone else that which isn't really yours to give anymore.  We're married.  My body is yours, just as yours is mine.  Don't you want to get to know what's yours?"

"I'm having enough trouble getting to know my thing," she grumbled, but he had a point.  All their explorations had been one way thus far, focusing exclusively on her.  It would be a lie to say that getting to know his body was a particular priority for her...  But it would also be a lie to say she was indifferent.  She was curious.  And since they couldn't seem to accomplish anything by exploring her body...

"Is there anything specific I ought to know?" she asked.

"If anything occurs to me, I'll be sure to mention it," he said.

"Well, I mean..." she said.  "Can you give me instructions?"

"Do you want me to?"

"Well...  Yes," she said.  "I mean, what do I know about you?"

He gave her a twisted smile.  "Now you see how hard it is for me to have to fumble around blind?"

"Could we maybe not rub that in?" she said, letting real irritation color her voice.  "Could we maybe not harp on the fact that it is practically impossible for me to be a good wife in this manner?"

There was a short, tense silence.

"...I'm sorry," she said, "I shouldn't..."

"No, I'm sorry too," he said.  "I won't make fun of it anymore."

"We've been focusing on you, and maybe rightly so, but, you're not the only person frustrated here."

"I know," he said, smiling.  "That's what we're fixing tonight."

The reference escaped her; in any case, she decided she had more important things on her mind than to decode his slang.  Explore her husband's body?  All right.

"...Is... there any specific thing you want me to start with?"

She could see the effort it took him to retain patience.  "Just...  Trust yourself.  Do you trust yourself?  I trust you."

And what could she say to that?

She started by kissing across his chest and ribs—at random, letting her lips wander where they would.  She had never experienced the texture of his chest before—his skin was tight across his muscles, firm over them in a way she herself, 5'5 and 140 pounds, could not hope to personally achieve.  She had always loved his physique, the strength there and the gentleness in his demeanor; to her, he was a man's man, strong without need of posturing, endlessly respectful.  She was very lucky to have him, and it occurred to her that she had been taking him for granted all this time.  Never again, she decided.

She speckled kisses across his pectorals, his ribs, his shoulders, while he lay docile to her touch—except for one hand, which held hers.  On impulse, she decided to kiss his nipples; after all, he'd spent so much time doing the same to her.  She wasn't entirely sure what to expect; and so she was surprised at his reaction: a sigh of contentment as he resettled himself on the bed, and letting go of her hand to cradle her head against his body.  (Was this what he was expecting from me?  God, no wonder he could tell it wasn't working.)  She groped with her other hand until she had found his.  She wanted to be connected to him for this, to know that she was doing it right.

At a loss, she tried sucking on his nipples, the way he had done to her; she was surprised at his response.  He seemed to like it.  How could that be?  He wasn't a woman; he couldn't give milk.  But the simple fact was that he seemed to like it: he made encouraging noises with his breath, and raised his chest to her mouth, and squeezed her hand.  When she switched to his other nipple, she noticed that it was hard and distended, as though in cold weather; she remembered her own nipples doing that when she had played with herself, and wondered if this was normal for men and women both.  A glance south confirmed that, yes, maybe it was a sign of arousal: his manhood was stiffening, bobbing up and down in time with his heartbeat.

She knew it was going to end up down there eventually, but it still felt wiser to ask.  "Do you want me to touch your..."  I mean, he could say no.

"Only if you want to," he said.  "It's all about what you want."

"Honey, don't bullshit me," she said.  "It's about what you want."

"Okay, it's about what we both want," he said.  "What do you want, Amanda?"

To make up for the fact that I suck at sex.  "I want to please my husband."

"Well," he said, "it would please me if you would touch me there," he said, "but that's just my point.  If that makes you uncomfortable, we'll find some other way."

"No," she said.  "I'll do it."  And—before she could second-guess herself—she put actions to words and reached down to grab him.

She hadn't realized it would be so warm.

"Okay," she said, "this is one of those cases where you have to tell me what to do."

"Well," he said, "if you just move your hand up and down, it will feel good."

She heard the comma.  "But...?"

"But...  If you use your mouth...  It would be even better."

Right.  They'd discussed this already, though she'd hoped they wouldn't get to it.  He'd said that if it made her uncomfortable...  But she'd already committed to doing this.  She might as well do it right.  "What do I do when you... squirt?"

"That's, um...  That's up to you.  If you want to just back off and let it go on my stomach, you can."

She didn't even say it this time, just looked at him.

"But...  You could swallow it too."

"Let it go in my mouth, and then just swallow it," she said.

"Yeah."

She didn't waste any time with silly 'why' questions.  "What's the difference to you?"  Since we're doing it for you anyway, she thought, and this time he didn't bother to protest.

"Well...  When I'm coming, it feels better if you keep stimulating me."

" 'Coming'?"

"Having my orgasm."

"How will I even be able to tell?  Besides, you know, suddenly something squirting in my mouth."

"I'll tell you, of course," he said.

"You'll say something?"

"Yeah, like...  I dunno, 'Honey, I'm about to cum.' "

Straightforward enough, she supposed.

She moved south down the bed, positioned herself kneeling between his legs.  She had never noticed just how much leg hair he had; but it was nothing compared to the thicket between his legs.  She was expected to stuff her face in there?  But then she remembered that he had done the same thing to her down-below, and with nary a complaint.  That was the whole point, wasn't it?—that he was setting the example which she should try to follow.

Still, it was good to seek his hand.  And when she did, she saw him look down at her past his body, and smile at her, and she saw that he knew this was hard for her.  And he squeezed her hand, and she felt his confidence in her.  And, suddenly, it didn't seem quite as daunting.

One of her hands was in his; the other was free to explore.  Gently, she took hold of his shaft.  It was a little floppy now (she knew that wouldn't last), and a lot softer than she expected; his skin there was like that of a baby's.  She felt its spongy texture, the slickness of the circumcision scar, the little bumps and nodules under its surface.  Even as she handled it, it began to grow warmer, firmer, harder.  She was surprised that she could have so much impact; she'd barely done anything.

As if he could hear her thoughts, he said: "It's because I love you so much.  Anything you do, it's good for me."

So I could mess up and you'd still like it? she thought; but then she decided that there was too much at stake for pride.

He was pretty hard by now, his erection standing proud above his belly; it wasn't perfectly straight, but slightly curved downwards.  It wasn't perfectly smooth either; the tip was redder than the rest of it, and bulbous, like a little helmet, with a V-curve underneath and a ridge leading down towards his testicles.  She could see a little slot in the tip, and realized that this must be where urine came out—and, unless she was mistaken, semen too, eventually.  That was her challenge for the evening: to make semen come out of that little slot.  Doesn't sound so difficult.  ...But then, neither did all that other stuff.

She brought her mouth closer to the tip of his penis, feeling a moment of hesitation.  Would it taste foul?  It had been all sorts of less-than-sanitary places.  Urine came out of it, for instance.  And it had been inside her less-than-sanitary place too.  For a moment she merely hovered there, her mouth open, breathing.  Then, steeling herself, she moved her mouth down and closed it, ever so delicately, around the tip of his cock.

In the end, she was almost disappointed: it didn't taste like much at all.  Salty, a little, with sweat, and the slightly reddish taste she had always associated with skin.  But the effect on her husband was desultory and immediate: he gave a breathy little moan, as if he really liked what was going on, and his hips came up a little off the bed.  And, best of all, the hand she held gave an involuntary twitch.  Yes, he did indeed seem to like what she was doing.

Slowly, she worked the ring of her mouth further down his shaft, expecting him to ejaculate at any moment—what would happen, exactly, when he did?  But nothing came, and eventually she reached the point where as much of him as possible was in her mouth.  She was dismayed to note that at least half of it would not fit, perhaps as much as two thirds.  (She didn't know it, but her husband's endowment had been the envy of everyone in his barracks.)  Still, he seemed happy—especially when her tongue came up to touch the underside of his shaft.  He actually groaned then.

Letting him fall free of her mouth, she said, "Is there something I should do?"

"Well..." he said.  "If you move your mouth up and down, I'll definitely have an orgasm."

"What, just...  Up and down?" she said.  Was that all there was to it?

As if reading her confusion, he said: "Think about what happens during sex.  It moves in and out of you, right?  Do the same thing, except with your mouth."

Could he have possibly made it seem less glamorous?  Still, she did as she was bade.

She fixed her mouth around his shaft and began to move up and down, slowly at first, but then (at the sound of his pleasure) with increasing confidence.  She was avoiding the ridge at the bottom of his head, and he told her not to; evidently it was a sensitive spot.  It was tiring for her jaw, and somewhat tedious; but she had the sound of his voice to urge her on, his groans, the way his hand moved in hers; his hand stroking her hair and cheek (what little he could reach of it).  And, once, when she looked up from her work, the most marvelous sight: his face, eyebrows up, mouth agape, eyes closed; as she watched, she stopped right at the ridge on the underside of his head and sucked, and she saw the way his face moved, the way he lifted up off the bed, as if in pursuit of some perfect thing.  The thing she was doing for him.  Sex.  His pleasure.

It seemed to take forever; but at the same time, it seemed like no time at all when suddenly he said, "Baby, I'm gonna cum.  If you—  If you need to stop—"

She had thought about it.  But now, in the heat of the moment, with his body and his pleasure at her fingertips, she knew that she could not back away.  No, she wanted to ride this through to the end.  She paused only long enough to coil up a few strands of hair and slurp back some extra spit; then she applied herself to his penis, with absolutely no intention of letting go.

His breathing was ragged, his hand twitching seemingly of its own accord.  She could see his abs rippling as he lurched in response to her movements.  He was speaking, babbling almost, as the tide of his pleasure threatened to overwhelm him.  "Oh god.  Baby, I'm gonna cum.  I'm gonna cum.  It's gonna—  It's gonna—  Oh, oh, ohhh—"

She didn't know what to look for, and probably would've missed it in any case.  All she knew was that one moment she was bobbing up and down on his shaft in a calm, methodical manner (despite how much he was bucking under her); the next, there was something warm and slimy in her mouth, and she nearly choked before getting away from him.  Fighting her own gag reflex, she watched as his cock twitched in mid-air, stiffening towards his belly; each time it twitched, a gush of white fluid came from it, arcing onto his skin.  Each squirt went a shorter distance than the last.  This was semen, she realized; this was his seed.  The bit of it in her mouth had a salty taste but a nasty consistency, almost like mucus; the rest of it left an acrid smell on the air.  She forced it down, hoping he wouldn't ask to orgasm into her mouth often; good intentions or not, she didn't think she could get to like the smell or taste of this stuff.

Though watching him produce it had been kind of fun.

All right, 'fun' wasn't the right word for it; it had been pretty darn cool, knowing she could do such things to him—knowing that her husband's body had been in the throes of some major event, and that she had done that to him.  She had never known it could be that fun; now, she had to admit that she looked forward to doing it again.  Never mind my own sexuality—it was fun just to give him his!  And she knew, then and there, that waiting until marriage had been the right choice.  She couldn't imagine doing what she'd just done with someone she only kind of liked; she was glad that Patrick was the only man she'd ever give orgasms to, the only man she'd ever tend in such an intimate way.  She was glad that it could be something special between them.  And even if he'd had partners of his own before...  Well, hers would be special enough for both of them.

"Oh my god," Patrick said.  "Baby, are you okay?"

She smiled.  "Why shouldn't I be?"

"There've been stories of girls who choked the first time they did that...  My god, baby, I didn't think you were going to take it all the way..."

She crawled up to nestle back into his arms.  "Well, I thought that if I was gonna do it, I should at least do it right."

"You are the bravest woman I know," he said, moving in to kiss her.

"Aack!  Honey, don't kiss me!"

"Why not?"

"Well, I...  Some of your stuff got in there!"

"If you're brave enough to get it in there, I'm brave enough to kiss you after," he said.  "And if not, I'm not much of a man."

She thought that was pretty silly; he had proved his manhood many times over.  But she let him kiss her, and if he tasted himself inside her mouth, he made no comment.  Soon after, he rose to clean himself off, and she to brush her teeth; and soon after that, they were asleep.  But before she dozed off, Amanda made herself a stern promise: by this time tomorrow, she would reach the point of being able to have sex with her man.  No matter what it took to do it.