"Come here a minute. Sit next to me."

Part of me wanted to run. More of me wanted to stay. I stood, divided, almost unable to stand. Maybe I was wobbly from indecision, and maybe it was the rum-soaked chocolate cake she'd left for me in the refrigerator, that she'd very deliberately pointed out, encouraging me to eat as much as I'd wanted, standing close to me in her evening gown, there in her kitchen, husband in Atlanta (she'd reminded me several times), all five foot dark-haired bronze-skinned nothing of her. Even then, years before I'd stopped growing, even sitting down, I still towered over her.

I sat, and towered, internally cowered, waiting for her to jump me, eagerly, fearfully. All evening I had anticipated, and between anticipations planned my escape, wondering as I put her daughter to bed in her parents' bed, as instructed ("I do not like to sleep alone" she'd said, "and my husband is in Atlanta") what madness it must be to live in that house with the naked family portraits. I had madness enough of my own to live with. Celibate madness though, celibate madness.

We sat, together, not quite together, on the couch, her daughter in their bed upstairs (where would we go, I had wondered, if we went?), her husband in Atlanta, and the disappointed men who had known of her aloneness, who had called all evening asking for her, at home now in their own beds with their own wives, because it was late.

Actually it was very late, after midnight, when my rates doubled. I had called my parents already, told them not to worry, that I would be home late, that "they" had been delayed. Not "her," "they" because my father would assume, and I did not want him to assume, because as much as I wanted to know about his sex life, I did not want him knowing about mine, about her hand on my thigh, gently scratching me with her nails, about the evening gown zipper she could not undo herself ("my daughter, as you know, is asleep upstairs, and my husband is in Atlanta"),

No, this was my experience, my moment, my breath taken away as she rose and turned in one smooth movement, the gown sliding from her shoulders to the floor, unprepared by the pictures on the walls and bedside table for her presence, for her slender hips, for her pubic hair, for her tiny, pointy, dark capped breasts, for the look of lust in her eye, for the sheer skin and bone and muscle thereness of her.

With a sense of purpose I had never known before, my hands unbuckled, unsnapped and unzipped, freeing my erection from the restraining confines of my jeans and the celibate vicariousness of my past.

She watched me, in all her revealed small, taut, eager self, watched me slide my pants down my thighs, watched my cock rise into the air, licked her lips, sank to her knees before me, as I sat on her livingroom couch, her daughter asleep upstairs, her husband in Atlanta, those other men asleep with their wives, my father at home assuming, tugged on my pants legs, pulled them off, and took me into her mouth beyond my wildest imagining.

My head snapped back and then forward with the awesome pleasure of this new sensation, holding her head as I watched her tongue lick up and down the shaft, somehow knowing this was not for my benefit, but preparation ("I do not like to sleep alone") for her good, hard, necessary fucking.

Satisfied that I was ready she straddled me, the muscles of her thighs against the muscles of my thighs, clamping me in place, hovering above me, lowering, slowly, my cockhead barely grazing the opening of her cunt and then thrusting down impaled on me to rise again, my hands on her sides, on her ribs, holding her incredible smallness as she bounced on my cock with boundless energetic joy, as she had doubtless bounced on my father, up and down and up and down beyond counting, as my orgasm rose in me and her orgasm rose in her, both our hips bucking uncontrolled, tossing her above me, face red, hands on my shoulders, leaning into me, willing us both to come, come soon, come together, come, come, come, come, spurting endlessly and wildly, deep inside her as she flopped, hands around my neck, head against my chest, gasping for breath.

Finally she raised her head, eyes to my eyes, hair disheveled, lips parted, still panting, lips to my lips, staring deep into my soul before she kissed me, lovingly, gratefully, tenderly. It was my first kiss, and it was magic.