The Virgin (part two)
she watches him out in his yard as she does the dishes, he is making something, from wood, and she stares transfixed at his powerful, rhythmic movements with the saw and plane and hammer, glued to his pounding strength. he has his shirt off and she can see the glisten of sweat on his torso,
she wants to taste him so badly. ever since she learned of his virginity, she has found it hard to think of anything else. she dreams at night of how she could be the first, and struggles to get to sleep, for the fantasies she has of him burn like hot coals deep inside her. normally she imagines competent men, men who know their way round a woman’s pleasure, men who know how to satisfy; not any more, she dreams of his clumsy hands, his shyness and lack of experience as he finds his way round her, thrill her to the core.
she wants to touch herself, right there, right then, as she watches him saw, back and forth in long, slow, thoughtful pulses. she really shouldn’t, she thinks, ‘what if he looked up?’ he knows she’s there – he waved and smiled at her earlier. she cannot help herself though and her hand slips down inside her skirt, inside her panties. he has big strong hands, and his muscles, although not large are sculptural, there is a wonderful force and determination to his actions, a fierceness that sets her cunt alight. the first ripples of orgasm well up inside her like bubbling toffee, and she is biting down on her lip to stop herself moaning too loudly, when he looks up at her and smiles. he beckons for her to come outside, to see what he has been making. “be right with you.” she squeaks, fighting the waves of pleasure shooting through her.
he has been making a rocking horse, a proper, old fashioned rocking horse, for her youngest. she could just cry.