By The Lake 4

This story is personal recollection of first tentative sexual exploration by a 19-year-old couple -- excited, but trying to keep our church's rules about no sex before marriage. In fact the last line is from 4 years later, just before marriage at the age of 23. Now 71, we are still together, 48 years married, with very different attitudes to sexuality, but with vibrant memories of early excitement.

*

On the road to the lake, wrapped in one another's arms, they walk side by side.

There is a breeze, but the evening is still warm. Through thin cotton of her homemade dress he feels the warmth of her flesh at her waist. The dress, not tight, but tailored, makes him aware of her hips. The neckline shows no cleavage, but the careful darts reveal the swell of her body.

As they walk in step, her breast nestles in the curve of his torso to his waist. She enjoys this caress. With no clear plan she looks forward to the excitement to come. Now the action of walking offers to disperse sensation by the brushing of thighs, but ahead waits the slow build of tension as they will sit and kiss on the lookout bench. No clear plan, but intense anticipation.

There is touch of hand to side, of chest to shoulder, of fingers to resilient flesh with firm bone beneath, of fabric on skin. His lips are heavy with tingling expectation and his penis is cradled with warm weight in his pants — not roused, but warm and weighty. With no clear plan he looks forward to the growing excitement to come. Proximity, and touch, and the scent of her hair, and the sound of her voice, and the shared experience of evening light on the water and the fells raise the hairs on the back of his neck and sensitise every square inch of skin. No clear plan, but intense anticipation.

The wood of the bench supports them. They gaze at the changing light reflected in the lake. They talk and kiss in side-by-side embrace. Arm holds shoulders and thigh warms thigh.

Disentangling their fingers, she strokes the hairs of his forearm and silently wills him to caress her side, her belly.

He reads this sign of invitation and tentatively traces the topmost, subtlest swell of her breasts. Still through the cotton of her dress, this soft difference between them fascinates as his fingertips nestle in the hint of cleavage.

Now her nipples gently strain against her bra and this pressure signals gently to her clit. Without bidding her lungs draw one deep and trembling breath. Her fingertips write again their invitation on his forearm.

They kiss.

He reaches lower and through the small-flower print of her dress, strokes her side to trace smooth contours and the thin line of the waist of her panties.

They kiss.

She feels the warmth of his palm between her belly button and mons. She has never thought to shave or wax — will he mind the path of hair which stretches upwards to her navel?

They kiss.

Through two thin layers of cotton he can sense the spring and silk of hair and, against the side of his little finger, a hint of the swell of her pubis. Flat on her belly he moves slightly his palm and fingers. Should she protest, he thinks he could pretend the movement is not deliberate.

They kiss.

She feels the restrained massage and suspects its intention to stimulate them both. Without decision her knees are no longer held together, her buttocks clench, and her pelvis rises almost imperceptibly. Should he hesitate, she thinks she could pretend the move is not deliberate.

They kiss.

He perceives the rise of her hips and her greater openness, and presses lower.

Suddenly her hand grasps his and lifts it — away from her belly, away from the target at the junction of her thighs.

She draws him to his feet and round behind the bench, away from the lakeside path, up the slope into the woods of the headland. Here it is darker. Here they are above the line of sight of the evening strollers and dog walkers. Here they are away from the wonder of the Lakeland sunset.

With her back to a large tree, she turns to him again. Her feet are on the roots and lift her nearer to his height. One arm embraces him. They kiss. Her left hand, still grasping his right, returns it to her belly and leaves it there with a hint of downward thrust.

They kiss.

Now his fingers point no longer across, but downwards. He senses her feet are on the tree roots and steadily apart. Fearing to be too bold, his fingers explore — not straight down: point of hip across his palm, fingers catching a hint of groin on the way to her right thigh. His arms are long and he has no need to bend for his fingertips to catch her hem.

It is an electric touch on her thigh. Her knees bend ever so slightly to open.

They kiss.

Hardly daring to breathe, he savours smooth flesh and edges slowly towards inviting warmth. Stray hairs tickle the side of his finger.

She too hardly dares to breathe. Then his hand has left her thigh. A moment of absence, then the gentlest contact — the back of this fingers, through her panties, slowly, gently tracing the rise of her pussy.

He has only been here once before. The previous day, with the same warmth, the same pussy, with the same woman. But that was in the house, with her father in the room above. He had wanted to reach further, but did not wish to push his luck.

She had wanted him to reach further, but could not trust her own silence. When his fingertips had found the leg elastic of her panties and had reached beneath so the backs of his fingers made one upward pass over her pubic hair, she had thrilled, but had breathed again at the wisdom of their withdrawal. One final goodnight kiss with the implied promise of further exploration to come in greater seclusion.

Hence the focussed excitement of the walk to the lake shore.

In the woods, by the tree, they kiss.

His right hand is up her skirt and the backs of his fingers brush against her panties. With his fingertips he seeks again the elasticated edge in her groin and reaches towards the warmth. The backs of fingers offer a special caress and he feels the silken spring of her hair and the moist heat of her cunt.

They kiss.

She remembers to breathe, then holds her breath again as his hand lifts her panties and reaches towards her pubis. Just his fingers slip under the cotton and sweep upwards with the tender caress of the back of his hand. At the top of his first stroke he gives slight pressure above her clit and an answering signal flies to her nipples. She has only been here once before, the same warmth, the same pussy, and the same fingers. Down again and around she feels his gentle exploration and bends her knees a little to be more open. This is new and good and she does not want him to take his hand away. How slowly can they go? How long can the tension build?

He finds a mystery in this silken mound. He wonders at the excitement they each feel and the thrill of the gentlest touch of hair and skin. With the care of a warm breath he strokes the treasure and knows that his touch tells of love and respect and desire. But the call to reach deeper requires fingertips and different angles and unfamiliar manoeuvres around elastic and fabric. Gracious simplicity turns to fumbling.

Later she will feel honoured by his restraint, but now she wants to feel her cunt more deeply explored. With the thumb of her free hand she stretches the waistband down so he reach his whole hand in from above, so his fingertips can comb downwards and curl below. Will he recoil at the damp of her panties? Will he know where to touch? Where to press? Where to rub? Does she herself know where?

He has no practical knowledge, no practised muscle memory. His middle finger traces the meeting of her labia and gently stirs to open a way deeper. Male boarding-school talk about "getting a finger up" offers neither guidance nor caring. But warm palm over her mound and middle finger settling in the groove of her cunt seems right. He strokes upwards. Her pelvis jerks forward; that must be her clit. With the luck of a first-time explorer he circles and curls the pad of his finger underneath. Her moan confirms his care and her hand suggests rubbing and circling.

Behind her ears, in the soles of her feet, in her nipples, and up her inner thighs, in her belly and now deep in her cunt the sneeze of orgasm is gathering. Hands, knees, and breath are trembling. Unplanned she grasps his hand and thrusts his finger to reach the ache in her cunt. All rigid she arches between her feet on the roots and her head and shoulders against the trunk of the tree. She snorts her orgasm, quivers, and quivers and breathes again. Suddenly soft and relaxed, she needs the tree at her back and his strength in front. His hand in her panties holds her up and she holds his wrist still, too sensitive now for movement.

He marvels at her satisfaction. He marvels at his own. No touch of buttocks, or thighs, of balls or cock. They have honoured their agreement to give pregnancy a very wide margin. He is hard and ready, but, breathing more deeply again, surprised to find how satisfying it can be to satisfy another.

And now she says, "Come. Let's go back. I won't forget what you need. I'll tuck you up in bed."