"I think we should stop."
It was my girlfriend, Anna, and she was doing it again. Every time we were alone things progressed the same way: we would start just holding each other, then begin to kiss, with more and more intensity until, finally, she would allow me to lift her shirt up, first just exposing the smoothness of her belly and the beginnings of the curves of her hips. It stopped there, for a time, until enough caresses on her bare skin, and a few light runs with my fingernails, just along the small of her back where her panties stuck out above her pants, would raise the goose-bumps, and then with a small gasp in the back of her throat she would let me lift the shirt above her bra, and then take it off completely. It had taken months from the first time she let me run my hands down over her tight, curving ass until she finally, finally let me slide her sweatpants down off her ankles and lay between her legs, trying to get her to brush against my painfully hard cock pressing out against my underwear. I'd never seen her naked, she would never let me, we'd always just lay there holding each other, but I was almost nineteen, so was she, and we'd be leaving for college in the summer, and I was getting desperate.
We'd both been raised in fairly conservative families, sex was a taboo, as was being alone with each other, and it was only through stories and lies to our parents that we got to sneak an hour or two in her bedroom when her parents were out, or in the backseat of my car on some deserted back road at night. She loved our time alone, but was never ready to go further than feeling our skin touching, and my fingers running over her body.
