"I told her she looked a proper whore. That night she slept with me as she always did and when the candles were blown out I told her to kiss me the way she kissed him, with her mouth open."
"And did she?" He's feeling tripped by his own snare, stumbling down a path he doesn't care to see the end of but is helpless to escape. Each confession she makes is like a sharp stone under his foot, and yet he hangs from every word and wants her all the more for every sickening detail.
"She laughed at first, but I just waited. I could hardly see her in the dark, but all of the sudden her hair was tickling my face and I could smell her soap. She opened and closed her mouth against mine and touched her tongue to my lips. I opened my mouth like she did and she pushed her tongue in and rubbed it against mine."
At ten, he'd still blushed furiously when the livestock dropped their cocks to piss, and the only kissing he'd ever done was upon his mother's cheek. How revolting that a whore's true colors would show even before she'd left childhood behind. His next question sounds a little strangled to his own ears.
"When did you begin to do more than kiss, child?"
"When I was thirteen my bedmate began to move and make strange noises beside me one night. I asked her what she was doing and she laughed. 'Don't you know?' she asked me."
"What was she doing?"
"She was rubbing herself with her fingers. Pleasuring herself." The mere fact that women would do such a thing to themselves makes him uncomfortable.
"What did you do then, child?" she laughs at his obvious turmoil and raises to her feet. He moves over only fractionally, leaving a narrow margin of the mattress for her to stretch out on. She manages to hold herself primly away from contact with him, despite the valley his weight creates.
"I kissed her the way I'd learned. She groaned and kissed me back and kept rubbing herself, harder and faster, until she went stiff and shook with climax." he groans and it makes her skin prickle. Emboldened, she goes on.
