I crawled up onto the bed, laid back, closed my eyes, and spread my legs.
When nothing happened I opened my eyes.
He was standing by the bed, looking down at me.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"For what?" I asked, completely confused.
"That some man, some time, taught you that this is what making love is all about," he said, making a sweeping gesture, taking me in.
I didn't say anything, just watched as he pushed his boxers down and then crawled up onto the bed beside me.
His interest was, well, let's say, obvious.
"Now," he said, smiling, his fingers tracing the shape of my nipples and areolas, making them hard little cones, "let me show you what it should be."
He began by taking each hand, kissing the palm, and laying it on the pillow beside my head.
"Tonight," he said, kissing me again, "I will do all of the work. You just enjoy."
I managed a soft, "mmhmmmmmmm," but that was about all I could manage.
I wasn't a virgin that first time with David, but in many ways, I felt like one.
My husband of almost 50 years had never brought me to orgasm. Hell, he hadn't bothered with foreplay (a word I have since learned).
What David was doing to me was so much better than when I masturbated.
There was no confusion of senses, no input from my fingers, as he touched and pinched and caressed and kissed.
The pressure that was building deep in my belly as he lightly brushed the love bumps in my areolas was beyond anything I had ever imagined, let alone experienced.
When his palm, flat against my skin, slowly caressed down my body, the round softness of my belly, my hips rocked without any thought.
He kissed me again, his fingertips brushing the top of the triangle of my pubic hair, his tongue lightly touching my lips.
I gasped when his finger pressed gently, putting pressure on my clitoris through the thick pad of flesh that protected it.
His tongue traced the shell of my ear and his breath was warm and moist when he breathed, "say yes Jean."
"Yes," I whispered.