Suddenly, and very lightly, he touched her labia so that she cried out, and as she was crying out, he penetrated her, kindly but firmly, threw back his head, and closed his own eyes, seeming to pull her over himself as easily as a glove.
He penetrated her to the core, didn't he? He knew just how to do that, the way a racehorse knew how to find the finish line: wherever he penetrated her to, that was the core, and she felt it. He eased gently back and forth a time or two, and it wasn't so comfortable just then, but right when she was going to say something, or ask something, she got a wonderful feeling of moisture flooding her, and his penis turning to silk inside of her. She said, "What was that?"
And he said, "Sometimes it takes a moment or two for the foreskin to slide back."
"You have a foreskin?"
"I do, indeed. I was born in Britain when my father was training horses there for some years."
"I'm sorry I didn't notice. I guess I was looking at your face."
But then there was no time for talking, only for probing more and more deeply into this feeling she was having through her body of melting around him as he went farther inside of her, and just when she orgasmed, he covered her face with his warm hands and made her go where he was inside her as she disappeared.
This wasn't about claiming, it was about investigating.
|Order "Horse Heaven" by Jane Smiley|
Back to the Intactivism index page.