''Do you see?'' she says. ''It is easy, it is easy. Think more of him. He will want— He will want to touch you.''
''To touch me?''
''Only touch you,'' she says. The fluttering hand moves lower. ''Only touch you. Like this. Like this.''
When she puts up my nightgown and reaches between my legs, we both grow still. When her hand moves again, her fingers no longer flutter: they have grown wet, and slide, and in sliding seem, like her lips as they rub upon mine, to quicken and draw me, to gather me, out of the darkness, out of my natural shape. I thought I longed for her, before. Now I begin to feel a longing so great, so sharp, I fear it will never be assuaged. I think it will mount, and mount, and make me mad, or kill me. Yet her hand moves slowly, still. She whispers. ''How soft you are! How warm! I want—'' The hand moves even slower. She begins to press. I catch my breath. That makes her hesitate, and then press harder. At last she presses so hard I feel the
giving of my flesh, I feel her inside me. I thin