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By Root 1031 0

“Most of the time I didn’t even realize that I was missing you.” He lay back, pulling her with him, so that she ended up leaning over him. She kissed his face lightly. The awkward feeling was going rapidly. She thought: Last time I kissed him he had no beard. She felt his hands move: he was unbuttoning her shirt. She was not wearing a bra—she did not have one big enough—and her breasts felt very naked. She slipped her hand inside his shirt and touched the long hairs around his nipple. She had almost forgotten what men felt like. For months her life had been full of the soft voices and smooth faces of women and babies: now suddenly she wanted to feel rough skin and hard thighs and bristly cheeks. She twined her fingers in his beard and pushed his mouth open with her tongue. His hands found her swollen breasts, she felt a pang of pleasure—and then she knew what was going to happen and was powerless to stop it, for even as she pulled abruptly away from him, she felt both her nipples spurt warm milk over his hands, and she flushed with shame and said: “Oh, God, I’m sorry, how disgusting. I can’t help it—”

He silenced her with a finger over her lips. “It’s all right,” he said. He caressed her breasts as he spoke, and they became slippery all over. “It’s normal. It always happens. It’s sexy.”

It can’t be sexy, she thought, but he shifted his position and brought his face to her chest and started to kiss her breasts and stroke them at the same time, and gradually she relaxed and started to enjoy the sensation. Eventually she felt another sharp pang of pleasure as they leaked again, but this time she did not mind. Ellis said: “Aaah,” and the rough surface of his tongue touched her tender nipples, and she thought: If he sucks them I’ll come.

It was as if he had read her mind. He closed his lips around one long nipple, pulled it into his mouth and sucked it while holding the other between finger and thumb, squeezing gently and rhythmically. Helplessly Jane yielded to the sensation. And as her breasts squirted milk, one into his hand and the other into his mouth, the feeling was so exquisite that she shuddered uncontrollably and moaned: “Oh God oh God oh God” until it died away and she slumped on top of him.

For a while there was nothing in her mind but what she could feel: his warm breath on her wet breasts, his beard scratching her skin, the cool night air wafting over her heated cheeks, the nylon sleeping bag and the hard ground beneath. After a while his muffled voice said: “I’m suffocating.”

She rolled off him. “Are we weird?” she said.

“Yes.”

She giggled. “Have you ever done that before?”

He hesitated, then said: “Yes.”

“What . . .” She still felt faintly embarrassed. “What does it taste like?”

“Warm and sweet. Like canned milk. Did you come?”

“Didn’t you notice?”

“I wasn’t sure. It’s hard to tell with girls, sometimes.”

She kissed him. “I came. A little one, but unmistakable. A boobinal orgasm.”

“I almost came.”

“Really?” She ran her hand down his body. He had on the thin cotton pajamalike shirt and trousers that Afghans all wore. She could feel his ribs and his hipbones: he had lost the soft underskin fat which all but the thinnest Westerners had. Her hand encountered his prick, standing upright inside the trousers, and she said: “Ahhh,” and grasped it. “It feels good,” she said.

“Also at this end.”

She wanted to give him as much pleasure as he had given her. She sat upright, untied the drawstring of his trousers and took out his prick. Stroking it gently, she bent over and kissed the end. Then the imp of mischief seized her and she said: “How many girls have you had since me?”

“Just keep doing that and I’ll tell you.”

“Okay.” She resumed stroking and kissing. He was silent. “Okay,” she said after a minute, “how many?”

“Wait, I’m still counting.”

“Bastard!” she said, and bit his prick.

“Ouch! Not many, really . . . I swear!”

“What do you do when you haven’t got a girl?”

“Take three guesses.”

She was not to be put off. “Do you do it with your hand?”

“Aw, shucks, Miz Janey, I’se bashful.”

“You do,”