It's a little scary

Alison’s head flies backwards and her mouth opens in a silent scream. Every muscle in her toned body from the toes on her feet to the cords on the side of her neck is straining and initially I think I’ve achieved my goal. But this is not the explosive orgasm I envisioned, her pretty face is painfully twisted and instead of the release I was anticipating it feels more like Alison is having some kind of epileptic episode.

I take her in my arms, but her body is still as stiff as a board. “Angel?” I try softly to get through to her but her eyes are still rolled back in their sockets, and I get no response. “Alison!” I try again this time with a much sharper tone. Other than a little twitch there is still no reaction, and I start to panic. “Alison!” I shake her and finally I break through. The contortions in her face slowly melt, and I can feel some softness return to her muscles. “Are you OK, Angel?” It takes a moment for her eyes to focus on my worried face, but I am rewarded with a hint of a smile. Nothing like her usual 1000-watt cheerfulness, but a lot better than the anguish which her face had been locked into just moments before.

“I’m sorry.” The whispered apology is a mixture of embarrassment and frustration. “That’s what happens when I start to get close.” She explains with a sad sigh, “not always, but the better I feel the more likely it is.” I don’t even know what to say, so I take her in my arms, and we lie on her bed in silence with Alison’s naked body wrapped in my arms until the last bit of tension eases.

“I’m so stupid, I just can’t do anything right.” Alison breaks the silence, and I am quick to defend her.

“Angel, you’re not stupid, and we can figure this out.”

“Oh yeah?” She turns to the side, so she is facing me, “Mr. P, I masturbated regularly for over two years and didn’t even know what I was doing. How's that for stupid?”

“You’re going to have to explain that a little bit better.” I smile as I run my hand down her bare arm, pleased to see her body slowly relaxing.

“Our school library was strictly PG, Mr. P” she explains, “no young adult romances and certainly nothing with any sex,” her voice is hushed bit the words are clear enough as she tries to explain. “but I found a book on the lives of saints.” She continues, “have you ever heard of St. Ursula?” When I shake my head (Adventists pretty much see worship of Saints as akin to idolatry) she tells me about how over 1,000 years ago a Saxon Princess was on a pilgrimage to Rome with an escort of 111 virgins when she somehow ended up in the besieged city of Cologne surrounded by Huns.

“When the city fell, Mr. P,” Alison continues, “the pagan leader demanded that Ursula surrender her pure body to him, but she refused.” Alison catches my hand and pulls it to her lips, “The book said the barbarian king thrust Ursula through with his lance, killing her and making her a martyr to the faith.” She smiles shyly, “Even as young and sheltered as I was it was impossible for me not to understand what ‘thrust through with a lance’ must have meant back in those dark times.” As sheltered as this girl’s upbringing was, picking up on the double entendre, showed she was pretty bright despite her education, I turn my attention back to what she is saying.

“... in bed late at night obsessing about the fate of Ursula and all the other poor Christian maidens in the fallen city.” Alison crosses her legs and covers her mound with her hands. “In the dark when all my family was asleep, I pressed my legs together, and protected my holy of holies with my hands like this.” She covers her sex with her hands, pressing her fingers firmly between her clenched thighs, and I smile broadly at her as she goes on. “I'd lie on my bed, imagining that I was fighting to preserve my sacred virginity as my legs were pried apart by a merciless Hun.” Her thighs tighten and relax in a steady rhythm, as she demonstrates what she did. “I could feel the holiness building inside me, and when I could no longer fight off my assailant and my legs were finally pulled apart I felt what I believed to be the feeling of divine intervention and my soul lifted up to Jesus.”

She lies beside me panting from the exertion of reliving those nighttime fantasies, and when I pull her into my arms she doesn’t fight as I claim her lips with mine. When the kiss ends she smiles wryly up at me.

“You see how stupid I was, Mr. P?” She asks sadly. “It wasn’t until my senior year in my Christian Living and Morality class that I learned that what I thought was striving towards a holy state, was instead the work of the devil. I had been regularly committing a carnal sin two or three times a week for the past two years.” She sniffs softly and presses her nose into my shoulder.

“No, Honey.” I correct her, “I think your first interpretation was closer to the truth than your teacher’s.” This time when I kiss her, I pull her even closer and pin one of her legs between mine.