Tingling touches

He touched her in that secret place Mama had told her that no man should touch her. Mama had called it her secret place and had warned her, repeatedly, that no man was allowed to touch her there.

But he was touching her there and she liked it.

Her body was starting to shake, like it did when she had fever and was cold. But she had no fever now and she wasn’t cold. Still, she could feel her body, especially that place where he was touching, heating up.

She only felt this kind of scorching heat when she’d worked long hours at the farm under the glare of the afternoon sun. But she’d never, not once, found the prickles of heat, so sweet.

It crawled, from that place where no one has ever touched, to every part of her body and it made her shiver, and shockingly, these muttering words, even she did not understand, stutter out of her mouth.

She didn’t want him to stop. And that too shocked her. She wanted him to touch her more and more inside there, and she wanted his touches never to end, especially now when her entire body was starting to quiver violently.

It was like she was suffering from the tremors of a convulsive attack. But she had never suffered convulsion; even as a child, Mama had said she’d been free of it.

Yet, here she was shuddering and her entire body beset with tremors. Even the incomprehensible words that tore helplessly out of her mouth seemed to tremble as they echoed.

She yelped. A loud cry, she had not been anticipating, and then her body tensed, like it wanted to snap, and loosened as calm, out of nowhere, took the place of the tremors.

She sighed, started to draw together her thighs, but he held them apart and then put something else inside her secret place.

Her eyes widened with utter shock.

That, the very thing, he had just put inside of her was the most important thing Mama had said must never go in there.

She should protest. The thought came to her. But it quickly teetered away when, like the touches, the strokes from his thing started to induce fresh and more intense pleasure.

The more she thought to protest, the more pleasure it, that thing so strong and sweet inside of her, gave with its slow and rhythmic thrusts. It seemed to be dancing, forward and backward, to the beats of a drum only it can hear. But maybe her hips could hear the drum beats too, for they soon joined in the rhythmic undulation.

This time, when she yelped, it was his name she cried out. And later, when she lay beside him, cradled in his arms, she thought that if she had known that this night would be so sweet, she would not have cried so much when she was going home with him after he settled Papa with her dowry.

Just as sleep winked her eyes close, it struck her that there would be many other nights, and a smile escorted her to the world of dreams.