Previously: Uncle Jamie was astounded when he stumbled upon Jennifer’s elaborate masturbation scenario.

Now: Jennifer is astounded by his pre-conceived response. But the story will make much more sense if you read parts I - IV first.

Conclusion. I wasn’t sure if Uncle Jamie had intentionally left me with my finger still inside me, but I wasted no time before starting to experiment with the sensation. I was just beginning to believe that this could be very pleasant when I heard him returning and had to stop.

In my self-preoccupation, it never entered my mind what he was after in his workshop. It was so clear to me that “Where you sinned” referred to the pen, not to my body, that I had dismissed his parting words entirely. Thus what happened next caught me totally off guard.

“I just had a feeling that your regular punishment was too general to prevent this kind of... self-indulgent behavior.” He tied the lantern to an overhead rope, and then I saw what he had with him: the plastic clothes pins and the home-made whip! And it came to me in a flash: what I had imagined about those things, Jamie had imagined first! Which was a more exciting thought for the moment than how he was going to use them.

“Well, Jenny. I must say, even though I was afraid you were indulging yourself... inappropriately, I never imagined you’d go this far. But as long as you did, I’m going to use this same position... that you chose for your... pleasure, for your punishment.”

He stepped up, right between my legs and took hold of my wrists. I still don’t know if he knew my finger was inside me when he left, but he certainly knew it now, as he deliberately pulled my right wrist away from my sex, withdrawing my finger in glistening slow motion. When it was all the way out, he held both my hands in front of his face, and for an electric instant I thought he was going to put that moist finger in his mouth. But the moment passed and he tried to raise both hands above my head, but my perch was too high. That only stopped him for a second.

“Put your hands on the post, above your head,” he commanded, “and don’t move again. I’ll be right back.”

I was sorely tempted to at least play with my love button while he was gone, but now I had a distinct sense of being under Jamie’s control and I was content to go with that feeling. Again I had been so preoccupied with my thoughts that the sounds I’d been hearing hadn’t registered. But now I wasn’t surprised when he returned carrying a bucket and a towel in addition to a wooden box.

He set the box down squarely in front of me, then fished a cloth out of the bucket and wrung it out, and stepped up on the box. “My God, I’m freezing,” he muttered in surprise, and I realized his shirt was soaking wet. He stepped down, shucked his shirt, and felt his light khaki shorts. They were pretty wet in the back, judging by the color, but patting he front, he apparently decided they were OK. After scrubbing his torso briskly with the towel, he retrieved the damp cloth and hopped back on his platform between my legs.

“Let me have your right hand.” He started to wash it with the cloth, but suddenly brought it to his nose, and inhaled deeply. “Were you... touching yourself again?” he demanded.

I was tempted to utter an offended denial, but instead I simply said, “Not just now; that... was left from... when you...removed it last time.” He glanced at me quickly, grasped the offending finger in this other fist, as if lathering it up, and of course it felt very slippery (not to mention sexy, for some reason). I was about to protest that his hand had still been damp when he apparently realized the same thing and covered my hand with the wet cloth. As he scrubbed away, I realized that it was the dried blood he was after. Which was confirmed when he rinsed the cloth out again and started roughly scrubbing the areas where it had dried on my thighs and between. I wasn’t sure why he was going to such lengths, but it was slowly starting to dawn on me what was coming next.

Moving the bucket out of the way, he then picked up a piece of rope from the supply of items he had brought on his first trip, and stepped up on the wooden box. He made a simple slip knot in one end and, positioning my hands palms together, slipped the loop over both hands and tightened it gently around my wrists. Then, deliberately pausing in mid motion, he looked me in the eyes and explained, “I told you I was going to punish you in this same position...” He paused as if awaiting some response. But I felt none was called for and simply maintained eye contact, waiting for him to go on. “Well, I’m afraid it — I mean, I think it would be... unfair... to ask you not to use your hands... to interfere...” He kept watching me, but whether for protest or approval I couldn’t tell. Receiving neither, he finally plunged ahead: “So I’m going to tie them to the post so you won’t be tempted to do that.”

And there was no more hesitating. He raised my hands over my head, stepped forward, and then leaned forward so he could reach the post. I have no idea what he did with the rope, because his effort to reach my hands left his torso in full contact with mine. My nipples seemed to burn as his chest crushed them into the surrounding flesh where they turned to tiny rigid spears, stabbing him back in futile protest.

The coldness of his flesh against the heat of my own made me intensely aware of every square inch of contact. But, as thrilling as that skin-to-skin encounter was, it couldn’t override the sensation of his khakis jammed against my fully exposed, not-quite maidenhood. I’m sure that Jamie hadn’t anticipated this contact either, because it was several seconds later that I felt his manhood start to assert itself, which intensified the pressure on my sex even more. “That’s Jamie’s cock,” I told myself. With it poised so close, in space if not in time, to the consummation I so desperately desired, I could no longer think of it as a penis.

Apparently its sudden enlargement caused Jamie some discomfort, because the next thing I knew, he backed away somewhat and reached down to make an adjustment. I couldn’t see what he did, but a moment later he was back in full contact, except now the bulge in his khakis was vertical and it seemed to wedge its way into my cleft. I had very little range of motion, but by rotating my pelvis slightly forward, I could just bring my love button into contact with that living bulge. I was incredibly excited. I didn’t have to keep on humping; Jamie’s movements in securing my wrists gave all the added stimulation I needed. I have no idea how long that went on; at the time it seemed like forever. After it was over, it seemed like it had only lasted a second or two. I think I remember Jamie muttering something and leaning back (from the waist only) to rearrange the rope, and then again impaling himself on my nipples to resume the binding of my hands.

But finally he stepped back to survey his handiwork. Now the front of his khakis was also wet. At least in the center. But he was oblivious of that as he inspected every inch of me. Judging by the size of the spot on his shorts, my sex must have been a lake. Although he seemed to stare at it interminably, his face revealed nothing, until a slight tightening telegraphed his readiness to begin.

“Thank you,” I said quietly, stopping him in his tracks.

He looked up at me, puzzled, wary. “What for?” sounding defiant.

“For believing what I told you at the lake.”

He held my gaze for another moment, then turned to his heap of paraphernalia, looking mighty pleased with himself. We were about to take the first step on the other side of the mountain.

He returned to his platform holding two of the plastic clips. “We’ll start with nipple punishment. And these,” holding them up so I could see them clearly, “will carry on the job while we concentrate on ...your... other area of indulgence.”

He surprised me by balancing the clips on my thighs. My nipples were already as ready as they could be, but of course his objective wasn’t preparation. He was starting the punishment by hand. So for only the second time, he was going to mete out separate nipple punishment, but for the first time I would be able to watch his face. He didn’t waste any time with preliminaries. Taking both expanded cylinders between thumb and forefinger, he began quite gently, squeezing and rolling them in unison, only gradually increasing the pressure and the range of his motions. Then he switched to a push-pull action, pulling as far as they would stretch, then pushing until his fingers were buried in the center of a compressed circle of flesh. At first in unison, then alternately. And as he kept on increasing the strength of the pull, he had to squeeze harder and harder to maintain his hold.

Eventually he couldn’t keep his hold and he let the nipple slowly slip from his grasp at its limit of stretch. This stage was becoming quite painful now. Especially just before the nipple slipped from his grip, because all his pinching power became concentrated on the very tip. I was groaning on every release, and soon I felt the tears rolling down my cheeks. Shortly after that he switched to twisting again, but quickly built the intensity, until I was conscious only of a blur of pain on both breasts.

For as long as I could pay attention, Jamie’s eyes never wavered from their focus on what he was doing to one nipple or the other, his face revealing no emotion except concentration. But I was able to notice at one point that the bulge was still straining his khakis, still extending the wet spot I started.

Finally he was done, and stood still, one hand encircling each breast with a gap in his gentle grip for the nipple to protrude untouched. The pain quickly receded to a low-key reminder with every heartbeat. When he let go of one and reached for a clip, I took a sharp breath, expecting something akin to agony. But when he released the spring tension, letting it close on my nipple, it hurt only mildly, and that quickly faded. The same thing on the other side.

Jamie stepped back and surveyed his handiwork briefly. Then he was rummaging through his collection. He turned back to me holding the whip he had made of plastic lacing. He approached swishing it against his other hand and looked me in the face. “I don’t have to tell you where I’m going to use this, do I.” It was a statement, not a question. And while I had been excited about the idea before, after he had worked my nipples over, I wasn’t so enthusiastic any more.

But once more he surprised me. “Now seriously, Jenny, I am going to administer the remainder of your punishment in the area of your self-indulgence,” (there was that word again) “the area you have so conveniently exposed for me.” And he gestured from one knee to the other, taking in my lower belly in such a way that I wasn’t sure whether he mean to use it directly on my sex or not. “You can see,” he continued as he held up his whip for inspection, “that this is a special whip made of very lightweight strands. I did that especially so I could use it on... places other than your derriere... without bruising more tender skin. Areas where one would never dream of using the strap. But you understand all that,” he interrupted himself, sounding like he couldn’t decide whether to sound cross or apologetic. “What I’m getting at is that, even after all that reasoning... after experimenting on myself as best I could... Well, the fact is, we’ve never done this before, and despite my best efforts, the result might be... far more painful than... I intended. So I’m going to give you a code word: Shazam. So if I start to... hurt you beyond... anything reasonable—you know, more than you can stand, just say ‘Shazam’ and I’ll stop right then. Or if you think I might... uh, damage something...”

“Shazam!” I interrupted, and he looked for all the world like a kid whose birthday was just canceled. “I get the message,” I reassured him. “And thank you.” I wasn’t sure he had done me a favor by giving me a bail-out word, but his concern was touching.

Then he shifted into a striking stance, and flicked his whip on the top of one thigh, then the other, his body language clearly telling me he was just assessing distance and angles. And the height was really awkward. Without missing a beat, he hopped down, shoved the box out of his way, then stepped back between my outstretched legs, carefully positioning himself so his right shoulder was the proper distance from my sex, and centered between my thighs. He took a long, deep breath and slowly raised his arm. Thus began the most intimate imaginable whipping.

For all his exaggerated body language, he started out pretty gently, working along my right thigh, from just above the knee, right to the very top, then skipping over my sex and working along the left. Then he started back, retracing his strokes a little harder this time. He kept that up for several circuits. Sometimes more on top of my thighs, sometimes more on the inner sides, but each time a bit harder. And the repetition was beginning to tell.

It was a very curious sensation. Of course it didn’t hurt as much as the strap. It didn’t have the weight. And yet, the stinging, smarting burn of it was somehow worse. The contrast was all I could think of for quite a while. And I had a sudden image of the strap as a microwave, quickly heating the flesh and muscle of my bottom from the inside, while the whip was a conventional oven, heating my legs oh so slowly from the outside.

But just as both kinds of ovens get the job done, my thighs soon felt like they were on fire. The tears were streaming, and I was wavering between gasping and crying the way I’d get only by the end of a regular punishment session. But, having given me the escape word, Jamie worked away, seemingly oblivious to my response.

Abruptly he switched from thighs to torso. Using side-to-side strokes, he was soon touching me from breasts to pubis. Maybe he was afraid the lashes would get tangled in the nipple clamps, but after a few strokes on the outer sides, he gave up on my breasts and concentrated on my belly for a while, then back to my thighs.

That sequence I suppose inspired him to fall into the rhythm that seemed to capture his fancy for 10 or 15 minutes. At least it seemed that long at the time. The best I can describe it, he was making a figure-eight laid on its side. First he’d do a small one, catching my belly in each direction; then a slightly larger one, striking a thigh at each end of the figure... belly-swish belly-swish, thigh-swish thigh-swish, over and over.

I thought he was going to keep that up forever, making only slight variations in the tempo, the landing area, or the rhythm. But gradually he tightened the pattern so the same stroke would catch left belly/right thigh, right belly/left thigh, again and again, faster and faster. Which made the strands graze my sex on every crossing. And as the strokes grew quicker, the motion smaller, they kept making firmer and firmer contact. Until eventually he was concentrating entirely on my sex, alternating diagonally in opposite directions. Again he built up so gradually that it didn’t seem painful until suddenly my entire crotch was burning. But as he continued, the heat pushed deeper and deeper. And deeper yet. Then I started to come. And oh god, did I come!

It began with a series of mini orgasms that kept building. This had happened to me twice before, during regular Saturday night punishments. I was never able to figure out why those two nights were better than others. But even they paled in comparison to that stormy afternoon in the barn.

I wasn’t thinking all that clearly once they started, but as nearly as I could remember later, this is how the session concluded: After my first mini O, it took, like 5 or 6 more strokes before the second one, and maybe 3 or 4 before the third. Then for a while I seemed to have one with every stroke, each one stronger than the last, until they blended into one, continuous superorgasm that kept radiating through me in waves.

Somewhere along in there, Jamie stopped his rapid-fire attack. I have a hazy image of his arm dropping to his side and the whip dropping to the ground as he stepped back, staring at me. But I could have invented that. On the other hand, I must have been putting on some show. I don’t remember screaming, but judging by the volume of my groans and grunts and cries on any Saturday night, and by how my throat felt the next day, I’d say I must have been pretty vocal. And there were the spasms that kept wracking my body. They seemed to explode from my sex, swell through my torso like ocean waves, rolling out to the tips of my fingers and toes, then echoing back to mingle, softly with the next wave.

I don’t know how long he stood there watching me. My eyes were closed for much of the time as I slowly returned to full awareness. Somewhere along there I realized he had removed the nipple clamps, as the returning circulation sent a surge of painful exclamation points to punctuate the final stanzas of my orgasm.

Then suddenly Jamie was back on the platform, standing between my thighs and reaching for my still-confined writs. I vaguely sensed that he was trying to avoid a repetition of our earlier full-body contact. But my exertions during the whipping must have really tightened those knots. Soon, with a cry of frustration, his hips once more sagged against my open sex. For one thrilling second I thought he had somehow slipped out of his shorts and accomplished penetration with that single painful thrust. But it was just his fabric-covered bulge against my overstimulated flesh.

The pain quickly faded and for a long time I felt nothing but a neutral sense of pressure where his sex was pressed against mine. But as he continued to struggle with the knots, I was amazed to feel myself starting to get excited again.

I kept expecting his struggles to produce some movement, some variation in the pressure against my sex. Finally I realized that, having failed to avoid contact all together, he was now making a concerted effort to prevent any movement that I might interpret as licentious. “My poor, misguided gallant Jamie,” I thought, “how can I make you see the light?” So I decided to help a bit. I was pretty stiff from remaining so stationary, but I finally managed to generate the small motion with my hips I had used before.

By rotating my hips slightly forward, I could bring my love button against his bulge. He could feel the shift where my pubic bone pressed against his sex, and he reflexively shifted his hips to restore our former position. So of course I shifted back, and he shifted to restore, and I shifted—well, you get the idea. So before long, while his attention was still focused on the knots, I was enjoying a nice little series of encore climaxes.

But finally he got them undone. First one wrist was free, and I let my arm fall heavily onto his shoulder. My arms weren’t in bad shape, but I knew my legs weren’t going to function too well. At least not right away. So I thought I might as well get the most mileage out of it I could. So when my other arm was freed, I let it drop on his other shoulder.

Looking apologetically up at his face from just inches away, I whispered, “I can’t raise my legs. You’ll have to unhook my heels for me.” And I let my upper body sag slightly toward him and gently clasped my hands behind his head. He didn’t argue with me; he just released each of my legs from the rail and let them dangle in front of me. Then he put his arms around my waist, lifted me off my perch, and set me on the platform in front of him, expecting me (as did I) to stand there even if somewhat shakily. But I had even less control than I realized. I was suddenly a dead weight around his neck and he had almost no maneuvering room on the platform. It’s a credit to his reflexes that we didn’t both fall in a heap. That served to convince him that I wasn’t ready to walk to the house yet.

Before he picked me up, he surveyed his handiwork once more. “Maybe I did overdo it a bit.

I’ll get the lotion when we get back to the house. But I’m taking you straight to bed, young lady!” His voice was sharp. The complete disciplinarian. “And that’s where you’re going to stay.” He made it sound like the worst punishment ever invented. “Oh, I won’t forget the lotion,” (he said this as if I had protested) “but that’s it.”

Jamie picked me up like a baby and carried me out to the other room. He set me on my feet, propped against the frame of the people door that was set into the big door, while he went back to get the lantern. When he returned, he found me sitting on the floor, leaning against the door jamb. I smiled up at him apologetically. “Sorry about that. Just help me up and I’ll...”

“No you won’t. Just relax now and let me move you.” And he took my right hand and pulled me partway up while he stooped down and pulled me across his shoulder fireman style. Then reaching between my legs, he took my right hand in his, leaving his left free to open doors and carry the lantern. Let me tell you, being carried like that was not comfortable. A man’s shoulder has very little padding, and my entire front was tender besides. But I must say, it felt incredibly intimate.

The rain was still a steady downpour and the dirt path to the house was now a sea of mud, mostly invisible under three or four giant puddles. I remember thinking how cold the rain felt in contrast with the heat I felt in front, pressed against Jamie’s naked torso.

Actually, Jamie was doing a remarkably good job of maneuvering that treacherous mud-slick we called a path. I’m sure he would of made it without incident if Muggsy had been a year older. Or six months smaller. But she came bounding up in eager leaps. Bracing himself for the impact actually started the first slide. So by the time Muggsy remembered her training and didn’t jump, he was overbalanced in the other direction. It seemed like eons that he danced and twisted, trying to keep his feet without dropping me. Well, it didn’t work.

At least we went down pretty gently. Almost in slow motion. But there was a lot of sliding and twisting after we were down. By the time we got ourselves untangled, I was clothed in mud and Jamie’s khakis and shoes were totally coated. Somehow the lantern was still working, laying on its side, and when we stopped to look at each other, we both burst out laughing at the absurdity of it all.

The circulation had pretty much returned to my legs by then, and we finished our trek to the house hand in hand. By the time we got to the back porch, we were both shivering with the cold, and I realized we couldn’t waste any time with indecision about protocol.

“Don’t worry about the floor,” I shouted over the din of the rain on the porch roof, “we’ve got to get warm before we catch pneumonia! Leave those muddy things out here,” I continued, pointing to his shoes, “while I get the hot water going.”

Thank God our hot water tank was in the attic, near the solar supplementer, or we wouldn’t have been able to shower until the power came back on.

There was a candle next to the sink just for just such occasions as this, so I quickly lit it, thinking it would provide better atmosphere than the glare of the lantern.

By the time I heard Jamie approaching, I was standing just outside the shower stall, waiting to turn the water on. I didn’t want to waste any of the precious hot water, but I had no intention of showering alone that night. I had decided that subterfuge would get us further, faster, than a more subtle approach.

He arrived, naked except for his far-from-white undershorts. I wanted to hug him to me right then, but I restrained myself. For the moment. Seeing the candle burning, he automatically turned the lantern off and set it down.

“Here you are. Can you get this shower started? My hands are too slippery.”

Rising to the challenge (of course) he slipped past me into the shower stall and quickly got it running. I immediately stepped in behind him and closed the door.

“Hold me, Jamie—I’m frozen.” I didn’t have to fake the shivers, my body was taking care of that by itself. Of course he couldn’t deny me under the circumstances, and soon, cuddled cozily in his warm embrace, under the rush of hot water, I started to finally get warm again.

But lest we run out of warm water too soon, I asked him quietly to “get rid of the rest of this mess,” and handed him the soap. That didn’t take any encouragement, and as he thoroughly lathered my back and arms, I turned off the water to prolong our ablutions.

His hands, gradually covering my entire body with the steadily thickening lather, felt like heaven. He was both gentle and thorough, covering every curve, every protrusion and recess. It felt a lot like the suntan oil treatment at the lake, but more intimate. My back engaged in a full-length caress with his body while he worked on my front; then he turned me around and I tried my best to merge our fronts while he soaped my other side. As his hands roamed over my back, I let mine move in reciprocal fashion over his.

When I sensed that he felt he had milked the lathering about as far as he reasonably could, I pulled slightly back and took the soap from him. “Every time I brush against you, I get muddy again,” I kidded, then turned him around and started lathering his back. When I got down to this waist, I started back up his arms, soaping them inside and out. Then I had him raise them both while I washed his underarms, pressing myself against his back, as he had done with me. It was a very intimate few moments, without sounding any of his alarms. Then I went down his sides, slipped my fingers under the waistband, pulled it back, and peered inside.

“My God, “ I exclaimed playfully, “all these things are doing is holding the mud in!” Without waiting, I jerked them down past his knees, and immediately started soaping his buns. He didn’t get around to protesting until I slid my fingertips between his cheeks. But I was ready for him. “Oh, come on, Jamie,” I chuckled, “when was the last time you showered in your underwear? We both have to get clean before the hot water runs out.” And I quickly moved to the more neutral territory of his legs. I could tell he wasn’t comfortable with my what’s-good-for-the-goose-is-good-for-the-gander attitude. But on the other hand, he didn’t seriously try to stop me either.

Soon I stood up and reached around his trunk to start soaping his front. This time I didn’t just press against him, but kept sliding back and forth against his back, as if that were necessary in order to reach his entire chest. By straining up on my tiptoes, I could just rub my bush against his tush, which had a delicious effect on both of us.

Next I worked on his stomach, letting my hands stray gradually lower, ’til I was brushing against his curly thatch with each circuit. I could literally feel the ambivalence flow through his back, but I saw no reason to let him off the hook on that account. So, planting one hand over the lowest part of his stomach, I soaped down the side of the opposite hip, sliding up the front of his thigh on the return trip until the backs of my fingertips grazed the snug little pouch he kept hidden down there.

I switched the soap to my other hand and repeated my teasing approach on the other side. Then, with my arms still encircling his waist, I thoroughly lathered both hands, tapped him on the arm with the soap and said, “Here, take this please.” And while his hands were occupied with not letting the bar squirt away, I firmly grasped his cock with one hand and his family jewels with the other.

I’m not sure which of us had the stronger reaction. I was electrified to at last be actually touching the thing I had dreamt of so often. I had expected it would be hard. After all, it’s called a “hard-on.” But somehow I hadn’t realized it would be that hard, that rigid. And yet at the same time so soft and velvety to the touch. I slid my hand slowly up and down the fascinating shaft, far from ready to abandon what had taken me so long to accomplish. So when Jamie finally got the soap secured and grabbed my wrists to pull them away, I reflexively tightened my grip with both hands. It was amazing how quickly he backed off. This was something new to me!

“OK, Jenny, OK.” Then he added lamely, “This is totally inappropriate.”

“No it isn’t, Jamie,” I came back as calmly as I could manage. “You’ve been doing the same thing to me for some time. And this poor guy,” I cooed, deliberately stroking his cock again, “is just dying for some attention of his own.”

“Jennifer, that’s enough,” he proclaimed in a voice meant to be stern, but it sort of caught in his throat and came out more like an adolescent croak. But I had become intrigued with that marvelous little helmet atop the shaft. So maintaining my controlling hold on his jewels, I ignored his commands and continued to explore that rigid rim of flesh, discovering in the process that the underside of the tip was by far the most sensitive. I concentrated my attentions on the tip.

He tried one more time, “Jenny, please stop.” His voice was so small and pleading, I almost did. But the moan he let out next told me that perhaps I was going too far. M aking him come right there in the shower wouldn’t be the smartest move of my life.

So I let my grasp slide down the base of his shaft, and releasing my grip with the other hand, brought it behind him and firmly probed the division between his marvelous buns. Reluctantly I relinquished my intimate explorations, as I whispered against his shoulder, “Thank you, Jamie. You’ve made me very happy.” And almost immediately, I continued in my perkiest voice, “Do you want to shampoo my hair, or shall I?”

It took him a couple of beats to recover, but then he spoke right up, “I’ll be happy do that for you... First, let’s rinse off.”

I agreed that that made sense; he turned the water back on and we each took turns in more or less orderly fashion, turning and twisting to get ourselves rinsed. In the process, I was able to repeatedly bump, touch, brush, rub, and graze his still rampant sex. Always just enough so it could of been accidental. Jamie apparently decided it was safer to ignore my boldness than to make an issue of it.

After he washed my hair, I offered to return the favor. In order to reach the top of his head, I asked him to get down on his knees. I was desperately searching for ways to bring us into more exciting contact, but the best I could manage was cradling his forehead between my breasts while I scrubbed the back of his head. And once, on the pretext of having to reach over him to get the shampoo, I planted my foot almost between his knees and accomplished some rewarding contact with my leg against his still eager manhood.

About midway through his shampoo, the lights came back on. And for quite a while I managed to keep his head lathered enough so he had to keep his eyes tightly closed, while I drank in the sight of his naked body. I felt a little bit guilty, doing that without his awareness, but it was easy to rationalize that he was far, far ahead of me in that department.

Finally I had to quit and rinse his head. When he was able to open his eyes again, before he could react to the restoration of full vision, I again took the brazen approach by dragging him out of the stall, turning him around, and starting to dry his back. I did manage to get him turned around facing me, but I pretty much preserved his modesty by judicious handling of the towel. I quickly finished, handed him the towel, and turned around for him to start drying me. I expected him to wrap his towel around his waist. But he surprised me once again: he simply tossed his towel aside, grabbed mine, and started drying my back. Apparently it wasn’t being naked in front of me that bothered him, just being visibly aroused.

He was being rather rough in his handling of the towel. I suppose to express his displeasure, or perhaps only his discomfort, over my behavior in the shower. When he finished my back, he spun me around and started scrubbing away on my front. I didn’t mind that treatment at all. It felt good to me in fact. Until he got to my stomach and thighs.

“Ouch!” I protested, “that area’s still pretty tender.”

That seemed to bring him back to himself. He apologized and immediately lightened up. He finished up by patting me dry between the legs. Then he grabbed me by the hand and said, “Come on. We’ve got a date with a bottle of body lotion. I sort of lost track of where we were going when we took that detour in the mud.”

* * *

Soon I was stretched out on the bed, with Jamie seated next to me, his left thigh extended along my side, so he was facing more toward my head than my feet, just like a regular Saturday night. Except this time I was lying on my back as he gently applied the lotion to my stomach and thighs. And because he had used the whip directly on my sex, he didn’t have to pretend to spill lotion there. He simply asked me to open my legs and he applied it carefully, but without hesitation.

For a long time, with my head resting on my pillow, his penis was hidden behind his thigh. But as soon as he started working on my sex, its lovely head popped back into view. Oblivious to my only half-stifled moans and other obvious signs of arousal, he continued methodically rubbing lotion all around that sensitive region. Finally, unable to restrain myself any longer, I reached over and grasped his drooling erection.

“I think you should use this down there; it’ll even supply its own lotion,” I quipped.

Oh, God, Jenny! You’ll drive me crazy.” But he made no move to stop me.

“No, Jamie. You drive me crazy. With all those self-imposed barriers you’ve erected.”

“What in the world is that supposed to mean?” He sounded belligerent. But interested.

“You know I want you to make love to me.” No denial. “I believe that in your mind my maidenhood—well, at least my maidenhead—was a difficult barrier...”

“Well, of course...” he started, but I rushed right on.

“But you saw for yourself that that so-called barrier no longer exists.”

“Jenny, this is all nonsense. I’ve got responsibilities that you apparently don’t even begin to understand.”

“Oh, I understand more than you think, my dear Jamie. Don’t you understand that making love to me wouldn’t compromise your responsibilities, or undermine your authority with me. I told you at the lake, remember? I gave you the right to punish me as you saw fit, whenever you saw fit. Nothing has happened to change that. And it won’t change after we become lovers.”

“Jenny, Jenny, Jenny. You always make everything sound so simple.”

“This is simple, Jamie. All you have to do is admit it.”

“Would you please let go of me. I can’t think when you’re doing that.”

“OK. But lay down beside me and hold me, please? I’m starting to get cold again.” He happily agreed to that request, and as he laid down, I turned on my side and cuddled against him. He put his arms around me and pulled me tight. We laid like that in comfortable silence for quite a while, as our breathing gradually came into unison. I could feel his erection, pressed against my belly, give an occasional twitch, as if to remind us it was still there. We both pretended to ignore it.

Finally, I felt it was time to play my trump card. “I hope you’ll go on punishing me as long as we’re together, Jamie. But did you think you could go on being my guardian-uncle the rest of our lives?”

“Well, of course not,” he blurted out, but didn’t have any follow through.

“You know that getting married is the only way we can stay together, don’t you?” And I looked up at him, with my cheek still against his chest, waiting for an answer.

“I suppose that... Well, of course you’re right—about that.”

“I hope you don’t think I’m trying to trap you by getting pregnant or anything stupid like that.”

“No, dear Jenny,” he responded with genuine affection in his voice, “I do know you would never be that devious.”

“Thank you, Jamie. And you do know I really love you, don’t you? It’s not just hero worship like when I was a little girl.” He muttered his confirmation, punctuated with an extra squeeze. Which I answered by pressing my free arm in the small of his back and giving him a little wiggle with my torso. “I know you care for me, but maybe it’s just wishful thinking that you could love me too,” I added, with only the slightest bit of apprehension.

“Oh, Jenny! How could you wonder?” He literally cried out, and tried to raise himself up. I added the merest twist and roll to his movement and suddenly he was laying on top of me, raring back on stiffened arms so he could look down into my face. “God knows,” he continued, scarcely noticing our change in position, “I’ve tried not to—be in love with you, I mean. It seemed too much like… like taking advantage of you.”

“Oh, you big —! I knew that’s what you were struggling with, but I couldn’t figure out how to break through to you.”

Suddenly we both started to laugh, and then his lips accosted mine, and for a while we concentrated on the sensations of bilingual exploration. Soon he pulled back ever so slightly so we could both catch our breath, but his lips never quite left mine. After a prolonged series of little kisses, and a trail of experimental nibbles down my neck and back up the other side, he resumed the soul kiss we were grooving on earlier.

When I first rolled onto my back, I was supporting Jamie’s entire weight. At some point, I opened my legs so his legs could rest on the bed. Then a bit later, I was vaguely aware that he flexed his knees or something to take some of his weight off my pelvis. All this, of course, was barely registering subliminally while we focused first on what each other was saying, then on our kissing. But at some point, without conscious thought, I flexed my knees and pulled my legs up so they were straddling his torso. Which rotated my pelvis upward, and suddenly, instead of being jammed against my stomach, his rigid shaft was now pressing its full length along my sex.

Neither of us did anything for some time, except to continue deepening our kiss. I’m sure he was as hungry for our union as I was, but we were both happy to savor this temporarily satisfying conjunction. As long as it remained essentially external, Jamie didn’t feel called on to resurrect his self-imposed barriers.

But nothing stays static for long. Especially when a female is in heat the way I was! Gradually, I added the slightest rocking, twisting motion with my hips. And the inevitable result was that my outer lips parted, allowing half the thickness of his cock to nestle into that soft, welcoming cradle of flesh.

He broke off our kiss when he realized what had happened, but I pulled his head back down and smothered his mouth with mine before he could voice his predictable objection. But I continued the slight rocking motion with my hips, and finally he lifted his head and said, “My dear, Jenny. You know I want this as bad as you do. But what if you got pregnant? I can’t risk doing that to you.”

“I knew you’d feel that way, sweet Jamie. That’s why I visited the women’s clinic at the hospital the last time we took Poppa in for therapy. Because once we were alone, I knew it was just a matter of time.”

He just stared at me, disbelief and hope warring openly across his face.

“Yes, I’ve been on the pill for over two months. Now do you understand how patient I’ve been?”

It took him a beat to absorb that information. But only one. Then he made an almost 90-degree adjustment in the angle of our intimate contact. I made a reciprocal adjustment, and just that quickly, my virginity was sacrificed on the altar of Jamie’s manhood. Gratefully, it took much longer for him to ‘have his way’ with me.

During all those months of trying so hard, it had once or twice crossed my mind that I might feel let down when it finally happened. I didn’t have to worry. The reality far exceeded my anticipation. The sensations were wonderful—and improving by the minute as his movements continued to elicit new responses from nerve endings I never knew I had. But all of that was secondary to the knowledge that Jamie was mine, and that he loved me.

At last the mystical, but no-longer-mythical, symbol of his love was enclosed inside my body, and it soon turned my senses to liquid fire, and my limbs to molten ecstasy. The rest is too precious to tell.

At least right now.