It seems surreal to me now, almost as in a dream. Those days of clumsy fumbling, days of exploration, of explosion.

I remember the first time she pulled my hand toward her lips and took my middle finger in her mouth. She then guided that hand, finger slick with her saliva, down to her panties and past her waistband. She had taken to wearing sun dresses when we met. Looking back, I believe it might have been to afford me easier access to bare skin and cotton fabric.

Her mom had a rule: As long as I see both of your heads through the car window you are okay. So we were very careful to sit upright in the front seat of my old coupe.

I eased my hand down, following the curve of her mound until my slick fingertip felt the heat of her opening. Pausing there, I leaned in to kiss her, mouths opening just a bit, tongue tips dancing against each other. She rolled her hips forward against my hand and I made a curve of my middle finger, barely penetrating her. She leaned her head back against the fabric of the car seat and I kissed, nuzzled, nibbled, just below her ear.

Her hand had found its way to the front of my jeans, her palm flat against my hardness, resting there. I pressed deeper into her, warm and impossibly slick on my finger. I started to move in a slow-motion “come here” gesture as I kissed that spot where shoulder meets neck.

Her hand was now pressing harder against me through denim. Pressing and releasing in a slow hypnotic rhythm.

She never moaned, never screamed. Just a quick intake of breath, a gasp as her stomach tightened suddenly and her hips pushed hard against my hand, her hand gripping me through my jeans.

Our lips came together, mouths open, each breath coming fast. My hand in her panties, a finger moving deep inside her. Silky feel of her sparse blonde hair against my palm as I pushed against her mound; her hand unbuttoning the top fastener of my Levi's. 

Still locked in a kiss, her hand slipped inside my briefs, her fist closing over my hardness. I remember moaning inside her mouth the first time she grasped me. Her hand slowly gripped and released in that same tantalizing rhythm she'd used outside my pants.  

I pressed my hand hard against her, pushing deep as that finger could reach. I froze in that position as she began to stroke me. She began to suck my tongue, drawing it deeper into her mouth in the same rhythm that her hand was moving.

I moved my finger, sliding it out until just the fingertip was between her lips -- then back in until I was crushing my palm against her pussy, matching that same torturous slow pace with which she was teasing me. In and out, over and over, as her hand slid up and down my shaft.

I felt tension. I knew it would be over soon. I was involuntarily moaning and grunting into her kiss, feeling the warm wet tight pussy on my finger, her hips pushing into my hand with every thrust.

She broke the kiss and whispered, "Cum for me."

I yelped as I creamed hard, spasming again and again into my briefs and over her hand.

We had a tiny interval of tender kisses and soft caresses before we were straightening clothes, tucking in shirts, walking to her front door for a demure goodnight kiss. Then the solitary walk back to the car, looking over my shoulder to see her peeking at me through her living room window, and thinking, “Until next time, Cindy. Until next time.”