And she closes her eyes and allows him to lower her on her back until she is lying there.

And her legs are spread and raised, bent at the knees, as she lets her body assume the position, almost by reflex, as she used to do with her farm boy schoolmates out of curiosity.

Nor is her longing for Buck that of raw, sexual desire.

Because there is here too a note of curiosity.

Will he be the same as the boys down home?

That, and a touch of pretense, of being the actress, playing the role of temptress and vamp to the wealthy, older plantation owner.

As though she is configuring her body to flush out, to complete the soft porn allusions in the paperback novels.

So that her action is not even so much personal or individual as archetypal, the fulfillment of the patterned action, the detailing of the stereotyped sexual encounter.

In which a thick, crude, artless piece of tumescent meat ploughs her snatch.

No such words will be found in the romances, true.

No such action will be undertaken in such intimate detail, true.

But this is interpretation, an expounding, an insight and an understanding, an amplification of the romances, in short, not what they say but what they mean when they say it.

So she chooses to believe, and she does not think herself in any way incorrect.

And surely the thrills given, the thrills received bear her out.

Surely this is the feeling, the complex of sensations which will carry the day, which will prove the essential feature and the factor which sways the balance, which achieves the objectives of the temptress.

Because she sees his face flushed, his chest muscles reddened as well.

And those are not beads of pool water but of sex sweat on his forehead now.

And the scowling of his eyebrows is not that of anger but of intense concentration, of absorbtion of the flood of sexual electricity he is generating as his thick, vibrant cock lunges and plunges, pistoning in and out of her drooling, responding, hot pussy.