She could feel the hard fleshy ridges of its length, the soft rubbery hardness of its head. Tentatively, her hand enclosed the trunk and she began gentle little movements – feeling the flesh move but not the instrument itself. It was as though the flesh covered a warm flexible steel rod. Stan moaned with the touch of her hand, then his mouth found hers. Their tongues fought a heated battle for supremacy before he, with a strength and near viciousness that she had never experienced in him before, jammed his tongue half way down her throat. He kept it there, and it seemed to her that his body had tensed as though he were trying to say something to her. He moved closer to her and now she found it difficult to continue the stroking movements because of the proximity of their two bodies.

After a moment, though, Stan seemed to relax somewhat. He pulled his mouth away and began kissing her neck, her shoulders, her ears. Breathlessly, she waited for his mouth to find her breasts. She liked that almost best of all. It was a terribly sensual thing when his lips enclosed her nipples, when his teeth bit into her breast… not painfully, but gently. Tonight, though, for the first time, Stan did not stop at her breasts. His tongue continued its excursion over the virginal flatlands of her abdomen. She was so lost in the wonder of his tongue, the fabulous trail of pure feeling it was leaving behind, that she didn't realize for a moment that he had reached the softly curling strands of her pubic hair.

Abruptly, Grace became aware of his intentions. All of her moral upbringing suddenly was screaming at her. She knew what Stan was about to do; after all, it was mentioned in most of the marriage manuals. And, in spite of the approval voiced in a couple of the books, there were several other authorities who referred to the act as "perverted".

"No, darling… you mustn't," she said, rolling away from him.

"Why not?" he groaned, his voice guttural with desire.