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It doesn't means that you can't like me, either. It really doesn't mean anything. Only things that matters is what we want right now. Kayla, what do you wants right now?"I am now scared to death."To....maybe kiss you?" I whisper.Her smile is now a huge grin. "Silly! Then ask me, and I will, or maybe I just does the kissing first, yes?"She pulls me close and kisses me. I have never kissed a woman before, and I don't know what to expect. The warm feelings and kind of rush was not what I expected. I kiss back and we both enjoy it, and her arms pull me closer and wrap around me, and mine wrap around her waist.I am now totally into kissing a girl, and enjoying the hell out of it, but I have no idea what to do next. She apparently knows her way around, so I'll let her lead. She eventually pulls me over to my bed and we fall down on it and keep kissing, but as our tongues get more involved, I feel her fingers across my breasts as she caresses me, and it doesn't just make me tingle, it makes. I eased my way into a little further, and came to where her cherry blocked me. Doing things a little differently for Holly, I slid my finger in and out of her several times, making sure that it was well-lubricated with her juices before pressing against her hymen - and feeling it quickly and easily slide past the end of my finger. She gasped slightly when it happened, and I stopped to scan her again, discovering that she wasn't the slightest bit uncomfortable - rather than feeling anything like that, all she felt was pleasure, and desire for me to continue.I backed my finger out of her a little ways, then pressed it back in; again, the opening in her hymen easily stretched to fit around my finger, then slide down almost to the second knuckle. Amazed at how easily she was taking me, I withdrew again to spread her wetness around before pressing in again. This time, the rest of my finger slid into her easily, so that the elastic opening of her vagina was wrapped around it, down near my.
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I had indulged in a special coffee, one I would save for Saturday morning. As soon as Mark left, I would carefully measure and grind the beans, and once the coffee began dripping into the pot, I would go upstairs. Elaine would be outside, playing with one of her friends on the swing set that Mark had built when she was first born. I would sit in my daughter's room, in that undersized rocking chair next to the window. And I would look down, through his kitchen window, and watch him knead the first batch of dough.From that vantage all I could see was his hands, strong hands with a sensitive touch that had sent chills up my arm the first time we had met. His fingers would lift the edges of the dough, folding it over once and then again, and then the heels of his palms would push it into the floured wooden board. It was never hot enough for long enough to indulge in air-conditioning in this part of upstate New York, but there were Saturday mornings when it warmed quickly. He would knead.

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