Ishmael's Girl: A Virgin in Ruins

The Girl reddens, then pales: her eyes drift away from Ishmael's. He is surprised that she understands the term: he waits a moment until their eyes re-connect, then continues. "I see you've heard of that, but I doubt very much that you have any idea what it actually means. Let me show you: you need to know. Here..."

He shifts his grip from her shoulders to her sides, beneath her arms. His fingers are in her pits and his thumbs atop her nipples: the thumbs' positions are intentional. Now he knows what these little hillocks feel like, and beneath his thumbs, her BB-sized nipples are gratifyingly hard. Ishmael lifts her effortlessly off the ground and pins her against the column with his body. He is enormously stronger than she would have suspected: that revelation and his touches on her breasts have The Girl quite rattled, to the point where she forgets to breathe properly, takes air in with random, sudden, short gasps.

Their faces are close together now. He presses his pelvis against hers, trapping his erection snugly between them. She can feel it clearly, but too much is going on simultaneously. Her feet are actually off the ground, legs dangling, she is held suspended by friction fore and aft. There is something wrong with her belly, but she can't quite identify the sensations, except for a puzzling sort of heat. Ishmael's thigh pushes between hers, which open on their own recognizance to accommodate him, and now he is writhing slowly, his pubis against hers. She gasps again.

"That lumpy thing there between us is a hardon. An erection. A completely hard cock. It means that you have my full attention, that I am absolutely, totally ready to fuck you silly, or make love to you. Either or both. I'm pretty sure you also don't really know what either of those means, much less the difference between them, which is too bad. But my hardon DOES for sure mean that I find you not just pretty, but very sexually attractive."

She stares hard at him, obviously astonished at his intensity.

"That's scary, isn't it, when you don't know what the hell it means? Or what to do about it!"

He wiggles much more softly against her, enjoying the touch immensely. The sensations in her belly flare up quite brightly: unconsciously she responds, moves with him just the tiniest little bit. Ishmael feels it. If he was turned on before, this squares the situation.

"But then, I just told you that you don't know the rules of the game you're playing. You are truly playing with fire: fire can be fun, but not if it gets away from you. What DID you expect in the way of a reaction from me? Giggles? Little petting touches in secret when we think nobody's looking? I'm a grown, very experienced man, my dear. I don't play silly games about these things."

He takes one of her hands in his, slides it down between them, lays it atop his bulge. Her eyes widen, staring right at him, but she doesn't try to pull away.

"This whole scenario is not quite what you expected, is it? So, Miss Flirt, Miss Prick-Tease, what's your plan for moving forward in the game? What is your goal, anyhow? What's your plan for retreat? Got any diversionary tactics handy if you don't like the way things are going?"

The Girl looks terribly flustered and is now beet-red. She tries to pull her hand free: both of them can tell it is a pro-forma movement, and Ishmael won't let her go.

"At least we're symmetrical here, aren't we? You're touching me, I'm touching you!"

He wiggles his thumb atop her nipple and she gasps. That little electrical charge wasn't something she expected. She is even more disconcerted when she realizes that his expression means he knew what to expect from her body, when she herself did not know. From HER body!

Once more, The Girl tries to say something, and again Ishmael silences her with a look: their faces are so close their hat-brims are mating, and The Girl finds she can't actually focus on him any more.

Ishmael continues. "The logical and usual next step in this game, my dear, is for us to fuck. Or make love, whichever. Maybe combine the two, that's always fun. But I doubt you have any practice, so I would just have to be the teacher. Is that what you want? Is that where you think you're going in this flirting game? Want to be taught to fuck by a fifty-seven year old man? Everyone has a teacher, you know, yourself included. I certainly had one - several, really. Is this your call for a volunteer?"

He pauses as if to gather his thoughts: "I'm lots older than your father. I was fucking, and making love, before he was born. I've been doing it for forty-six years. I've made love with one hundred and forty one women in my life. So far."

The Girl's eyes go round in surprise and disbelief. Ishmael continues.

"That's right. I have kept count. The number's not imaginary, and not exaggerated. That amounts to three new women a year for nearly half a century. One per three or four months, on average. Think about it."

After a moment's pause, he said, "So, Miss Tease, what is to be the next step in this game? But first, is it YOUR game, or is it OUR game? And, do you want to be number one-forty-two? Do you trust either your or my judgment that far? Is that what's on your mind? In any case, remember, "careful" is always a good thing."

Ishmael slowly releases the pressure of his pelvis against hers. The makeup is good: just as advertised, nothing has rubbed off. Neither of them notice.

He lets her slide slowly down the hot marble, slipping solidly along his hardon, until she is standing on her feet. He moves his hands to cup her face, holds her motionless, stares at her.

"Do you even know how to really kiss? Much less fuck?"

Tears suddenly trickle from the corners of her eyes, and she bites her lip and shakes her head.

Ishmael kisses her. Her eyes close and she accepts it, lets him teach her. She is a quick student, and finds she enjoys what he's doing, reciprocates eagerly.

Ishmael initiates the eventual break. She looks at him, disappointed at the cessation, as he takes a half step backwards away from her. His hands take hold of hers, move them to the lower hem of her top, and tuck her fingers beneath the edge. He releases her hands from his, cups her face again as if to renew the kiss, and says "Pull it up for me!"

Wordlessly, looking like a frightened deer in headlights, she does as he commands. She continues the motion as if to remove it entirely, but he stops her when her breasts are free. BBs on half-handballs. He dips his head, kisses each breast in turn, warmly, with suction. Her eyes close as strange, new, wonderful sensations flood through her. Meanwhile, his right hand slips down her side and catches her crotch warmly, firmly, his fingers together, covering the entire flat space between her inner thighs. He rolls his fingers slightly against her.

She realizes that she is dripping wet beneath that touch, and shivers violently. There is no doubt whatever that the shiver is one of pleasure, not fear or pain. Ishmael can feel the pleasure within her: she can tell that he knows, and again the knowledge disconcerts her.

He loosens his hand, lets his fingertips trail along the very edge of the wispy material as if to go beneath, but they do not. Fingertips stroke twice, delicately, across the bump of her clit, and she bites her lip at the resulting explosions, but makes no move to stop him.

Then the hand is gone as he reaches for her hands, which still hold the hem, and helps her pull the top back down again. The beautiful little breasts blink out of view. Ishmael continues what he has now come to regard as The Lesson: "Why did you do what I told you? It wasn't YOUR idea. You didn't have to do it. That was really pretty crazy, don't you think, taking intimate orders from a nearly perfect stranger? Who said you have to do what I say? What did you expect, what was your plan, what did you want to happen? Did you even have a CLUE what you were doing or why?"

Ishmael stops talking and looks at her. She is thoroughly confused. She has been touched, excited, kissed, and then shut down. Now lectured to. It does not compute. He sighs and whispers softly "God almighty but you are beautiful. And sexy as the very devil herself. If only you knew what you were doing, I'd take you up on it in a microsecond. We could fuck ourselves silly and enjoy every moment of it. But you don't know. Pure ignorance. And that is monumentally too damned bad. For us both!"

He pauses for several seconds: The Girl's mouth opens and shuts several times, but no sound comes out.

Ishmael sighs again and says, "Let's go rejoin the others before they miss us and send out a search party. And... about plans... we've been separated from the group for several minutes, someone is bound to notice eventually, so you'd better be thinking about where you've been and what you've been doing, in case you're asked. Plus you better figure out what to do about those nice, hard little nipples: they're a dead giveaway. As for me, I already have a plan. I'm going to wear my tee-shirt outside my pants and that will cover up this incredible hardon you've given me. I was off in the trees pissing, if anyone cares to ask. Think it through: develop your own story. I suspect you have about five minutes to get it ready."

They have been behind the old column only a very few minutes, although it seems to The Girl like an eon. He takes her by the hand, leads her back to the 'stairs'. A couple of their compadres, the slowest ones, are still in sight uphill. They begin to climb to catch up with the group. They have to move fast.

In moments she is sweating to his entire satisfaction.

EPILOGUE

Back at the bus after the stair-climb, The Girl relinquishes "her" seat beside Ishmael to her best friend for the rest of the day's activities. She doesn't say much to family or the rest of the group, just that she is very tired all of a sudden. That suffices, for she is not alone in being tired.

Ishmael and best-friend/senior-daughter have a good time, discussing the scenery and ruins. The Girl meets his glance a few times, and is happy to find his glances not rude or gloating or otherwise embarrassing.

The following day, only the morning is structured. The afternoon is free time, everyone to do what they please. Most need a good rest and plan to swim and nap: those more comfortable with brief solos into foreign territory will head for the city's big market. Ishmael announces his intent to nap and read. That brings a strange glance from The Girl. The family wants to go swimming in the Med, but The Girl wangles permission to go shopping on her own, all afternoon, so long as she takes a map and the hotel's business card, and stays to the main streets.

The morning's pre-rest entertainment is another short hike, about thirty minutes up a convoluted, wooded hillside, to an ancient graveyard. Ishmael, as usual, runs sweep and is therefore lagging far behind. The Girl has paid him no special attention this morning, and today she wears a different version of yesterday's outfit, but without the elaborate leg makeup and with much more demure hiking shorts. Moments ago, she was somewhere up ahead, presumably with eldest daughter.

Ishmael hopes he hasn't really alienated her: his intent was good, he thinks, but perhaps he'd been a bit too strident and abrupt in administering The Lesson? But then, maybe the costume change means he got through, at least a little?

Then, out of nowhere, like a fox appearing through the underbrush, she is beside him. He looks at her in surprise. She grins at him, looks about, takes his hand, and pulls him over behind a low, wide-boled ancient tree. She looks up at him and says "About yesterday..." Ishmael tries to say something, and she shushes him with a firm glance, just as he had done to her. She continues. "I don't want you to think I'm angry or anything, because I'm not. I decided that you're right. About planning and knowing the rules of the game. You're also right, that I don't know the rules. And that's scary, like you said."

She pauses, reddens, and finally continues. "You said a person should have a plan. So I have one. Right now, for the group, I'm peeing if they ask. I'm ignoring you this morning, too. Not because I want to, but because it's part of the plan."

Ishmael looks at her with his interest and puzzlement showing. She giggles at him, and says "I'm perfectly serious! This time, believe me, I know exactly what I'm doing. I didn't sleep very much at all last night. I was thinking about everything you said yesterday. You were right, on everything. So, now I have a plan, and goals. I even have escape routes, like you were talking about."

She produces a long pause, then says "I'm not going shopping this afternoon." He cocks his head, waiting, says nothing, raises one questioning eyebrow.

She reaches for his hands, brings them up to the lower edge of her top, cups his fingers under the hem between fabric and warm skin, fingernails firmly against the under-curves of her breasts, and says softly, barely on the edge of audibility, "Your turn. If you want to."

Ishmael takes care to look deeply into her eyes: they have changed enormously since yesterday. They tell him everything he really needs to know. He takes a deep breath and raises the hem. Slowly, slowly. Her breasts pop free. They are beautiful. His crotch goes brittle in mere moments.

He stares: written in ink just above her nipple, on each breast, is the number "142".

He studies her hugely-dilated pupils as she whispers, "If you want. I do. If you will, I mean. For me. No, that's wrong, not just for me, for you too. At least, I hope for both of us." She is flustered, and blushes prettily. "You can stay in your room this afternoon. I'll come in when the coast is clear, after the others leave to go swimming. You could be my teacher. If you wouldn't mind? One hundred and forty one doesn't frighten me. Actually, it's very intriguing! I suppose I could be jealous, but that wouldn't make sense, would it? Anyhow, you must know an awful lot, to be that successful I mean." Her voice trails off and she stops in embarrassment and confusion.

She is absolutely gorgeous.

Without a word, Ishmael kisses each breast in turn, licking the numbers until they are gone, then bites gently on each nipple, runs his tongue-tip along the leading edge of each underarm fold, making The Girl's insides quiver. Premonitions of things to come. He gently pulls the top back into place, kisses her lightly. She is actually shaking with anticipation.

He whispers "Yes. Indeed. Oh, my, YES!"

PART THE FOURTH: SPECULATIONS

Now then, dear reader, let us not be crass. We should in all modesty and friendship end this blunt reportage and draw a veil across the further proceedings of our unlikely and unsuspecting couple.

However, as humans we are inherently curious, and utterly compelled to pursue, in some way, the outcome of the situation. Therefore, let us indulge ourselves by speculation, which is neither reporting nor spying. Surely it would be a harmless amusement to consider some "Might-Have-Beens" which could reasonably flow from what we already know... for we DO understand our protagonists in some considerable detail.

There are many possibilities: in one reasonably probable line of events, Ishmael could well have let The Girl into his lair that afternoon, and required that she be the one to shut and bolt the door behind her. One can envision the pair, at Ishmael's instructions gently given, kissing in the dim coolness, and Ishmael perhaps inviting The Girl to slowly strip herself naked before him.

Once can imagine her feelings of embarrassment, of confusion, of heat and near-fright, the hesitation at each little step as she complies, The Girl's unvoiced but barely contained "Is this right? Am I doing it right?" bubbling towards the surface and never quite reaching it because of what she can see in his eyes.

We can watch her quickly gaining confidence. And perhaps, when finally she stands naked before him, Ishmael will slowly and carefully investigate every excited square inch of her skin - at great length - using fingertips and tongue and lips, much to her growing delight.

Likely, too, Ishmael will encourage her to treat him exactly the same way: we can only imagine her confusion and wonder as she strips him and makes first acquaintance with his erection, the curiosity with which she responds to Ishmael's encouragement to explore.

Will not Ishmael, sensitive and considerate, then lay The Girl down gently upon the bed, enjoying her embarrassed but willing flush as he spreads her legs wide to his view, and proceeds to initiate her quite thoroughly into the pleasures that can flow so intensely from lips and tongue properly applied to clitoris and nipples and buttocks and neck, and all the lesser erogenous zones?

Can we not imagine The Girl's long-drawn-out, repeated, spasms of ecstasy, the sheen of sweat upon her body, her shudders and gasping and half-suppressed squeals of intense delight as she discovers feelings and sensations only dimly dreamt of ere now? And will not Ishmael also teach this most willing student how to treat himself in like manner? Will not such a student as she discover quickly the joys of giving pleasure, as well as receiving?

And when the time for joining finally arrives, one is nearly certain that Ishmael will arrange himself on his back beneath her, set her widely astraddle above himself so that her initial foray will be under her own control, but also so that he can guide and pace her. Surely she will watch him open-eyed, with lip clipped between her teeth, as she learns how to engulf him, and then to cycle herself in time with him, to their perfect mutual pleasure?

Perhaps, eventually, Ishmael will suggest other explorations, which adventures she will undertake willingly, beginning with trepidation and ending in heroic mutual spasms?

Towards the end of the afternoon's delight, would not the two conspire as to how they could return to the fray, for round two and many more, both during the trip and even after their return home?

Surely, gentle reader, these two, Ishmael and The Girl, might very well do all this, and much, much more as well.

They most probably will!