Lie Down with Lions (1985)

fingers in his beard and pushed his mouth open with her tongue. His hands found her swollen breasts, she felt a pang of pleasure—and then she knew what was going to happen and was powerless to stop it, for even as she pulled abruptly away from him, she felt both her nipples spurt warm milk over his hands, and she flushed with shame and said: “Oh, God, I’m sorry, how disgusting. I can’t help it—”

He silenced her with a finger over her lips. “It’s all right,” he said. He caressed her breasts as he spoke, and they became slippery all over. “It’s normal. It always happens. It’s sexy.”

It can’t be sexy, she thought, but he shifted his position and brought his face to her chest and started to kiss her breasts and stroke them at the same time, and gradually she relaxed and started to enjoy the sensation. Eventually she felt another sharp pang of pleasure as they leaked again, but this time she did not mind. Ellis said: “Aaah,” and the rough surface of his tongue touched her tender nipples, and she thought: If he sucks them I’ll come.

It was as if he had read her mind. He closed his lips around one long nipple, pulled it into his mouth and sucked it while holding the other between finger and thumb, squeezing gently and rhythmically. Helplessly Jane yielded to the sensation. And as her breasts squirted milk, one into his hand and the other into his mouth, the feeling was so exquisite that she shuddered uncontrollably and moaned: “Oh God oh God oh God” until it died away and she slumped on top of him.

For a while there was nothing in her mind but what she could feel: his warm breath on her wet breasts, his beard scratching her skin, the cool night air wafting over her heated cheeks, the nylon sleeping bag and the hard ground beneath. After a while his muffled voice said: “I’m suffocating.”

She rolled off him. “Are we weird?” she said.

“Yes.”

She giggled. “Have you ever done that before?”

He hesitated, then said: “Yes.”

“What . . .” She still felt faintly embarrassed. “What does it taste like?”

“Warm and sweet. Like canned milk. Did you come?”

“Didn’t you notice?”

“I wasn’t sure. It’s hard to tell with girls, sometimes.”

She kissed him. “I came. A little one, but unmistakable. A boobinal orgasm.”

“I almost came.”

“Really?” She ran her hand down his body. He had on the thin cotton pajamalike shirt and trousers that Afghans all wore. She could feel his ribs and his hipbones: he had lost the soft underskin fat which all but the thinnest Westerners had. Her hand encountered his prick, standing upright inside the trousers, and she said: “Ahhh,” and grasped it. “It feels good,” she said.

“Also at this end.”

She wanted to give him as much pleasure as he had given her. She sat upright, untied the drawstring of his trousers and took out his prick. Stroking it gently, she bent over and kissed the end. Then the imp of mischief seized her and she said: “How many girls have you had since me?”

“Just keep doing that and I’ll tell you.”

“Okay.” She resumed stroking and kissing. He was silent. “Okay,” she said after a minute, “how many?”

“Wait, I’m still counting.”

“Bastard!” she said, and bit his prick.

“Ouch! Not many, really . . . I swear!”

“What do you do when you haven’t got a girl?”

“Take three guesses.”

She was not to be put off. “Do you do it with your hand?”

“Aw, shucks, Miz Janey, I’se bashful.”

“You do,” she said triumphantly. “What do you think about while you’re doing it?”

“Would you believe Princess Diana?”

“No.”

“Now I am embarrassed.”

Jane was consumed with curiosity. “You have to tell the truth.”

“Pam Ewing.”

“Who the hell is she?”

“You have been out of touch. She’s Bobby Ewing’s wife, on Dallas.”

Jane remembered the television show and the actress, and she was astonished. “You can’t be serious.”

“You asked for the truth.”

“But she’s made of plastic!”

“We’re talking fantasy here.”

“Can’t you fantasize a liberated woman?”

“Fantasy is no place for politics.”

“I’m shocked.” She hesitated. “How do you do it?”

“What?”

“What you do. With your hand.”

“Kind of like what you’re doing, but harder.”

“Show me.”

“I’m not just embarrassed now,” he said. “I’m mortified.”

“Please. Please show me. I’ve always wanted to see a man do that. I’ve never had the nerve to ask before—if you turn me down I may never know.” She took his hand and placed it where hers had been.

After a moment he started to move his hand slowly. He made several rather halfhearted strokes; then he sighed, closed his eyes and started to rub it in earnest.

“You’re so rough with it!” she exclaimed.

He stopped. “I can’t do this . . . unless you do it too.”

“It’s a deal,” she said eagerly. Quickly she slipped off her trousers and panties. She knelt beside him and started to stroke herself.

“Come closer,” he said. His voice sounded a little hoarse. “I can’t see you.”

He was lying flat on his back. She shuffled closer until she was kneeling upright beside his head, with the moonlight silvering her nipples and her pubic hair. He started to rub his prick again, faster this time, and he stared at her hand as if transfixed as she caressed herself.

“Oh, Jane,” he said.

She began to enjoy the familiar darts of pleasure spreading from her fingertips. She saw Ellis’s hips start to move up and down in rhythm with his hand. “I want you to come,” she said. “I want to see it shoot out.” Part of her was shocked at herself, but that part was swamped by excitement and desire.

He groaned. She looked at his face. His mouth was open and he was breathing hard. His eyes were fixed on her cunt. She stroked the lips with her middle finger. “Put your finger in,” he breathed. “I want to see your finger go inside.”

That was something she did not normally do. She pushed her fingertip inside. It felt smooth and slippery. She put it all the way in. He gasped, and because he was so excited by what she was doing, she got turned on, too. She turned her gaze back to his prick. His hips jerked faster as he fucked his hand. She moved her finger in and out of her cunt with mounting pleasure. Suddenly he arched his back, thrusting his pelvis high in the air and groaning, and a streak of white semen shot out from him. Involuntarily Jane cried, “Oh, my God!”; then as she gazed, fascinated, at the tiny hole in the end of his organ, another jet came, and another, and a fourth, spurting up into the air, gleaming in the moonlight and landing on his chest and her arm and in her hair; and then when he collapsed, she herself was racked by spasms of pleasure fired by her fast-moving finger until she, too, was exhausted.

She slumped, lying beside him on the sleeping bag with her head on his thigh. His prick was still stiff. She leaned over weakly and kissed it. She could taste a trace of salty semen on the end. She felt his face nuzzle between her thighs in response.

For a while they were quiet. The only sounds were their breathing and the rushing river on the far side of the Valley. Jane looked at the stars. They were very bright, and there were no clouds. The night air was becoming