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 hip bones: 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, in 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 half-hearted strokes, men 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 cooler. We'll have to get inside this sleeping bag before too long, she thought. She looked forward to falling asleep close to him.
"Are we weird?" said Ellis.
"Oh, yes," she said.
His prick had fallen sideways and lay on his belly. She teased the red-gold hair of his groin with her fingertips. She had almost forgotten what it was like to make love to Ellis. He was so different from Jean-Pierre. Jean-Pierre liked a lot of preparation: bath oil, scent, candlelight, wine, violins. He was a fastidious lover. He liked her to wash before making love, and he always hurried to the bathroom afterward. He would never touch her while she had her period, and he certainly would not have sucked her breasts and swallowed the milk as Ellis had. Ellis would do anything, she thought, and the more unhygienic the better. She grinned in the dark. It occurred to her that she had never been completely convinced that Jean-Pierre actually liked performing oral sex, good at it though he was. With Ellis there was no doubt.
The thought made her want him to do it. She opened her thighs invitingly. She felt him kiss her, his lips brushing the wiry hair, then his tongue started to probe lasciviously between the folds of her lips. After a while he
