Engaged

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

A week after I first had sex, I met my future husband.

I had never had a boyfriend - never even been kissed, despite having actually had sex.

We were in love from the moment we met, and have remained so until my disastrous sexual affairs ended it for us. Love was - well, lovely Intense, joyous, easy, fun and funny. I was in the last weeks of summer holiday before starting to train as a student nurse, he was working to save to support himself through university. We had two weeks together before I moved to London for my training, and spent every spare moment together - walking, swimming, running together, laughing. Within a week he had asked me to marry him and I had agreed - secretly because it would have been viewed as impulsive by his parents and my house parents.

Love was different from sex - at least from the sex I had so recently experienced. That sex was nice - unexpected, gentle, incredibly satisfying - but love was like a constant soft ecstasy but also so easy, so blissful.

I wanted to be perfect - pure, innocent, clean, wholesome - and that led to my first deception, in not admitting to him that I was not a virgin. He never asked, and I know now he would not have cared at all anyway, but I deceived him on that. Until years later, when I embarked on a secret and nearly disastrous affair, I never lied to him again, at least not knowingly. And I felt wholesome and pure and clean, and really I was because having had sex does not make one unclean or less wholesome really.

My first sexual experience had faded from a warm glow of smug self satisfaction, to a growing fear I might have got pregnant. I was at that time finding out about my mother, who I had not then yet met. I was not yet 18, so was not yet allowed to make a formal request to find out about her, but I had learned fragments: that she was 15 when she had me, and that she had given me up - I though of it then as ‘abandoning’ me - at birth to be ‘taken into care’. I conceived almost a terror of becoming pregnant: contraception was at that time not free and neither of us had much money to spare: and I could not face asking my doctor to prescribe the pill, with me unmarried. So we remained chaste - we did not have sex, for more than two years, until just before we married. That seems weird to me now - to have not done it for so long, and for no good reason. I now realise that all aound us people were having sex freely, but in the end I think we had more in total than any of them.

Two weeks after we met, we walked round a lake in one of the Royal Parks: late summer, on a week day, a quiet time there. We drifted off the main path into the rhododendrons and thought ourselves lost but didn’t care and laughed and wanted to be lost forever. He turned me to him and kissed me - we were good at kissing by then - and then he slipped his hand down the front of my jeans. He had never done that before. It was a move that felt similar to the way I masturbated - his hand pressing against me, cupping my cunt mound, as my own hand would when I masturbated. I was shocked at the intensity of my response: my body shuddered and my knees went weak. I did not stop him - I have never stopped him when he did something like that - and because my jeans were tight around his wrist I undid them, loosened them granted him access. He has told me he loved that about me - that I was so pure and wholesome and lovely, but if he pushed me sexually he knew I would not stop him. His fingers went inside my panties, curled through my cunt hairs, and found my cunt lips - shockingly wet so that his finger actually slipped in me, without him trying. I was impaled, fully, on his finger. My knees would not hold me up: he had to hold me up with his arm around my back while his other hand dived down the front of my jeans. I orgasmed almost straight away - shaking, shuddering, my body going limp, clutching to him for support. He did not stop when I came, though: he kept doing it, wriggling his finger inside me, in my tight spasming wetness. I know now what he did was called ‘finger-fucking’: he finger-fucked me, to orgasm: he made me orgasm. He made me cum: again, and again, and a fourth time. I could not help it, I couldn’t stop myself.

When I had finished - when he had finished doing it to me - I adjusted my clothes and we walked on. We didn’t talk about what had happened, not explicitly, but we were close, intimate. So I was still pure, clean, innocent - but he knew he could make me cum, easily, when he wanted to: and he did.