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was unexpectedly pleasing -- a kind of groan of longing escaped from his slackened mouth.
                  “Cecelia, are you frightened?” he asked, removing his finger at last and running it down her quivering arm. She watched as it neared her wrist, then climbed again to her shoulder. Calloused and hot, it tickled against her skin, and against all the adrenaline of the past few moments, she felt as if she was watching the world in slow motion.
                  She nodded in answer to his question, inwardly afraid of how he might respond. How long will it be before being “a good girl” isn’t cute anymore? She wondered.
                  “All right. I can try to be slow, Cecelia,” he told her. “I can try to … make it easier for you.”
                  With that, he inclined his head to run his mouth along her neck, his hands continuing to move up her thighs until finally, at last, his thumbs hooked under her panties. With an easy gesture, he pulled the lace down her thighs, over her knees and heels, and dropped the fabric lightly to the floor. With an equal amount of skill and quickness, Andrew hitched Cecelia’s dress over her thighs to reveal her nakedness, and let out a long, slow breath. With the last of the exhalation, he murmured, “I want to taste you,” and moved his hand upward to caress her nakedness.
                  Cecelia moaned. “No one’s … ever …” she managed to get out, embarrassed, but looked up to see him smiling.
                  “Good,” he replied, shutting her mouth with a kiss and continuing to rub her, softly but rhythmically, his fingers slipping up and down her wetness. His fingers were another foreign experience, and Cecelia could scarcely believe the mounting pleasure she felt, the heat that grew upwards from that place to fill her. It was as if he controlled her entire body from that one, repeated touch of his hand; with each upward stroke she tensed, with each downward, she loosened, and began to softly moan into his kisses.
                  Then there was a sharp, stabbing pain as the tip of his finger entered her. Cecelia cried out, confused by the jab of hurt in the midst of unparalleled pleasure. Andrew halted, frozen for a half-second as if to consider, but then kept going as if the pause had not existed, a half-inch of his finger inserted inside her while the rest of his hand continued to please her. The pain faded steadily, creating now a tender counterpoint to the rest of the sensation that once more had Cecelia crying out in delight to the darkness of her closed eyelids.
                  She opened her eyes as she pulled back from a kiss (she had so long been isolated with the new sensations) and saw that Andrew was gazing at her with that hungry expression once more, his lips slightly parted. Placing his other hand on her shoulder, he gradually leaned her into a laying position, and inserted more of his finger as he did so; Cecelia winced, and then gasped, conflicted between pain and excitement. She was sure that half of his finger was inside of her, stretching her tightness with a gradual and measured control. She wasn’t sure if she was ready for this, and now, along with her pulse, her uncertainty reached a feverish high.
                  “Wait,” she said, raising herself up to her elbows. Andrew was now bent over her, kneeling on the bed, and as he obeyed her protest, he allowed their foreheads touch once more. He was breathing heavier, too, she realized. “I … want to do something for you.”
                  Andrew rocked back to his heels, and took her hands in his. Understanding somehow, Cecelia returned to stand on the floor while Andrew sat on the edge of the bed. Her knees were weak as she lowered herself to the floor, half from the withdrawal of pleasure and half from the giddiness of unfamiliarity. Looking down at his slacks,