The Greek's Virgin Bride

As his fingers began to thread, tantalisingly, oh, so tantalisingly, in the tight curls that nested above the vee of her legs, -Andrea thought she could stand no more. The sensation over­load of her whole body was so intense, so exquisite she could not bear it.

But she could not escape it. It was like being sucked into dark, breathless whirlpool, circling with infinite slowness, in­finite power. She knew she ought to open her eyes, but she could not. Knew she ought to stop this, now, right now, push away those hands, that mouth...

But she could not. She was drowning in sensation, lost to all reason. There was nothing, nothing in the universe except what she was feeling now—as if her whole body were one whole, sweet mesh of soft, liquid pleasure that suffused every cell, every fibre of her being.

A pleasure that was growing with a mute, remorseless cres­cendo, spreading out in one sweet wave after another, quivering down all her nerves, washing through and through her as the slow, dark whirlpool took her with it.

His mouth was where his fingertips had been, and now his fingertips had moved on, brushing down the tender flesh on either side of the tightly curling nest of hair, seeking the parting of her legs.

Almost she tensed. Almost she thrust him back—away. Almost the knowledge of her disfigurement triumphed. But then, with a breathless sigh of pleasure, she felt her thighs loosen, fall open.

The whorls of pleasure intensified. She was weightless, float­ing in some sea of bliss that took everything away but the flickering of his tongue, the soft easing of his fingertip through folds made satin with a dew that his touch drew out of her.

The sensation was all there was.

Nothing had felt like this. Nothing hi all her life. She had not known such sensation could exist.

A long, sweet moan escaped her. Her head rolled back, shoulders almost lifting from the bedclothes. The flickering in­tensified, the stroking fingertip easing her lips apart, exposing new, sweet feminine flesh to his skilled, exquisite touch.

Her hands clenched in the bedcover and she moaned again. Sensation broke over her again, wave after wave. And yet, with an instinct she did not know existed, she knew she was not yet sated. These were just the shallows of sensation.

She felt her hips lift and strain towards him, seeking —ore—more.

He answered her supplication. His fingertip drew back, glid­es delicately in the flooding dew, circling slowly, rhythmically, like the vortex of a whirlpool, at the entrance to her body. Her fingers clenched again into the heavy folds of the bed­spread, and her hips called to him again.

His tongue hovered minutely, and then, as the most drown­ing sensation yet broke through her, its very tip touched at the part that had swollen, all unbeknownst to her, past the protec­tive furrow which had sheltered it.

Her breath caught, lips parting. What she had felt till now had been an echo, a shadow. Now, now was the true flame to her body lit. It burned beneath his touch, like a sweet, intense fire, making her whole body molten, focussing her entire being, as through a burning lens, on that single point of heat. It grew, and grew. She did not know how, or why—could feel nothing now, not the closeness of his body, nor the ministrations of his fingertip circling steadily, steadily, as her body opened to him, nor even the controlled, oh, so controlled accuracy of the flick­ering of his tongue, just there, just there, until the heat there, just there, was all there was, all there could ever be.

She was molten, molten, the warmth welling from the only centre of her body that could exist now, until it ascended through every vein, higher, ever higher, as the whirlpool sucked at her and sucked, and she could hear, from far, far way, a long, slow, rising cry that came from somewhere so deep inside she had never known its existence, reaching out, reaching out to exhale through her lifted, opening mouth...

Heat flooded through her, a huge, overwhelming sheet of flame that simply raced to encompass her whole body. It flooded again and again—a surge of flame, lifting her body, arching her spine, her neck, a surge of pleasure so intense, so absolute, it filled her with incredulity and awe that her body could feel so much...so much.

And go on feeling. It came, wave after wave, one more bliss ful than the next, and the cry from the heart of her being went on, and on, and on...

She could feel the internal muscles of her body rippling in-' side her, feel the blo

od surging, feel the pulsing of every fold, the rush of moisture releasing.

Time lost all meaning as she gave herself, consumed, to the molten overflow flooding and flooding again through her. And still it came. Until, singing its ecstasy, her ecstasy, her body began, finally to ebb, exhausted, sated, the vast, encompassing whirlpool slowly, slowly stilling...

Arms were holding her. There was the alien scent of male-ness, the strong hardness of masculine muscles, the brush of I body hair against the new softness of her breasts. She was folded into it. Folded against him.

Slowly reality came back to her, and she realised what had happened.

Andrea lay in his arms as motionless as a rag doll. Her entire body was limp. He was not surprised. When she had peaked it had been like an endless outpouring of her whole body, the flush of ecstasy suffusing the paleness of her skin, her eyes fluttering beneath her long, long lashes, her breath exhaling in a long, slow susurration of bliss.

And now she lay in the sheltering circle of his arms.

Nikos held her quietly, not moving, not stirring, knowing his own body was at peace as well.

And more than his body.

He had done the right thing, he knew. Followed his uncon­scious instinct—knowing, somehow, that he must take her on a journey she needed to make. A journey that must be an ex­orcism of all her fears, a healing of the wounds that had been laid upon her.

He felt the inert length of her legs beside him and coldness iced through him. He heard her words again—The doctors wanted to amputate.,.

Inside his head he heard his answering cry of negation of such a fate.