An hours-long massage, the kind only earnest young people can give each other. Meticulously following each step from the old “Art of Sensual Massage,” including the admonitions to repeat each motion, and each set of motions, three times.

An hours-long massage, done over cushions and blankets and a sheet spread on a flagstone den floor next to coals dwindled to nearly nothing, with oil in a copper bowl, warmed by the residual heat of the hearthstone.

An hours long massage, beginning fully, modestly, primly covered with a sheet tucked in but slowly, willingly peeled away fold by fold till nothing remained but a neatly folded band laid across the join of buttock and thigh, every other inch oiled and massaged till it glowed.

An hours long massage, ending with the last bit of sheet whisked away, with me kneeling, knees straddling knees, my forearms crossed across thighs and rising, pressing, up across the ass, softly across the small of the back, then firmly across the broad muscles of the upper back, then forearms unscissoring to slide across the shoulders so my palms could bear my weight on either side as my weight shifted back over my knees and my hands could slide back down the sides to the hips again where they’d cross.

An hours long massage, ending, with a second repetition of broad, forearm strokes, a second out of the proscribed, meticulously followed instructions.

An hours long massage, ending, with a third broad forearm back stroke, ending with hips rising, centering, to find me and my cock sinking frictionlessly, wetly, plunged as much as plunging in a single stroke, surprising earnest, still dutiful me far more I think than it surprised her.