“Yes, Pa.” Llona sighed to herself as she continued up the stairs to her room. Maybe her father meant well, but she was getting tired of his unending suspicions. Oh, he had reason to be suspicious, all right. She giggled to herself. He’d have a fit if he knew about all the necking parties she’d been on ever since she was fourteen years old. He was real old-fashioned, Pa was. Still, she was eighteen years old and had managed to stay a virgin, and from what she knew of teenage sex in Birchville, that was no mean feat. She closed the door to her room behind her and began to undress. When she’d stripped out of her clothes she stood in front of the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door and looked at herself. Yes, she’d managed to stay a virgin all right. The question was, why? Looking in the mirror, it seemed one heck of a waste.
Her reflection showed a taller-than-average young girl with large, firm, uptilted breasts. Her waist was small, her hips a little heavy, accenting the voluptuous sensuality of her body. They tapered to long, slender, lightly muscled legs. Swiveling before the mirror, Llona looked over her shoulder at her derriere. It was small, but plump; one of her best features. It never failed to get a whistle when she wore shorts — possibly because of the provocative way it wiggled when she walked. Llona had developed that wiggle early in her teens and by now it was automatic.
She turned again and walked up close to the mirror to study her face. It was a pretty enough face, topped with a mass of golden-brown curls. But she was vaguely dissatisfied with it. The high cheekbones, the dark brown eyes, the pert little nose and firm chin were all right, but somehow the total result lacked something. The face was too innocent. There was nothing intriguing about it, nothing exotic that would make men look and say to themselves that here was a woman worth knowing more fully. The trouble was that it was too young and clean and shiny. It lacked experience.
“Yes, that’s it,” Llona told herself. “It lacks experience. I lack experience. And if I don’t watch myself, I'm going to marry George, or some other Birchville boy, and then I’ll never get any!”
She thought about the evening with George. So he wanted to marry her. No, that wasn’t strictly true. What he wanted was to make love to her—all the way. And if the only way he could do that was to marry her, then he’d do it.
That made her stop and really think about George a minute. They'd been going out together, on and off, since she’d been a sophomore in high school. George had been the first boy she’d kissed; a few dates later he’d been the first boy she’d let soul-kiss her. He’d been the first boy she’d let squeeze her breasts and the first to slip his hand inside her bra and caress the tips. Yes, George had scored a lot of firsts with her; Llona had to admit it to herself.
She also had to admit that each one had given her a thrill at first. The trouble was that in each case the novelty had worn off and left her dissatisfied. When that happened, she went through two stages. First, she used to lie awake nights, her body feverish, tossing with desire, wishing George had enough gumption to force her to go all the way. Then she’d start feeling contemptuous toward George for not having enough gumption, and this would dull the thrill and leave her feeling merely bored.
Still, she had to admit that there was this strong physical attraction between George and herself. Did this mean that she should marry George then, just to satisfy it?
No!
She’d be darned if she would. There must be some other way. She thought of her father and his obsession with keeping her a virgin. She’d never thought to doubt it before tonight, but now she wondered if she was really right. She thought about a survey she’d seen in a magazine recently which showed that 50 percent of college girls lost their virginity before graduation. Why should college girls have all the fun? And didn’t this just prove all the more how old-fashioned her father was? If she wanted George physically, why shouldn’t she have him? Why should she tie herself up for life just to satisfy her desire? After all, suppose she married George and then discovered she didn’t like the way he made love to her. Then she’d be stuck. This way, she wouldn’t have to marry him. She could just make love with him and then go on living her life from there. Once she had this accursed virginity out of the way, she’d be able to think a lot more clearly. On that note, she went to sleep.
Her determination to follow this plan increased during the days which followed. She decided that the very next time she went out with George she’d let him have his way with her. Then she had a second thought which made her sigh — and then giggle. Suppose she let him go all the way in the Volkswagen. Good Lord, they’d need an automotive engineer to untangle them! No, that would never do. She’d have to figure something else out.
But as it turned out, circumstances worked out without her connivance. The night she had a date with George her mother announced that she was going to a meeting of the Ladies’ Auxiliary at church. Since it was her father's night to bowl, Llona knew they'd have the house to themselves. She was waiting nervously, her body doused in perfume, her dress low-cut, snug-fitting and deadly, when George came up the front steps.
He looked at her and gave a long, low whistle. “Mmm, very nice,” he said. “Where would you like to go?”
“The folks are out. I thought we might just spend a quiet night at home,” she told him, leading him into the parlor.
The hi-fi was playing softly, the music low and romantic; she’d spent a lot of time selecting the records. Only one of the lamps was turned on and the room was mostly in shadow. Llona led George to the couch and sat down very close to him.
George may have been rural, but he wasn’t stupid. He didn’t know the reason for Llona’s obviously willing attitude but he wasn’t about to take the time to find it out. He put his arms around her and kissed her.
Her lips parted anxiously at the pressure of his, and her tongue was wildfire darting to meet his. George was surprised; it was unlike Llona to react so passionately. He reached around for her right ear and began to caress it gently, running his finger around the edge. He let his other hand drop casually to the bodice of her dress and began to move it rhythmically, each circle of motion bringing his fingers deeper and deeper beneath her bra. He let his teeth close gently on her left ear.
No neck-nape nibbler he, Llona thought to herself with some irritation, but ever the ear chewer. Then she thrust the thought from her mind and conscientiously tried to let herself be aroused by the pattern of his love-making. She concentrated on the fingers playing with her flesh and felt the old thrill once again as it grew hard beneath his touch. She wriggled voluptuously beneath his hand to let him know he was getting to her.
George kept it up for quite a while, the only variation being when he periodically left off masticating her ear to kiss her. Llona was finding it difficult to hold the pitch of her passion in the face of his seeming disinclination to go any further. Finally she decided that all he needed was encouragement, so she gave him some.
She let her hand drop to his knee and began letting her finger run lightly up and down his thigh. His leg muscle tensed at the gambit and his kiss bruised her mouth in response. Well, Llona told herself, that’s more like it! She shifted position so that she was lying across his lap, took the hand which had been playing with her ear and guided it down the length of her body until it rested halfway up her leg. Then she guided it in a caress which — even though she was responsible for it—made her tremble with desire.
Her legs parted, then clenched, trapping the hand between them. It burned through the skimpy material of her dress. “Oh, George,” she moaned. “I want you!”
“I want you too, Llona.”