Chapter 1: Ann’s Story

The sheets were still damp between us, tangled around our legs like a second skin. I could feel Ann’s breath slowing against my chest, her fingertips tracing lazy, almost reverent patterns through the hair below my navel. My cock was soft now, spent and slick with the evidence of our lovemaking that evening. Even after all these years, I was still learning, still discovering what made her gasp, what made her dig her nails into my shoulders when pleasure peaked.

“What are you thinking about?” I asked, feeling her shift against me, the warmth of her body a comforting anchor.

She was quiet for a moment, her cheek pressed to my sternum, then she lifted her head. Those brown eyes caught the dim lamplight, soft and reflective. “I was thinking about my first time,” she whispered, voice low enough that only I could hear it over the faint hum of the ceiling fan.

I stiffened slightly. We’d never talked about our sexual pasts before marriage—not in any detail. I’d been a virgin, too nervous and too ignorant because of my ultra-religious parents to do anything but wait. But Ann ... I knew she hadn’t been. She’d taught me everything I knew, every stroke, every rhythm, every way to make her moan. I’d never asked who taught her.

“You mean before us?” I kept my voice neutral.

“Yes.” She propped herself up on one elbow, her breasts pressing against my ribs. “Do you want to know?”

I wasn’t sure I did. But she was looking at me with that open, trusting expression that always made me feel like I could handle anything. “Tell me.”

She took a slow breath, as if gathering the memory like a precious gift, and began. I felt her hand slide up to rest over my heart.

“It was my eighteenth birthday,” Ann started, her voice gaining a dreamy cadence. Mom had taken me out for lunch, just the two of us. We went to that little Italian place I liked, and she gave me a necklace—a gold heart on a chain. I thought that was my present.” Ann smiled, distant. “But when we got home, she sat me down on the couch and said there was something else she wanted to give me, but I had to promise to hear her out before I said no.”

I felt my pulse quicken. She’d never spoken about her parents this way—always with affection, but never specifics. They had died together in a car accident when Ann was 18, about a year before we met.

“I was curious. She looked nervous, which was strange because Mom was never nervous about anything. She took my hands and said, ‘Ann, your father and I love you more than anything in this world. We’re so proud of the woman you’re becoming, and we want to share something with you, something special, to mark you becoming a woman.’” Ann’s voice dropped, taking on a softer register, mimicking her mother. “‘We want to make love to you. Both of us. Together.’”

I stopped breathing. My mind reeled, trying to process what I was hearing. Her parents? Both of them? Ann must have felt the tension in my muscles because she pressed her palm flat against my chest.

“Let me finish,” she said gently. “I was shocked at first. I thought she was joking. But she looked so serious, so sincere. She explained that they’d talked about it for months, that they wanted it to be a gift of love, not something crude. They wanted to be my first, to teach me what intimacy could be, in a safe and loving place.”

I swallowed hard. My hand found her hip, resting there. “What did you say?”

“I asked if I could think about it. She said of course. I went to my room and sat on my bed for ... I don’t know, twenty minutes, maybe an hour. And the strangest thing happened: the more I thought about it, the less strange it seemed. My parents loved me. They’d always been affectionate, always open. And the idea of being with them, of them guiding me ... it felt right. Not dirty. Just ... intimate.”

She paused, and I could see the memory playing behind her eyes.

“So I went downstairs and told her yes. Mom just smiled, kissed my forehead, and said, ‘Good. Then let’s start.’ She took me shopping. We went to the mall and she bought me everything—new makeup, new perfume, a hair styling set. Then she took me to a lingerie store, and I felt so grown up trying on all these delicate pieces. She helped me pick out a matching set: ivory lace, with a sheer bra and high-cut panties. I remember standing in the fitting room, looking at myself in the mirror, and feeling beautiful for the first time.”