Chapter 1: Guilt and Grief

April 1, 1988, McKinley, Ohio

Samantha had, from everything she'd said, clearly thought through what she wanted to do. This was the third time she'd visited with the intent of having sex, though she had changed her mind the previous two times. This time, though, she seemed determined to go through with it and I wondered what, exactly, it was that made it 'not right' the previous times, and if she still felt that way.

"My concern is that you've said it doesn't 'feel right'," I said, keeping my voice as friendly and caring as I could without sounding condescending.

"Jacqui suggested that's a product of twenty-one years of being a reasonably devout practicing Catholic. I think she's right. I was told over and over and over that sex was only for marriage and only for making babies and it was my 'wifely duty'. I honestly think it's just a mental block. I want to, Mike; I really want to. Deflower me, Mike. Be my first."

She was absolutely determined, and I could think of no good reason to refuse her request, despite Doctor Mercer's warnings to both of us. That actually worked in Samantha's favor, as both Doctor Mercer's advice and opinions had been wrong in the past. In fact, they'd been wrong often enough that I no longer felt her advice was good, and that doing the opposite might be the best course of action. That had been true with regard to both Angie and Elizaveta, though in different ways. In my revised judgment, there was nothing actually wrong with Samantha, and that it truly was a disconnect between what she'd been taught and what she wanted.

The only question that fleetingly went through my mind was whether I was out of control, but I didn't feel as if that were the case, and was, as Clarissa had put it, enjoying the journey from the depths of despair to a new future. There had been many wonderful stops along the path, and I continued to marvel at the sheer number of young women who made themselves available to me,

Dale and I had tried for nearly four years in High School to get laid, with no success, only to find what amounted to limitless opportunities once we'd started college. And one such opportunity was sitting in my lap, waiting for me to make the next move. With no reason not to, I slipped an arm under Samantha's legs, tightened my arm around her waist, then stood up.

She was small, light, and compact, and it was easy for me to carry her upstairs to the bedroom. As determined as Samantha seemed to be, I knew there was a chance she'd change her mind at some point. An idea formed in my mind of how to ensure she would be comfortable and in control. When we reached the bedroom, I set Samantha down, turned on the lights, then held out my arms. She melted into them and we exchanged a soft French kiss.

We kissed for a minute, then I began pulling Samantha's polo shirt up. She raised her arms, allowing me to pull it over her head, revealing her small, perfectly formed breasts. As I dropped the polo on the desk, Samantha untucked my rugby shirt and carefully pulled it over my head, dropping it on the desk on top of her polo shirt.

We embraced again and exchanged another soft French kiss. As we kissed, I moved my hands to the button of her jeans, deftly slipped the button through the buttonhole, then drew down the zipper. I moved my hands to her back, then slipped them inside her jeans and panties, enjoying the soft feel of the skin of Samantha's firm butt. Twenty seconds later, I broke the kiss and pushed her jeans and panties down.

I knelt to help her step out of them and, with my nose just inches from her mons, inhaled her wonderful womanly scent which wafted from her glistening labia. I removed Samantha's socks, then stood up, depositing her jeans, panties, and socks on the desk, continuing to build the pile of clothes.

Samantha's hands moved to the waistband of my sweatpants, and she slipped them inside and under my briefs to cup my butt, then followed my lead in how she drew them down, releasing my semi-erect member. My sweats, briefs, and socks joined the pile of clothes, and then Samantha and I embraced and French kissed with our thighs, groins, stomachs, and chests pressed together. As we kissed, I ran my hand over her back and butt, and she did the same for me.

I broke the kiss about three minutes later, then pulled down the comforter. I got into bed, but rather than lie down, I sat cross-legged and encouraged Samantha to sit in my lap, which she did with her legs around me. We kissed for a few minutes, then I reached over and picked up the tube of lubricant from the nightstand.

"Hold out your hand," I requested.

"What's that?"

"Lubricant. It'll make your first time easier."

I removed the cap and squirted a moderate amount into Samantha's palm, then restored the cap and put the tube on the nightstand.

"What do I do?"

"Stroke me and cover my shaft and glans with lube."

Samantha looked directly into my eyes, lowered her hand, and grasped my shaft. She began stroking gently, spreading the lube along my rock-hard shaft, then running her hand over my glans.

"Now what?" she asked.

I put my hands under her butt and pulled her closer.

"Put your hands on my shoulders, and lift up," I instructed.

Samantha nodded, and when she had raised herself with my help, I moved one hand from her butt to my shaft and rubbed my glans along her labia. I split them with the tip of my dick and located the entrance to her tunnel.

"Slowly lower yourself," I said. "You're in complete control."

Samantha nodded, bit her lower lip, and carefully pushed down onto my dick as I held it steady. I easily slipped past Samantha's labia, my glans popping into her warm, silky tunnel. She paused for a second, then allowed her weight to cause her to slowly slide down my shaft.

"I feel like I'm being split in two," she gasped as her extremely tight pussy enveloped my rock-hard dick.

When her dark brown pubic hair meshed with my slightly lighter brown pubic hair, Samantha groaned and blew out a long breath. I regulated my breathing as well, because the pleasure was intense. Her short, compact frame and muscle tone meant she fit me like a surgical glove, though it was FAR more pleasurable than any surgical glove I'd ever worn!

"Rock your hips a bit," I said, "until you're comfortable, then move, however feels good."

She nodded and moved her lips to mine for a kiss as she flexed her hips and squeezed her muscles, intensifying the pressure on my shaft. As I'd hoped, Samantha had an orgasm a few minutes later, groaning into my mouth as her pussy tightened vise-like around my shaft. When it passed, Samantha began experimenting with movements, eventually settling into a pattern of moving her hips back and forth, rising up, lowering herself, and grinding against me before repeating the pattern.

As Samantha discovered how to pleasure herself, her orgasms intensified, with the second one squeezing me even tighter, the strong spasms threatening to cause me to cum before I was ready. I managed to hold back, and survived her third orgasm, though just barely.

Samantha's fourth orgasm was tremendous, and I could no longer resist the strong spasms along my shaft, and Samantha tightening her muscles to increase her own pleasure. I broke our kiss, groaned loudly, and blasted cum deep into her tight pussy, the intense orgasm threatening to cause me to pass out. Samantha put her head on my shoulder and ground against me, prolonging her own orgasm.

"Wow!" she gasped when both our orgasms had run their course.

"Yeah," I breathed.

"How long can I stay?" she asked a minute later, still breathing hard.

"That's up to you," I replied. "How long did you want to stay?"

"Sixty or seventy years."

I was reasonably sure she was joking, and even if there was some shred of truth to the statement, she, like Becka, was pre-law, and a Junior, and that meant the same exact challenges.

"I was thinking in more immediate terms," I replied lightly. "Lara will be here in about twenty minutes because I have to leave for the hospital at 4:30am."

"I want to stay the night, and don't mind getting up early. Will there be a problem with Lara?"

"No."

"Then I want to. We can do this as many times as you want, or other stuff, too."

"So long as I get four hours of sleep, I'll be fine, because I can nap for a few hours when I get home."

"Teach me?" she requested.

I was more than happy to oblige.

April 2, 1988, Lazarus Saturday, McKinley, Ohio

"Thank you," Samantha said when we got out of the shower very early on Saturday morning. "It was wonderful."

I'd taught her how to orally pleasure me, I'd orally pleasured her, and we'd repeated the slow, sensual lovemaking with her in my lap facing me, then fallen asleep in each other's arms. Lara had arrived, but I'd left a note for her, and she hadn't disturbed us.

"It was wonderful," I agreed. "How are you feeling? Emotionally, I mean."

"Guilty, but I think that's exactly why I said it didn't feel right before. But I don't regret it. Does that make sense?"

"It does," I said, taking a towel from the rack to dry her sexy body. "Are you going to go to confession?"

Samantha shook her head, "No, I don't think so. Do you confess having sex?"

"I do, but like you, I don't regret it. The thing is, our churches have somewhat different views of sin, so I think that might explain the different decisions."

"Would I be able to see you again?" she asked.

I smiled, "That would be necessary if you stayed for sixty years!"

Samantha laughed softly, "I felt so good with you inside me, filling me up, with your warm cum dripping down, that I just wanted to stay like that for ever and ever."

"Physiology kind of limits that," I replied as I dropped the towel into the hamper.

"Unfortunately!" Samantha said sillily, taking a towel from the rack to dry me. "But fortunately, it only takes a bit of encouragement to get you hard again!"

"True!"

"Would you be willing to do this again?" Samantha asked.

"I would."

"For sixty or seventy years?" she asked impishly.

"If you're not teasing, that would require overcoming a significant set of obstacles."

"Becka actually explained it all to me. I proposed a possible solution to her, but she didn't think it would work or be a good idea."

"What was that?" I asked.

"That she transfers to Taft to finish her degree, then delay law school for a year or two."

"I'd never ask her to do something like that," I replied. "I mean, ask her to delay law school. And to get a degree from Taft, you have to complete some minimum number of courses for your major 'in residence', as they call it. Transfer credits are limited for 300 level courses and above, which could mean taking an extra year, and retaking some courses."

"But had she offered that, you would have agreed, right? I mean, freely offering, not you asking her?"

"I'd say that would have tipped the balance in her favor for sure. Did she tell you I was seeing other girls?"

"Yes, but she was confident you'd choose her if the two of you could find a way to overcome the challenges," Samantha said as she finished drying me.

As we dressed, a thought formed in the back of my mind that Samantha's comment about spending sixty or seventy years together hadn't been teasing, or even spur of the moment. If that were true, the hypothetical solution she had proposed to Becka was actually feeling me out for how I'd respond to something like that. If that were true, it put a very different spin on our interactions and on her desire to talk and visit.

That raised a further question of when she'd had the conversation with Becka, or perhaps a series of conversations. It wouldn't surprise me to learn that Becka had, in effect, rehearsed what she was going to say to me in advance, and that Samantha had been the friendly ear she'd needed to sort out a way forward, if one were possible.

The question before me now was how to respond. If I simply took what Samantha said at face value, and let the concept drop, I suspected we might see each other again, but that would be the end of it. On the other hand, if I asked the question that had formed in my mind, it might start things down a path that I wasn't sure was wise.

It was one thing for Maryam to delay her Residency by a year; it was a very different thing for Samantha or Becka to add a year of college and delay going to law school for several years. I wasn't sure that was something I should encourage, even if it was Samantha who proposed it. It would, of course, be her decision, but I wasn't sure I would be comfortable with it.

The other concern was that I didn't know Samantha very well, and it was already April, making the timeline for what she was proposing difficult. And if it wasn't achievable, then we'd face the same exact challenges that existed with Becka. And if it was achievable, what was Samantha's motivation? Did she view having sex as some kind of bond? I had no idea, and that might present a problem if I didn't explore a future with her.

The thought that our encounter might not have been as casual in Samantha's mind as it had in my mind was a sobering thought. That said, she wasn't a sixteen-year-old High School Sophomore like April Nash, and hopefully had a more mature view of sex. But her use of the word 'guilt' made it entirely possible that she had similar thoughts to the ones April had had before my Senior Prom.

The last thing I wanted to do was hurt Samantha, but in the end, that would depend on her reaction to the events of the previous night. In the end, only she could deal with the mental, emotional, and spiritual ramifications of having sex with me. I'd been supremely confident she'd be OK, but now I wasn't so sure. As we went downstairs to make breakfast, I elected to broach the subject.

"Would you answer a question for me?" I asked after we walked into the kitchen.

"Sure," Samantha agreed.

"When did you and Becka talk about her concerns about our future?"

"A few times, starting not long after her birthday deflowering."

"And when did you suggest the alternate course of action?"

"About two weeks ago, I think. But we talked about it after that a few times."

I felt I did have to say something about the inferences I'd drawn.

"I have the impression that you're not speaking solely about Becka," I said gently. "Would you tell me what you're thinking?"

"That I wanted my first time to be like last night. I thought it would be my wedding night and felt guilty about doing it simply because of the pact. In hindsight, I'm sure that's why I didn't do it on my birthday. That was still true when Becka, Jo, and I were here, that's why I didn't want to do it with Becka and Jo watching."

"And it was true last night, too," I replied. "And this morning."

"Yes, but I don't regret it. I would have regretted fulfilling the pact and probably regretted being deflowered in front of my friends. But I don't regret last night at all."

"Sorry that I interrupted."

"It's OK," she said with a smile. "You were the first person to ever speak to me the way you did, openly and honestly, even if you misunderstood my thinking. The thing is, I misunderstood my own thinking. What I told you just now about being guilty, I didn't realize until I said it this morning.

"I thought there was something wrong with me, and I think that's why you thought I might be lesbian or possibly frigid. I think we proved neither of those true last night, and that's when I figured out that the problem was simply Catholic guilt. I actually tried to ask Doctor Mercer about it, but she didn't want to talk about religion."

"There are potential ethical problems with that for secular counselors, but I disagree with her on not discussing it. Did she tell you what she thought?"

"No. She asked a lot of questions, but didn't give me any specific answers. She did warn me multiple times about having sex, and especially about having sex for the first time, when I was confused. And, as I said, she was unhappy I'd experimented with Jacqui."

"How do you feel about that?"

"Guilty, but as I told you before, I wasn't grossed out, it just did nothing for me. Kissing last night made me excited for the first time. By the time we were sitting in your bed and you were about to enter me, it felt right for the first time. And then it felt VERY right!"

"That all makes sense," I said. "What do you want to do?"

"See you again. What about two weeks from today? I think you have more to teach me before we discuss the future."

"I have a shift at the hospital which runs until 5:00pm, so 6:00pm? And then I have to be in Columbus on Sunday morning, so we'll need to be up early."

"Not as early as today, right?"

"Right."

"That's fine, then."

"If your suggestion earlier was about you, not Becka, then there isn't much time."

"I have two weeks to find out what's possible. When we see each other in two weeks, we can discuss it while I'm sitting in your lap the way I did last night in bed!"

"How do you feel about me?" I asked.

"I'm not sure," Samantha replied. "That's why I need two weeks."

Samantha and I ate breakfast, then we left the house together, with Samantha heading home, while I headed for Moore Memorial.

I spent the drive to the hospital thinking about Samantha and the curve ball she'd thrown with her oblique suggestion that we spend the rest of our lives together. I was somewhat relieved that she was taking two weeks to think about how she felt, rather than saying what I had feared she might say — that our physical union had a much deeper meaning.