It all began a couple of weeks ago, when I was jogging in the park and ran across my neighbor, Jane, as she was strolling on the wooded trails. I slowed down to her leisurely pace, and tried to strike up a conversation as I caught my breath from my vigorous workout. She and I have been friends in a sort of light and social way, but the discussions that we have had have been mostly about the weather, the neighborhood, politics, and the like. Nothing that cuts through the layers of social veneer that shroud our deeper thoughts and feelings, that make us feel both safe and lifeless. But today, Jane didn't seem up for the usual small talk, so for a while we walked together in silence, enjoying the crisp air of early winter. She was shy, and I knew from visiting her home that she and her husband Dick were fairly straight-laced, with a decidedly religious bent. They were always talking about how inspiring Jerry Falwell was, and a few years ago, they had knocked on my door to distribute "Pat Robertson for President" literature.

Eventually, I began to ask questions that steered the subject matter around to what was on her mind. She didn't seem too comfortable with this line of talk, but at the same time, she didn't shut down and pull away. It was clear to me that there were things that she needed to say, but it was unfamiliar territory for her. I tried to give her the space to let it out at its own pace, and I was genuinely supportive about the problems that she eventually blurted out. We talked and walked for well over an hour, and to put in a nutshell, she was bored and repressed. Her thoughts and feelings weren't in exact correspondence with the traditions and teachings of her family and her church, and she now felt trapped and helpless.

Of course, knowing me as many of you readers do, you can probably guess that I wanted to know about their sex lives. It took a lot of subtle prodding, and a lot of blushing on her part, but eventually we got around to the heart of the matter, which was that her husband's idea of sex was a once- a-month, tab-A-in-slot-B, lights-off session that had no spice, no feeling, and no tenderness.... And for Jane, there was no orgasm. She had resorted to an occasional masturbation, but she felt dirty and sneaky about it, so that wasn't making her happy either. In fact, the whole situation was making her feel distant from her husband, and ashamed that it was all her fault.

I know that this all sounds like such a classic, stereotypical situation, but here was a real woman who was suffering through anxieties that felt familiar and sad to me. So after hearing her out, I took the risk of revealing some stuff about myself, things that I normally only talk about anonymously through the Internet, or with my trusted lovers. I told her about my fascination with erotica, and that I wrote stories based on my wildest fantasies, which I posted on the 'Net for all to read. She had heard of the alt.sex groups-they had been reviled at length in her church groups. So Jane was amazed that she was now talking to an active participant in such an illicit activity, and that a woman would be involved. A woman that was that "nice lady down the street," as she put it.

After getting over her shock, she asked me what kind of things I wrote about. It was really a struggle for her to ask, and her face was inflamed with a scarlet blush. I didn't want to scandalize her too much, so I just said that I wrote about things that were kinky and graphic, but that I didn't get into stuff that involved pain and humiliation. It was all for fun, a way to explore my own flowering sexuality in a full and safe way. Now Jane's embarrassment was abating, and she asked more and more detailed questions, so that eventually, I offered to lend her the printouts of some of my stories. At that point, we were back to the parking lot of the park, so we both drove over to my house, where I handed over a stack of printouts for a couple of my more tame erotic stories. The one on the top was "Craftsmanship." She touched the white papers as if they were covered with germs. But when I suggested that maybe she wasn't ready for this kind of stuff, she was unwilling to let go. Still, I was worried about what the impact of my stories would be on her fragile psyche, so I recommended that she sit and read for a bit to see if she really wanted to take these home. She was kind of in a daze, so I took Jane's hand and led her into the den where she could sit and relax in the wing-back chair. I left her to look over the stories, giving her some privacy while I went to take a shower; I needed to wash off the stale sweat that I had generated while I was jogging, and I didn't think that Jane needed someone looking over her shoulder just then.

It felt so good to let the spray of scalding hot water blast onto my shoulders and back. Acting as Jane's mentor in her attempt to break out of her marital jail was making me tense, so I just stood under the shower for 10 or 15 minutes. I let my hands trace lazy circles over my breasts, my tummy, my thighs, and occasionally over the sparsely- furred mound of my cunt. But I resisted the temptation to slide my finger into the furrow between my vulva. I wanted to keep my focus on Jane and her problems, not become absorbed in releasing my own sexual tension.

Finally, I stepped out of the shower, and toweled myself off briskly. I wrapped my sopping hair into a towel turban, and then covered the rest of my pink body in the wonderful polar fleece bathrobe that I had been given for Christmas by my new friends at Victoria's Secrets. And I walked back toward the den to check on my guest. I figured that by now Jane would have read enough to have some questions for me. Or she would be ready to attack me for my lewd and perverted thoughts. In fact it wouldn't have surprised me to discover that Jane had fled to the safety of her car and her home. But when I got to the door of the den, what I beheld was not anything that I had anticipated. Instead, I discovered Jane with her head tipped back and her eyes clenched tightly closed. She was slouched down deep into the soft cushions and her legs were spread wide, knees angled outward. One of her hands had crept up under the bottom of her white, flower-speckled turtleneck, where it was cupping and squeezing one of her breasts. Her other hand had insinuated itself under the elastic waistband of her tight pink stretch pants. Through the taut fabric, I could see the outline of her fingers as they extended down over the juncture of her thighs. The bumps of her knuckles quivered as she prodded into the needy flesh. And a sustained, warbling hum emanated from her throat.

I'm not sure what made her aware that was watching, but all of a sudden, Jane opened her eyes, saw me, and let out a high-pitched little squeal. Her hands whisked out of the confines of her clothes, and she folded them in her lap demurely. "Oh, I'm so mortified," she said, "I can' believe that I got so out of control. You must think I'm horrible." Jane looked like a child who had been caught stealing candy, and she was clearly about to cry.

I wanted to reassure her that it was OK, so I closed the space between us and kneeled down beside her chair, pulling her into my arms in a comforting embrace. I could feel her kind of shaking in my arms, and her breathing was ragged and rapid. I'm sure that this was because of the combination of the sexual stimulation and the embarrassment. I let her be like that for a few minutes, massaging the back of her neck and shoulders (her hands were still clenched in her lap). When she had settled down, I let her go and rocked back on my heels. We began to talk it all out. I assured her that her reaction to reading my stories was completely normal. In fact, that is just the kind of response that the stories were designed to get, so her losing control like that was really a great compliment to me.

I told her "Even when I'm writing the stories, I get so turned-on sometimes that I have to stop typing so that I can reach down and rub my cunt for a big orgasm. And when I read other people's stories, I usually masturbate. I'm sorry that you feel bad about what you were doing, and I'm even more sorry that I interrupted you. So I'm going to leave the room again so that you can finish what you started." And I stood up and started to turn around, when she stopped me by asking "Please don't go yet... there is something that I wanted to ask you about.... aaahh, I don't know how to say it, I'm not used to talking about sex at all." She was blushing again (had she stopped at all in the past two hours?), and her words were whispered and raspy. But she forced herself to continue. "I'm not sure that I'm doing it right."

At first, I didn't know what she meant, and when I figured out that she meant that she wasn't sure if she knew how to masturbate, my first response was to say that it couldn't be possible, that every person knows how. But I caught myself before those words left my lips, and instead I reassured her some more, letting her know that everyone figures it out for themselves. "Practice makes perfect, you know. Just figure out what works by experimenting." But Jane persisted by telling me, "I guess I'm wondering about it because some of the things that you talk about in your stories, well, I just don't get it. Like I was just reading about this G spot thing. And I don't know what you're talking about. I wish I knew what to do."

So I explained it to her, and then I guess I just decided to go for broke. All this talk about sex was making me more and more bold. I said "If you show me what it is that you are doing when you masturbate, maybe I can help you figure it out." She was quiet for a few moments, as the prospect of going ahead with my idea wormed its way past her ingrained defenses. I thought for sure that she would turn me down, but again, Jane surprised me by saying "I can't believe I'm saying this, but... I guess I could do that, but only if you do it too. I want to see how you masturbate, and you could show me how you do your G spot."

Well, I'm normally not into having sex with just a woman. That just isn't my thing, or it hasn't been in the past, anyway. But this was different. I wasn't going to be actually touching her. It was more like "I'll show you mine if you show me yours." And I was certainly ready to masturbate, after hours of various kinds of mild stimulation. I was also very curious to see what Jane would do with herself. It was hard to remember back to when I was learning how to please myself. So I agreed.

Jane stood up and I could see that she was a bit shaky on her feet, sort of drunken with the reality of what she was about to do. I asked her to take off her stretch pants, and after she hooked her thumbs into the waistband, she hesitated for a few seconds, then stripped the pants down to her ankles in one fast push. She almost fell over as she stepped out of them. Straightening up, I saw that she was wearing the most chaste white cotton panties. Her hands crossed in front of her cunt, like fig leaves. But she finally let her arms relax and her hands fell to her sides. Not surprisingly, the crotch panel of her panties was dark and moist with the stain her secretions. She was frozen in that position, until I asked her if she wanted to go on with this. And she answered wordlessly, by peeling the panties down her long slim legs.

"Why don't you sit back down in the chair, and show me what you were doing when I came into the room." And as she sat down, I positioned myself a couple of feet away from her, sitting cross-legged on the thick plush carpeting, so that I could look right up at her. As I did this, my bathrobe parted, and my own cunt came into view. I untied the belt of the robe, and then let the whole thing slide off my shoulders into a pile behind me. Now I was completely nude, and with my thighs spread wide so that Jane could see my cunt, she could see my pink labia, as well as the slick moist surfaces of my vaginal entrance. Looking down at myself, I noticed that my inner lips were stuck together, so I reached down, and peeled them apart. Now the shadowy mouth of my vagina was open, framed by the jagged crimson skirt of wet skin.

Looking back up at Jane, I saw that she had bent herself forwards at the waist, and she was mesmerized by the view that I had made available to her. When I asked her if she had ever had the chance to look so closely at another woman, or even herself, she admitted that she hadn't. She had seen naked women in the locker room in high school, but she had basically averted her eyes. And when she masturbated, she usually did it in the dark, or at least with her eyes shut. I suggested that she should really get to know herself better. She could use a hand mirror. And right now, she really should spread her legs before she got bruises on her knees where they were clamped so tightly together!