You come from Turkey, somewhere in the east, I think. Your father is rich, a ‘captain of industry’, owns a mine or a mill or something like that. He’s always had money and you have always been spoilt, he bought you whatever you wanted. However, he didn't always let you have your own way. No, he was strict in that sense, overprotective and quite religious. A Muslim of course, you wore Islamic dress from a young age, even before you started to develop. Loose fitting clothes covering your body and the obligatory head scarf concealing your long black hair.

From the age of fifteen you begged him to allow you to go to London and stay with your mother's relatives. He was never going to allow that, no way. Your mum wasn't keen on it either, not at such a young age. After you turned eighteen though, she came around to the idea. They'd brought you up properly and you'd always been a good girl, studied hard, got into a good university. She knew you wouldn't get into any trouble. Besides a summer in London would be just the thing to improve your already excellent English.

Eventually, after months of pleading from you and persuasion from your mother, Daddy gave in. You could go to England for two whole months, on the condition you have lessons four days a week, every week. Also, you weren't to go out on your own, home before dark and absolutely no boys. You readily agreed, anything to get to London!

Little did your father suspect, his wife's family no longer keep quite the same traditional values as he does. They were never as conservative as him anyway, and after years spent in England they’ve loosened up considerably. Your aunties don't wear hijaab and the kids pretty much do what they want. They aren't going to enforce any of his rules upon you.

Your mother was right though. You are a good girl and never had any intention of taking too much advantage of the situation. You like studying so lessons aren't a problem. You don't plan on going far on your own, you’re afraid of getting lost in such a big city. You always go to bed early so you can be up at sunrise to wash and pray. And you aren't even interested in boys. Well, not much anyway.

No, the trouble was their choice of English teacher. It was decided you should have private tuition. Your dad was happy to pay, it eliminated the chance of you being in a class with male admirers. Your cousin phoned the local language school, who passed her on to one of their best teachers who was willing to give one on one lessons over the summer. That teacher was me.

Daddy never even considered the possibility they'd choose a male teacher for you and nobody thought to mention it to him. You don't mind who teaches you, as long as they’re nice.

You arrive the first weekend of July. Once unpacked and settled, your cousins show you around the local area. Your mother's family aren't as wealthy as your dad's. They do all right, but don't live in the opulence you're used to. Not that it matters, you're no snob and are just so excited to be in a new city far away from home. You can't wait to see everything and experience new things. You've got it all planned out, the sights, the museums, galleries, theatre shows, tea at the Ritz, Buckingham palace, but first, lessons.

It's Monday, quarter to nine in the morning. You've taken the tube for two stops and are now walking the short distance to my house, following the directions on your phone.

You are immaculately dressed in the designer clothes you and your mum went to Istanbul to buy specially for this summer. Clothes your father would never approve of, despite being far from slutty. Fitted capri pants expose a little calf, a long, unstructured summer jacket over a lacy top. It's very see-through, but you wear a camisole to preserve your modesty.

On your feet, simple Gucci sandals, showing off your perfectly pedicured and painted toes. On your head, of course you wear your başörtüsü. You might be far from home, but God is everywhere. Today it’s a brightly coloured and patterned silk scarf from Hermès. Instead of being pulled tightly and pinned in the Turkish style, you have it loosely wrapped. There’s even a tiny bit of hair poking out from underneath. As long as you still pray five times each day, you are sure Allah won't mind. After university you'll go on hajj to Mecca, that'll erase any little sins you commit here.

As you walk you become aware of how nervous you are. You've never been alone with a man who wasn't a blood relative before, not even for five minutes. Now you are going to spend three hours with me, a man you’ve never met, at my house, in a strange country. It's not that you think I'll do anything. I'm a teacher, a respectable person, but you're still anxious. This is liberal London, it's perfectly normal for men to be alone with women here. You suppress your nerves and continue walking up the street of little terraced houses where I live.

You ring my doorbell briskly. I don't keep you waiting long before opening up. Immediately, I am struck by your beauty. I was not expecting you to be this pretty. I don't know what I was expecting exactly, but I never imagined the vision of loveliness standing before me.

You're wearing quite a lot of make-up, even though you don't need any at all. It doesn't look tarty or trashy in any way, it's expertly applied. Your huge, hypnotic, hazel brown eyes are accentuated with black mascara and heavy eye-liner. Natural coloured lipstick on your full, perfectly shaped lips. Your nose is cute, not too big or misshapen in any way. Strong, pronounced cheekbones and little dimples when you smile. Your eyebrows are thick and shaped so they're completely symmetrical. Flawless skin. I can tell even with all the make-up, your complexion a wonderful shade of olive. I don't think I've ever seen a girl quite like you before. For a moment I am struck dumb. We just stand there, staring at each other.

After I don't know how long, I manage to snap out of it and say, “You must be Selen. Hi, come in.”

You don't say anything, just look down timidly and giggle. I can tell you're a little embarrassed. I step aside for you to pass and the air fills with a waft of strong, Arabic style perfume. It makes me a little dizzy. I close the front door and direct you through to the living room. You move down the narrow hallway with such elegance and grace, I feel unworthy to follow. Your perfume lingers.

Sitting on the sofa you fumble in your big Prada handbag for a pen, notebook and your reading glasses. I desperately try to make small talk. Why is this so difficult for me? It's my job, for Christ's sake. I've done this many times with pretty girls and it's never been a problem. Somehow you are different. I look at you and the words won't flow. There is more to it than just your staggering good looks. Your aura, maybe?

“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask, “Coffee perhaps?”

“Er...çay?”

“Tea, sure, no problem.” I turn on my heel and leave the room.

You’re ashamed and curse yourself. You can't believe you forgot the word 'tea'. You can speak English, you always got top marks in it at school. Now, here in London, in front of your new teacher you say 'çay'. You didn't even say please. You know the English are polite and you must always mind your P’s and Q’s. While I clatter about making the tea, you wonder what I must think of you.

I didn't notice at all. I'm more worried about how I am going to teach you for the next three hours, let alone the next eight weeks, if I am so overawed I can't even manage simple small talk.

You make up for your perceived blunder when I come back carrying a tray containing teapot, cups, saucers, spoons, sugar bowl full of cubes and a little jug of milk.

As I place it down on the coffee table you say, “Oh, thank you very much. Really, you are too kind. How lovely, so perfectly English.”

Great, now you're speaking better than me. I need a drink. Something much stronger than PG-sodding-tips. I need scotch.

You pour the tea for both of us, ever the perfect lady. You add sugar to your own cup but avoid milk. I don't add anything to mine, I don't intend to drink it. Instead, I disappear into the kitchen again and return with two glasses and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label.

“Not for me, thank you,” you say as I begin to decant the haram spirit.

You've never tried alcohol before, never even been around it. The closest you’ve ever come was smelling the sickly, aniseed Rakı on your pious father's breath from time to time.

“Oh, come on. It's traditional in England to have a little whisky with your tea in the morning,” I lie, hopefully convincingly.

You stare at the glass for a few seconds. I can see you are torn. Torn between wanting to try new things and wanting to be a good Muslim. Then you think of your father. If he can drink alcohol and still go to the mosque, why can't you?

“Alright then, a little bit, just to taste it,” you say and smile your sweet smile.

I pour a healthy splash and push it towards you. Holding it in both hands, you examine the amber coloured liquid. I tap my glass against yours, say “chin chin” and knock it back in one. You gingerly bring the glass to your lips. It doesn't smell like Rakı. You don't know what it smells like, but you know you don't like it. You feel a little queasy.

You grimace before taking a decent sized gulp. As you swallow your grimace turns into a look of pure shock and horror. For a second you think you’re going to vomit, but fight it back. You glug down some tea to take the taste away and sooth the burning in your throat. A wave of warmth rises up your gullet, partly from the booze and partly from the still quite hot tea.

“Yuk! That's horrible,” you say in disgust. “Do English people really drink that stuff?”

“Almost everybody, every morning.”

It occurs to me, at some point you might discover this is not true, but I don't worry about that for now. You look a little puzzled and slowly sip the rest of your tea. You feel a tiny bit dizzy and your cheeks are slightly flushed.

I feel better now, much more relaxed. Johnnie always hits the spot. I take out the books and papers for today's lesson. You pop your glasses on, Channel I notice. They make you look so cute and innocent, I can't help but smile at you. You smile back and your cheeks flush redder. Something stirs in my underwear, but try to ignore it.

We progress smoothly through the usual stuff. I outline the syllabus, discuss the possibility of you taking the CPE exam sometime in the future etc. etc.

After that I give you an article to read and some questions to find the answers to. You work away assiduously, highlighting sections, underlining bits here and there, making notes. Occasionally your glasses slip down your nose and you push them back up with pristinely manicured fingers, never taking your eyes off your work. You are adorable.

I don't read the article. I've been through it countless times with other students and I know it backwards. I'm content to sit here and observe you. It's difficult not to stare. In fact, it's taking all my willpower not to jump on top of you, kiss you and tear your clothes off.

I need a distraction, something to dull my prurience. I grab the bottle of Mr. Walker's finest restorative and refill my glass. Automatically I do the same for you, I’m a good host. I throw mine down my neck and to my surprise you actually pick yours up and take a sip. Not a large sip, just wetting your lips really. You're probably just trying to be polite.

Soon you finish your task and we go through your answers together. As we sit discussing your ideas, you take a couple more little sips of scotch. On your third I pause mid-sentence and give you an inquisitive raised eyebrow.

“It's not too bad once you get used to it,” you confess.

I suggest a short break and you lie back on the sofa, a content smile on your delicate lips. You seem very comfortable. The drink has done its job well. Thank you, Johnnie Walker!

We lounge about for a while and chat. You tell me how delighted you are to be in London, how long you’ve been waiting for this trip and all the things you want to do while you're here. Your talk is punctuated by occasional, small sips of blended scotch whisky. I just sit, smiling and nodding along. I could look at you and listen to your voice all day. Never before have I heard music so sweet.

“I'm tired. Can I just close my eyes for ten minutes before we get back to work?” You ask, eyes already shut.

“Take as long as you like. We have plenty of time,” I tell you.

This is where you really take me by surprise. You put your feet up on me.

I’ve been a teacher for a while. Students have given me countless compliments, presents, hugs, even kisses on the cheek. This has always been after they've known me for some time, we only met about an hour ago. Putting your feet on someone is an intimate act. It shows a level of comfort and closeness not usually reached between teacher and student. Certainly not between borderline alcoholic, male teacher and conservative, religious, female student. This is the kind of act only the water of life could induce.

I'm astounded by your spectacular feet. They're perfect, so smooth and soft looking. Artistically shaped, each toe is slender and exactly proportioned to its neighbour. I have to touch them and you must want me to, you were the one who put them on my lap.

I begin stroking, just your instep with my fingertips at first, but then I become bolder. I use my whole palm to caress from above your ankle to right over and under your toes. I slip my thumb under your arch and stroke your sole. You sigh, with obvious pleasure.

Without opening your eyes, you use your toes to pry off your sandals and let them drop to the floor. I now have complete unhindered access. Using both hands I feel every millimetre of your exquisitely sublime peds. There isn’t the tiniest callus or patch of hard skin to be found. They're not dry, not clammy either, pure perfection. The only aroma is from the scented cream you used after your morning ablutions.

I start off gently, just stroking, gradually apply more pressure so I’m rubbing, then firmly massaging. You let out quiet moans of arousal and wiggle your toes provocatively to encourage me on. Your very first time alone with a man and you get him to give you a foot rub. An instinctual seductress.

I'm done being timid now. I lift one sumptuous foot up to my face, press the ball to my lips and inhale deeply, before sliding it down to kiss the toes. You make no complaints, just lie with your eyes closed, panting nasally.

I open my mouth slightly. Your toes enter and are met by my wet tongue. I lick lovingly, savouring them. There's barely any flavour, it's all about the texture. The tiny ridges on your toe pads and silky, perfectly smooth skin in between. The hard glossy nail occasionally clacking against my teeth. You bite your lip and stifle a sultry moan.

I lower your foot to rest back down on my lap. Your eyes open to meet my gaze. We stare intently at one another for a few moments. A coquettish smile, I smile back.

We both know exactly what's going to happen now. Well, you don't know exactly, you've never done it before, but you have an idea of the basics. You and a friend watched a couple of naughty videos on the internet once so you understand how it works.

You're anxious, but no more nervous than when you were walking from the station. The alcohol has definitely taken the edge off, loosened your inhibitions. You’re eager too. You knew people got up to all sorts of immoral things in big cities, but never believed you'd be taking part. Somewhere in the back of your mind you’d hoped to meet a boy to talk to, maybe hold hands even, but not lose your virginity. That was meant for your husband. However, you know I want it and for some reason you’re going to let me take it.

Your toes press down on the bulge that’s formed in my trousers. You know what it is and are full of curiosity.

You want to see it, feel it, even taste it. That fact is as clear as crystal, I can see it in your eyes. You’ve already made the licentious first step, now it’s up to me to bring this encounter to it's logical and inevitable conclusion. You want a man to take the lead, to guide you. You've managed to forget, at least for now, that indeed Allah is ever watching over you.

What can I do? I have no other choice than to oblige. I hold out my hand, palm facing upwards. You take it and I grip your dainty fingers firmly as I help you into a sitting position. I stand and bring you to your feet. Without a word I walk you into the hallway and you meekly follow me up the stairs.

In my bedroom, I sit you on the bed and stand in front of you with your legs clamped between my own. You aren't planning on going anywhere, but I am letting you know I wouldn't let you if you were. Your head tilted upwards, trust all over your angelic face and in those eyes, those magnificent eyes. I feel as if I could dive into them, get lost in them.

I’d almost got used to your perfume, but standing so close to you now, it fills my brain again. It’s a scent I shall remember for the rest of my life. I lean in and press my mouth to yours. You close your eyes and we kiss. Your first kiss, the kiss you will never forget. The kiss you were saving for the man you would marry.

I keep it soft and tender. I don't want you to feel too overwhelmed. I hold your cheek in my hand, to steady and comfort you. As we smooch, I playfully flick my tongue out and lick your lips a couple of times. On the third your own tongue is there to meet it. Oral ecstasy!

We break and I peer deeply into your eyes. You look straight back at me, lips simpering. You may well be totally inexperienced, yet you know you did a good job. A natural kisser, no need for you to practice. The ability is innate, you can sense it.

My fingers move quickly and confidently to your headscarf. A slight tug in the right place and it unfurls. Your luxuriant hair tumbles out and the scarf glides to the floor. This is the first time a man, other than your father, has seen your head uncovered since you were a child. Usually the idea of being bare headed, allowing a man to see your coiffure, would be enough to bring on an anxiety attack. Not today though, not in front of me. You shake it out so it hangs pleasingly over your shoulders. You are transcendentally beautiful.

Another kiss.

You idly trace the outline of my fully engorged penis with your fingertips, feeling it's turgid rigidity still encased in several layers of fabric. It feels different to how you imagined it would, but then you're not quite sure how you imagined it. It’s just seems different somehow.

I release the button at my waist and you undo the zip. I pull my chinos down to mid thigh and assertively guide your head to the front of my underwear. You kiss my straining cock through the taut cotton jersey.

Toying with the elastic waistband, you slide a couple of fingers underneath and slowly pull down to free my manhood. It stands to attention, straight, proud and ready.

At first you simply ogle it, wide eyed and open mouthed. You drink in every detail with your eyes. Foreskin around bulbous helmet, broad shaft with thick blue veins snaking over its entire length. It’s several shades darker than the skin on the my thighs and my balls are darker still. My pubic hair has been recently trimmed, but not too recently, it's a little untidy. With pressure on the back of your head I encourage your face towards my impatient member. You don't need much encouragement.

You rub your face against it. Over your lips, cheeks and under your nose, enjoying the slightly musky odour. With impossibly soft fingers you stroke and play with me, delighting in the unfamiliar sensation.

Next you plant little kisses up and down the shaft and onto the head. You notice it’s wet from pre-cum, but don't know what it is. Your sex education was nowhere near that detailed. You glance up at me, a little confused, but my look assures you everything is as it should be. So you continue, parting your lips and giving one big kiss directly to the tip. Your tongue protrudes to lick up the salty fluid.

Another glance upwards, seeking my approval. My face gives you all you need. Opening wider, you take me into your mouth, forming a seal with your lips just below the ridge. It feels much bigger than it looked. You suck, bobbing your head only slightly. It is the shallowest of blowjobs, but you expertly use your tongue, curling it around every millimeter of my cock head.

Expertly? Yes, expertly. Your god given talent is not limited to kissing it would seem. Despite only having a relatively small amount of my dick in your mouth, this is still some of the best oral I’ve ever received and I relish it.

My hand on your head says I want it deeper. You take the hint without me needing to push. Slowly but steadily you take me as far as you can go. It's not all the way, not deep throat, but it's getting there. I decide not to push you further. This is your first time after all and you're doing such a good job, I don't want to choke you or make it unpleasant in any way. I wouldn't want to put you off.

It’s a rare thing to find a girl so enthusiastic and desirous to please. A beautiful thing. So beautiful in fact, I can already feel my orgasm building and I’m getting closer with every motion of your head.

No, no, no, this won't do. I’m not ready so I stop you. At first you seem distressed, thinking maybe you did something wrong, that I wasn't enjoying it. Again my expression reassures you this is not the case, nothing could be further from the truth. I lean in again and kiss you once more.

Our lips lock together and I lift you up. Instinctively, you wrap your arms and legs around me. I support your weight with my hands on your firm, round arse cheeks. Each one fits perfectly in my palms. I squeeze hard, making you squeal and giggle. I hold you in a tight embrace as our tongues explore each other’s mouths.

I lay you down on the bed with your head on a pillow and position myself half next to you, half on top of you. We kiss. We fumble. We pull. We tug. We search. We grope. We fondle. We caress. Somehow we manage to end up completely naked. Our clothes scattered across the bed and on the floor.

My lips work their way down your body, starting with your neck. I even sink my teeth in a little and you gasp, shocked. I don't bite hard, just enough for you to feel it. Just so you know I could be vicious if I wanted to. I could do anything to you right now and you'd be powerless to stop me. I choose to be tender and you are grateful for it. You know I'm holding back for your sake.

You breathe slowly and deeply as I gradually kiss lower. Across your shoulders and collarbones, down your chest to your breasts. The breasts you have been so careful to disguise ever since they began to grow. Breasts you were confident no man, save for your espoused, would ever see. Never did you dream of allowing another man so much as a glimpse of your cleavage, let alone to touch them, put his lips upon them and take your nipples into his mouth. The merest suggestion of such a thing would have horrified you, shocked you to your core, frightened you even, but not now. You lie there, not moving, not flinching, hardly making a sound, apart from your breath.

Your breasts are not large, but they are ample. Full and ripe, like apples ready to be plucked. I suckle aggressively on your dark areolae before moving down to your tummy.

I don't leave your tits unattended though. I cup them and squeeze, playfully pinching and twisting your hard nipples as my head and lips get closer to your navel. Your skin has a very fine, ever so slight, dark peach fuzz growing in a ‘V’ shape from your bust, all the way down your belly. I pass over your belly button and can't resist poking my tongue in, twirling it, giving you a clue as to what’s coming soon. It tickles, making you laugh.

I venture on ever lower to your mons veneris. Unlike most girls your age, you are not shaven or waxed. I am pleased to find a triangular patch of black pubic hair, left to grow naturally. I bury my face in it and get my first, whiff or your natural, piquant scent. Before now it was a heady mix of Arabian perfume and scented creams. Finally, trapped in your body hair, I smell the pungent fragrance that is uniquely you. I breathe you in as if trying to absorb your essence.

I plant kisses on your hips, down to where your thighs meet. More kisses gets you to part them, revealing your labia, the most intimate part of your Awra. You are wet, very wet, glistening with your juices. I gently stroke you apart and your wet vulva opens, looking like an exotic orchid after the rain. I linger for a moment, taking in your dark lips and delicate pink interior, trying to burn it onto my memory.

I draw back your clitoral hood and expose your wonderful, little button. I lick my lips, ensure my tongue is well lubricated with saliva and go in for a firm lick. A soft and sudden gasp tells me you weren't expecting it. I smile to myself. You’re sensitive, helping you to orgasm isn't going to be difficult at all. I know you are going to come hard.

I kiss your pussy. Gently to start with, barely making contact, then pressing into your wetness. Flicks of my tongue accompany each smooch. My lips become coated with your sticky ambrosia, a flavour nothing short of divine.

Longer licks, travelling slowly from your perineum, up one side between your minora and majora and over your clitoris. Again, up the other side, all the way to your clit. Once more, lapping my tongue from your beautifully tight, puckered arsehole, through the centre of your cunt and across your tingling nub. You can't help but let out a high pitched cry of pleasure.

I've got you now. I am going to make you come. You grip the bed clothes as I eat you in a frenzy. Licking and sucking as I’ve never done for any other woman. I forcefully keep your legs wide open, working you up to your climax. Your eyes are wide and you bite down hard on your lip, trying desperately, but vainly to suppress your squeaks and squeals of sheer delight, euphoria welling up inside you. Each sound spurs me on further.

I can feel your body tense up. You try to clamp your thighs together, but I’m too strong and keep them apart. Your pelvis gyrates, grinding yourself into my face. Your moaning increases, louder and more desperate.

You can't hold back any more and no longer even try controlling your vocalisations. You come with a scream, orgasm explodes through your body. The head rush is intense, you nearly faint, but I don't stop. My mouth clamped over your clit, fiercely sucking and tonguing hard.

“Enough… Enough!” you whisper in hoarse tones and push at my head.

I release my grip and watch you gently quivering on the bed. Naked, exposed, eyes closed, trying to catch your breath.

“Oh my god... Oh my god,” you mutter, to nobody in particular.

You are mine.

I spread your thighs with my knees. You offer no resistance. I kiss your forehead and cheek. Our lips meet, but your eyes stay closed. My rigid cock brushes against your pussy. Instinctively you reach down, taking me in hand and guiding me into you. With one long, strong thrust of my hips, I stretch you and your cunt envelopes me. I’m inside you, all the way. We are one.

It’s quite painful for you. You whimper and squeeze your eyes tight shut, holding back a cry. You clasp onto me with all your strength, even digging your nails into my flesh. I keep perfectly still for you, allowing you to regain your composure and enjoying, revelling in the feeling of being deep in your hot, virgin quim. It grasps me, holds me like a vice.

Eventually you relax and I start to move. You have a pained, worried look. You think I'm going to hurt you. My soft kisses and gentle stroking comforts you. This is for you too. I’m not merely using your body for my own satisfaction. You close your eyes and allow yourself to be taken.

I thrust with long but slow strokes. Deliberately careful not to slam into you. I want you to feel every centimetre of my length, not the merciless pounding of my cockhead against your cervix. You hold tight, but don't look at me. Your eyelids remain firmly shut and you concentrate on breathing.

Gradually I allow myself to pick up speed and force. You take it well and start to let out groans of gratification. I hook your leg with my arm, giving me leverage and allowing deeper penetration. I fuck you vigorously. Not really hard, it's not a violent screw, just a good steady fuck. You do not protest and accept every thrust. You trust me to know what you can handle and not give you any more than you are ready for. You groan louder.

I hear you murmur something under your breath. Did you just say what I thought you did? It sounded like you called me... No, you couldn't have done. I quicken the pace, pumping with more force.

Then you say it again, still not loud, but you clearly say, “Fuck me, Daddy… Please.”

Dirty talk in English. That puts me over the edge. I momentarily lose control. I take both your wrists and slam them either side of your head, forcibly pinning you to the bed. I'm nearly there. I'm going to explode. My last few strokes aren't controlled, they’re pure, frantic passion.

Your eyes are no longer closed, they stare in terror. Your mouth gaping wide in a silent scream. The sudden realisation of my strength and power astounds you, scares you.

Maybe it’s the increased stimulation, maybe it’s the fear, perhaps it’s both, but your own crisis comes upon you rapidly.

With deep, guttural, animalistic grunts I come hard and so do you. I shoot my heavy load deep inside and feel your cunt spasm around my cock, as if trying to milk the hot, thick spunk out of me. I feel every drop.

We remain in each other’s arms, not moving, just holding, completely still.

With a kiss, I withdraw. A startling sensation to our now incredibly over sensitive genitals. I lie down beside you and you roll your body onto mine. Head on my chest, arm draped over my stomach, legs entwined. We lie in total silence, save for the sound of our breathing.

Although neither of us utters a word, we both know we’re feeling the same thing. I don't know when it happened exactly. It might have been just now, when we came in unison. It might have been after your first orgasm. Possibly it was when you took my dick in your mouth. It could have been when you held my hand and followed me up the stairs. For all I know, it was the moment I opened the door to you this morning and first saw your face. The exact moment is irrelevant. The important thing is that it's happened.

A combination of guilt and shame wash over you. You know what we did was a sin, a crime against the almighty. Yet somehow, it doesn't feel wrong. You are comfortable lying here naked with me. My touch feels natural, not wicked. It feels right, but could god ever forgive you? Do you even want to be forgiven?

Then there is your family. Would they ever accept me? Your mother, maybe in time, might be able to tolerate me. Your father on the other hand, never. He would rather lose his fortune and die a thousand deaths than see his princess with a man like me.

Finally there is the biggest problem of all. A condom was never even considered. The very idea you'd be on the pill is laughable. It's far too early to know medically, but your female intuition is telling you what no doctor could. You are pregnant. It was your first time, but we made it count. You know for a fact we made a baby inside you just now.

As I gently doze off, content holding you in my arms, a light breeze comes through the open window and cools our hot, sweaty bodies. Uncountable thoughts and feelings race through you, things you couldn't possibly have conceived of just a short time ago. Your entire world is about to be tipped upside down and in many ways you’re no longer the same person you were this morning. A flood of emotion threatens to overcome you. In your turmoil you latch onto the one thing you know is solid, the one thing you know you can trust. You kiss my chest and hold me tight.