It's just experimenting isn't it? Trying something out? How to move and touch and taste.

Movement and Touch aren't so bad. Not really. Neither of you want to be completely inexperienced.

Touch is the brush of a hand somewhere... Sacred. But ultimately still Somewhere safe. It is curiosity and learning and giggling in a bed never intended for two.

Movement is gasping and crying and fumbling while the whole world seems to tilt. Movement is Need tempered by fear.

Taste comes later. It sneaks in with impetuousness, on the heals of fear. It is recent. very recent. It is desperation and confusion and trust in a world turning on itself.

Taste is a man Greying at the Temples, holding the front hall.

Taste is screaming in predawn half light.

Taste is Mother's blood on the rosebushes and hurried spells on the lawn in your night clothes.

Taste is safety, of a sort.
.

Taste is a mewl, completely involuntary. Her lips surrounding you as they are.
.

Your blush is full body. She Nibbles, faintly. Barely felt, at the edges.

Your hips arch. Knees bent, wide spread. She holds you like one of your books. Hands at the apex, keeping you open.

Her tongue dances like she does. Tracing... everything. Your feet are crossing, holding. She can't stop now. She is not allowed to even try!

A swirl, a dip, a rise. You Shudder. Hold it back. She doesn't need Your hands in her hair. She dives.

This is unlike you. Controlled, Calm, Serene. Books and quiet conversation in the shade on a sunny day.

You cry. No reason other than Now and More and Please.

Every other reason lost when she smiles at you. Blows cool air over wet heat.

You beg, just a little, a faint whimper, panting. No breath left for words.

Her hand moves with a breathy "love you Padma." Chest heaving, Your smile is bright and clear when you meet her eyes.

Pressure and friction. First one and then a second and Oh God, she couldn't possibly fit a Thir-

"Parvati!" Her name might be a curse. Or it might be a caress as you cry out to the sky.