I do not own Mona Lisa Smile.

I never thought of this before. And now I love it.

Not All Who Wander Are Aimless

And Wonderful

Giselle had been right, she had been a virgin bride.

It hadn't been difficult, Spencer had never tried to touch her, kiss her, more than was appropriate.

And she had just known that when they were married . . .

"Goodnight, Spencer. I love you."

"Goodnight, Betty."

. . . it would be special and just right.

He would love her and make love to her sweetly and so romantically.

And everything would be perfect.

It hadn't been.

He hadn't been.

It had been . . . abrupt.

And . . . bumpy.

And it had hurt.

She didn't think he had meant for it to, even now, he had never struck her as purposeful cruel during their short marriage, just . . . absent. Uninterested.

But their first time, her first time . . it had all seemed very . . . mechanical.

She had been baby fresh and sweet and scrubbed.

All in a lacy, white, frilly negligee she had bought just for that momentous night.

Just like she was supposed to be.

And it had been uncomfortable.

Painful.

And . . . intrusive.

At the time, she had thought that's what it was supposed to be because they were both nervous and new to the act itself.

And she had hoped it would get better.

But it hadn't.

And after a while, it had only . . .

"Don't you want me, Spencer?"

"I'm just tired, Betty. I want to go to sleep."

. . . stopped.

But then, after everything had been revealed, she had realized he hadn't been nervous and she doubted now he had been new.

He certainly hadn't been as tired in later months as he had wanted her to believe.

He just hadn't wanted her.

So that had been her entire experience.

And now, . . .

"Giselle, would it be okay . . . if we kissed again?"

. . . she was hesitantly taking her first steps . . .

"Yeah. Sure."

. . . into an entirely different kind of experience.

Later generations would later term Spencer Jones' type of lovemaking to his first wife as 'wham bam thank you, ma'am'.

There really was no word or phrase or description the verbose Betty Warren could attach to her experiences with Giselle Levy.

Giselle, who took her time, who seemed to revel in long languid slow kisses and movements and strokes and caresses.

Giselle, who made her smile and giggle and gasp and moan and want to scream.

All in due time.

Because she didn't push, she didn't pressure.

She didn't complain or cajole or grump up or any of the previous experiences Betty Warren had experienced or heard others experience, when she tightened up, drew inward, overwhelmed with the new sensations that she had never experienced before.

Giselle simply reverted back to the touches and kisses and caresses Betty had denoted positive response to before.

Or stopped entirely and simply held her and nuzzled her face.

Until Betty Warren . . .

"Giselle? Could you . . . would you . . . do that again?"

"It would be my pleasure."

And it wasn't bumpy, it wasn't abrupt.

It was smooth and silky and exquisitely pleasurable once she allowed herself to relax for perhaps the first time in her entire life.

And it was loving.

Loving and accepting and completely open and alright.

And she . . .

"Oh . . . oh . . . Giselle . . ."

. . . absolutely loved it.

Not really much to say here.

Except I'm just glad Betty finally gets to have some love.

In all the ways Giselle has been showing her love throughout this short story.

And this too.

;)

Thanks for reading!