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A new world and life awaits Tom, but what kind of life?
She made to sit up but he restrained her with a hand on her shoulder.
"Too late for that my dear," he said quietly and without threat, "we've come far too far to stop now. Only a few more steps and we can relax."
She stared at him, shocked, her eyes wide, her fingers at her mouth. His penis reared red and angry from beneath his shirttail, a thick cluster of short ginger hairs at its base and below that his scrotum hung creased and ugly.
"What do you mean, 'a few more steps'?" she asked eventually when she could find the words but he ignored the question, still holding his shirt up at his stomach, his erection waving dangerously in front. She scrambled up into a sitting position and he let the shirt drop.
"Which hand do you use?" he asked and she looked at him, slow and confused, her mind trying to make sense of the question, her eyes fixed on the head of his penis which was still poking through the front of his shirt tails.
"Which hand do you write with?" he asked deliberately as though talking to a small child and still confused she slowly raised her right hand. "Good," he said and without waiting he took hold of her wrist, pulling her hand towards him.
"No!" she shouted suddenly realising what he was about to do and she pulled back trying to wrench her hand out of his. She looked as if she were about to burst into tears and he let go of her, realising that he was moving too fast. He sat back on his heels as she curled back against side of the tent, her arms defensively wrapped across her chest again.
"I'm sorry," he said. suddenly conciliatory, quietly reassuringly, "I thought you had seen one before," he said indicating his penis which still poked out from under his shirt. "But you haven't have you?" and she shook her head briefly, the tears now glistening on her lashes.
"He's quite friendly," he said holding up his shirt again for her see. He took his penis in his other hand and shook it like a stick, "not dangerous at all see?"
She watched as he played with his own penis, moving it up and down, waving it from side to side, pulling the foreskin back to reveal the purple bulbous head, until she began to smile at his antics, her interest slowly piqued. He kept talking throughout, trying to make her laugh, innately recognising that curiosity would lead her where he desperately wanted her to go.
"Come here," he said at last, letting his shirt fall and holding out his hand to her but she remained stubbornly just out of reach. Smiling reassuringly he placed his hand causally and easily on her thigh, re-establishing the all important physical contact; softly stroking, all the while talking quietly and encouragingly to her.
Slowly she began to relax, he could see the tension beginning to drain out of her, her body less rigid, her hands slowly unclenched. She stared at the head of his penis still poking out almost comically from under the front of his shirt tails; so he bounced on his knees making the head bob lazily, disappearing momentarily beneath his shirt before reappearing like a character from a Punch and Judy show and she laughed.
"See," he said, lifting his shirt to show her his still erect penis, "there's nothing to be frightened of with this little chap. He's quite harmless really."
"He?" she asked, leaning forward a little to look at it, moving closer, her interest growing. Be careful my dear he thought smiling to himself as she leaned in for a closer look, it was curiosity that killed the cat.
"Of course it's a 'he'," he said and took it in his hand again, "what else could it be? Look at him! He's the very epitome of masculinity. What could be more masculine than a penis?"
She looked at it carefully, keeping her distance as best she could, just in case it still proved capable of biting. He leaned forward and taking her by surprise he reached up between her legs and placed his finger against her sex.
"And this is the most feminine part of a woman," he said quietly, stroking his finger against her.