The first press.

Not the thrust — the slow, first-entry pressure of the wide head against the resistance of a body that had never been entered. The stretching, gathering resistance of it — Celia’s body understanding what was being asked of it and being asked too much and yielding anyway, slowly, yielding around something that had not been there before and was there now.

"Ahh—" The sound of the stretch — not pain yet, but the full, overwhelming pressure-sensation of more than she had ever felt. "It’s — it’s too—"

"Breathe," Nara said.

Celia breathed.

He pressed further.

PAH!

’!!!!’

Her back left the sand.

Not all the way — the involuntary arching of a spine that had received information it hadn’t expected at the depth and width at which it arrived. Her fingers locked around Gia’s arm.

"AANNGHH—!!"

The sound of it — raw, surprised, the full-lunged cry of a body registering the hymen tearing — not prolonged, just the single, committed, definitive press that made her body’s entire previous configuration irrelevant.

Her toes curled.

The sand scattered from them.

She was full.

Impossibly, unbearably, breathtakingly full — the thick, seated weight of him inside her at a depth that had never received anything before, the completely new internal geography of a body rearranging itself around something that had arrived.

That’s — that’s what— The thought was incomplete. Her mind was incomplete. That’s what Nara — that’s why she—

She understood now.

Fully, bodily, at a level that had nothing to do with language.

"Haahh—" The breath coming out of her in the slow, shaking realization of this-is-real. "Haahhh — it’s—" She looked up at him. At his face above her. "You’re — you’re so—"

He was watching her.

The level, attending, everything-noted quality of it.

"—big," she said. "You’re — how are you—"

He moved.

Not pulling out. The slow, deliberate interior shifting of a man testing depth — a short, exploratory movement that sent new information through every nerve she had.

"Ounghh~!!"

The moan arrived from somewhere below her collarbone — involuntary, full-voiced, the helpless sound of something happening to her rather than something she chose to make.

Gia’s grip on her tightened.

He pulled back.

Just to the threshold. The withdrawing motion of the wide head sitting at the entrance, the absence of the fullness more present than anything, and then —

PAH!

"ANHH~~!!"

The thrust. Forward, committed, deep — the deep, womb-finding drive of a cock calibrated to this body by whatever system calibrated such things, finding the exact depth that was this woman’s maximum and arriving there with the certainty of something that had calculated the address.

PAH!

"Hnghhh~!! HHnngh—!!"

Her hips — they were doing the thing. The same thing her hands did to the sand, but in reverse — pressing upward into the thrust, meeting it. Her body answering depth with depth, the animal, trained, she-hadn’t-known-she-was-trained movement of hips that had learned something from three feet away on a yacht and were now applying the lesson.

Pah! Pah! Pah!

"Ounghh~~!! Ah — ahh — HNGHH~!!"

The rhythm establishing itself. Not slow. Not brutal. The middle register of a man who knew what a first time required and was giving it exactly that.

The sound of it — the wet, flesh-heavy sound of it — mixed with the waves.

The warmth. Inside her. Every thrust carrying the building warmth of a body learning new information, the heat-spreading sensation of being used by something that fit exactly as designed.

It hurts, she thought. And then: It doesn’t — it hurts but it doesn’t—

Both true.

The paradoxical truth of a first time.

Pah! Pah!

"Aaahh~!! M... mmmph—!!"

Nara watched.

She was still holding Celia’s knees — not needing to now, the holding having become something else, the present attentiveness of a woman keeping her hands on someone she was witnessing. Her thighs pressed together on the sand.

She knew what that felt like.

She knew the exact, specific thing Celia’s eyes were doing right now — the halfway-rolled, overwhelmed, what-is-happening look in them.

She had slapped him for it.

She had been wrong to.

She pressed Celia’s knee and kept her eyes open and watched.

Gia looked down at Celia’s face.

At the flushed, wet-eyed, lips-parted look of it. The mascara starting its slow migration.

She thought about the first time. The world-rearranging nature of a first time, which she had experienced and which had made every previous year of her life seem like waiting for the thing you didn’t know was coming.

Celia was having her first time.

Here, on warm sand, on an island in the afternoon light.

Gia’s hand found Celia’s hair. The quiet, attending gesture of it — not holding her down, just the present, I-am-here-too gesture of fingers in someone’s hair when someone is going through something.

PAH!

"HNGH~~!! Ahh — aahh — ’Raven’—!!"

His name.

It came out with the helpless, first-name desperation of a woman who had been saying it in her head for three weeks and was now saying it out loud, at this volume, for this reason, and could not contain the way it sounded.

Pah! Pah! PAAAH!

"AANGHH~~!!"

The deep one. The long, committed thrust that arrived at a depth that had never been touched — the womb-adjacent, all-the-way depth of it — and held there for one, two seconds while her body convulsed around it.

Her fingers locked.

Her back arched.

Her legs — the legs that Nara had held open — wrapped.

Throb. Throb.

The internal pulse of him inside her — the seated, thick, present throb of a cock at depth, felt through every wall.

She was crying.

She noticed it the way you notice weather — it was simply there, the warm tears running from the corners of her eyes into the sand, not from pain, not from sadness, but from the total, I-have-arrived sensation of a body that had been carrying the tension of three weeks and a virgin’s worth of waiting and had now released all of it in one complete, flooding rush.

"Hahhh—" The shaking breath. "Hahh — I—" She looked up at the sky above him. At the blue. At the afternoon. "I didn’t — I thought you’d—"

He looked down at her.

The attending, warm, nothing-missed quality of his gaze.

"Congratulations on becoming a woman. But can I now make you a slut?"

"Heh?"