I close my eyes and remember Zoe. We were both 16. I was intimidated by her; I don't know why because she was always nice to me and it wasn't as if I didn't know other girls. She wasn't even particularly pretty but there was something about her that made me fearful and my fear made me obedient. In summer, we'd be in the garden while her parents were out. Or we'd cycle out into the country and stop at the river. I'd lie on my back and she on her side looking at me. She'd say, «would you like me to?» I'd nod and hold my breath. Her hand would hover for a moment over my waist then with slow deliberation undo my trousers and gently pull my cock out of my underpants. The way she did it was almost a ritual. She'd pull my trouser down a little way and push my t-shirt up. It wasn't said but I knew she did that to avoid them getting cum on them. The act of masturbation, which she was good at, lasted no more than two or three minutes. When I cummed, she'd position her fist at the top of my cock so that the cum pooled between her forefinger and thumb and then overflow down her hand. I would thank her and she'd grin and wipe her hand with a tissue. I always cleaned myself up while she watched. We must have done this dozens of times. I never touched her and she never undressed herself. Eventually, she got a proper boyfriend – which I never was; I was more of a playmate – and she stopped seeing me. This was 40 years ago. Today, she's a grandmother and my wife and I see her and her husband in company occasionally. No allusion is ever made to our games although she must remember. But I've noticed that her husband is unusually deferential to her. Perhaps he's had for a lifetime what I had for a moment of adolescence.