Her grin was mildly infuriating, an I-told-you-so look. But maybe we were both faking a little. That rather pointed reference to "trouble" could only have been a veiled threat, just ominous enough to nudge me in her direction. Luckily, my change of heart was eased somewhat by the promise of a new experience, always an enticement – and even more so in my chronic mood of frustration. If the self-centered husband couldn't soothe my jangled nerves, why not try the eager wife? Nice to keep it all in the family, at least, with no hazardous ventures into dark hallways. By hook or by crook, this predatory lesbian was going to sink her claws into my plump young body; why not relax and enjoy it?
Anyway, my pussy-lips – cunt-lips? – were already quivering in anticipation, provoked by pressure from every angle. The dirty words did have a certain tingling effect, spoken out loud like that, so shamelessly. Especially when they were concerned with such a dirty perversion! Then too, there was the added excitement of sashaying around naked in front of a fully dressed girl-gobbler, hardly a tonic for those taut nerves of mine. Sexier than naked, actually, with my rolled stockings and junior-prom heels. I was glad to see Julia remain dressed, of course, glad to find ourselves in apparent agreement on who would do what do whom. This way there was no controversy, no question of roles, just a simple recognition and match-up of one "cunt" and one "cunt-lapper" – both suitably attired for the occasion. For which I was duly grateful. Ah yes, let my lesbian lover's energy compensate for the sloth of her big-dick male counterpart…
"You have an interesting mouth."
"Oh, sure, interesting…" I shrugged disconsolately, irritated by her continued insistence on conversation. "That's what people say when they can't think of a compliment."
"Touche. Intriguing, then."
"It's just a big mouth, that's all."
"Intriguing. And I'm intrigued, I must admit."
"Julia? Aren't we ever going to begin?"
"But we already have, my dear. Didn't you know?"
I could almost feel the sparks singe my skin, the hot sparks from those emerald-green eyes. And then I saw the kiss forming on her lips and was barely able to suppress a visible shudder, an instinctive but rather idiotic reaction. I just hadn't expected her to kiss me. Not that kind of kiss, anyway. Couldn't she just lead me over to the sofa and play our cuntlapper-and-cunt game? I was sure ready for it. An adult version of forgotten childish fun – complete with climax, hopefully! But no, she was already tilting my face up to meet hers, about to kiss me like a man. More gently, perhaps – ugh – like a bridegroom kissing his bride at the wedding ceremony?
To hell with the wedding, let's have the honeymoon! Lap my cunt, you lesbian cuntlapper, isn't that what lesbians are supposed to do?
She kissed me. Right on the mouth. She placed her woman's mouth right on mine. And for a moment there, well, I didn't know whether to swoon away gracefully or take it and risk an upset stomach. I could see myself unchucking all over the rug, a naked little girl covered with remorse. To say nothing of embarrassment. Although it was hard to figure which one of us would have been more embarrassed, the kisser or the kissee. I didn't have to, fortunately – after that single twinge of revulsion everything simmered down and stayed put, steady as an old grandfather clock. Tick-tock-tick-tock-tick-tock. Only it must have been time for the hour to strike; something inside my belly went bong all of a sudden, and it was like the dawn of a new day for me. The dawn of a new life?
No man's kiss had ever felt like this, so sensuous, so solicitous, so totally dedicated. Dedicated to me. I moaned into her mouth and surrendered blissfully, endeavoring only to remain receptive near-equal dedication. She tasted of liquor rose-petal lipstick, sweeter and more intoxicating than any after-dinner cordial. And more seductive, too, something quite outside the realm of masculine possibility. I knew then that she was seducing me with her own womanly wiles, accomplishing her aim without any further need of veiled threats and such.
Her tongue was softer than mine – and much smaller, of course – but its expertise and greedy enthusiasm went beyond belief. It kept moving all the time, licking the inside of my mouth, darting back and forth and circling around and around and never coming to rest. The kiss was a hot one, no doubt about that, but pretty soon the liquor flavor wore off and then all I could think of was the sweetness of it. Lipstick against lipstick. Perfume blending with perfume. The taste of woman mixed with woman. There was something ripe and rich and fruity about it, a succulent dessert with the magnitude of a main dish. I could have feasted there for hours.
Julia had other ideas, though. She broke the contact abruptly and stood there towering above me, her face aglow with triumph, almost a kind of exaltation. "Uh-huh. Whose little girl are you? No, my dear, you'd better start revising your priorities. For someone like you, men are only a habit left over from adolescence. You were designed for more exotic pleasures."
There was no sympathy now, merely a blunt statement of fact, too tough for any rebuttal. I remained mute, overwhelmed by her majestic presence, breathless, still sexually aroused, still tasting the sweet residue of that soul-shattering kiss. And famished for more, naturally, parched for another sip of its succulence. Had she offered it, I would have sucked and swallowed the saliva-honey from her mouth. I felt myself floundering now, torn loose from the bedrock of my past, bewildered by my own erratic behavior, my emotionally unstable reactions. How could she have wrought such a change in me – this unpredictable woman – how did it happen, how did my world crumble so quickly?
I had no answers, only questions, unspoken questions. And even those were set aside as she touched me, patting my flushed cheeks with her hand. A condescending caress, first one side, then the other – her expression impassive now, with just a hint of amused arrogance lurking beneath the surface. Or was it cruelty? From my lowly viewpoint, even her character traits were unpredictable. I received only vague impressions, no diagrams, no details, nothing clear and concise. There was the aura to contend with, misty as a black lace nightgown, an aura of sensuality. Of sex and lust and wickedness. And it billowed out to encompass me like some big sweet-scented cloud. Not a fleecy white cloud, a dark and mysterious one, rife with innuendo…
"Hmm. So soft. Such a sexpot. Maybe I ought to make you my little girl. Do you think that's possible?"
"I-I…"
"Hush. You've already told me. Like this. See? Wait now, I'll do it again. Oh, you are sensitive."
She had me shaking, that was how sensitive I had become. All with just a fleeting touch of her hand. Well, not so fleeting. Both hands now, one gliding down to where I needed it most. While the other continued to hover over my already blossoming nipples. And then it was the thing in my belly that was blossoming, incited by the magic wand of her fingertip. Anyway, it felt like that, just the tip of one finger, although I couldn't tell for sure. Her eyes held mine. Peripherally, I could see her lips, the lipsticked lips, a lovely red counterpoint to the green of her engulfing gaze. Inches apart, we seemed to be kissing again. Only now all my sensitivities were rushing downward, converging on that fantastic finger.
Fantabulous! And it wasn't even inside me yet. Just tracing up and down the outer furrow of my cunt. The vulva. I had the feeling of being painted with lipstick down there. My craving was for something deeper, though, and I indicated it with a quivery little lurch of my middle. A tilt of pelvis, spasmodic. I must have been wiggling my legs apart, too, because all of a sudden there was a wetness, a definite slippery wetness, even though her finger hadn't seemed to move much in that direction. It was in me, sure enough, narrowing the arc of its motion to fit into my now well-irrigated furrow. Not nearly to the depth I craved, alas…
"Do that. Yes. Make it suck, darling."
"Ssuck? Hmm? Julia?"
"Your cunt. Make it suck ray finger. Invite me in."
"Oh. I-I don't know… wait… uh…"
"That's it. Good girl! Isn't that a lovely way to fingerfuck? Ah! You darling. Nnngg. Isn't this nice? You deserve a reward for learning it so quickly."
Unpredictable. Just when I was getting the hang of it, too, clenching and unclenching some unidentified muscles down there, muscles I wasn't even aware of. But the reward came with a delicious jolt, an abrupt thrust of her finger – hand? – that sapped the strength out of every muscle, inside and all around, including the ones in my already shaky thighs. The weakness reached my knees, turning me perilously limp, and I swayed and clutched at her but still couldn't function, clinging there like a parasite. She too lost her balance momentarily, and we collapsed together.
The rug abraded my bare back, a fresh stimulus. Her invading hand went quiescent again, a gentle fuck once more, the work mostly mine. But she was still rewarding me – and herself now, no doubt – as a man might, a breast-oriented male. (A common species among the opposite sex, so hung-up on tits!) Only there was no comparison, of course, and it seemed quite logical that someone with breasts of her own would best know how to treat breasts. The soft nipple-suction, so maddeningly soft that an accidental touch of her teeth soon became a welcome relief. Only a woman would understand. How often had I soaped my own budding nipples in the bath – a girlhood habit we never outgrow, I'm sure! – lathering them so softly that even the flick of a sharp fingernail had a certain abrasive charm. Only it was sharp teeth instead now, the painful accidents occurring more and more frequently, a kind of subtle erotic violence, until she had me squirming in scary protest. I was sandwiched between two abrasions then, still conscious of the bristly carpet below. Bristly but not unbearable. Like the bite of those teeth, excruciating but masked in fluid ecstasy, still only a tiny nucleus in the great sexy wet molecule of her mouth. Some molecule! Mollusk was more like it, nurturing each nipple, each pearl, like a guardian oyster…
"I'm very fond of your dewy young bosom, my dear."
"Thank you, ma'am. My pleasure."
So courtly! Such elegance of phrase! And so deliciously phony, what with the kiss turning fiercely covetous, losing all sense of restraint. Her lips smacked at my tits greedily, overdoing it, making loud slobbering noises. But the sound was strangely infectious, vibrant, penetrating the length of my body to buzz around my clitoris – and I could only hold her close and stroke her head rapturously, the long golden locks atumble on my flesh. Every now and then I brushed aside a few stray strands that threatened to interfere with her sucking. I had to touch her mouth once, right at the point of contact, discovering a bizarre new excitement as my finger slid into the wet vacuum to wedge itself between wet tongue and wet nipple.
Even before her head moved away, I knew exactly where she was going. Or maybe I moaned first and that gave her the idea. A moan full of meaning, it must have been, a desperation signal to stir her to pity. Or at least strike some responsive chord. And it succeeded, apparently, because she made only a pretense at planting butterfly kisses on the way down, pausing once at the dip of my navel and then again upon the rolling crown of my abdomen. Belly button to belly. Charting the depth and rise, the lay of the land, as though to prepare and acclimatize herself well in advance, as thorough as an old pith-helmet-type explorer on an equatorial quest. Uh-huh. How torrid was my zone! Erogenous zone, that is. Although by that time my whole body was beginning to feel like one huge erogenous zone, glad of any attention whatsoever.
Her body had angled off to the side, turning her topsy-turvy to me, and it was her soft nose and not the anticipated stiffer chin that grazed my delta first. So light a touch! But with a power of its own nonetheless, the deliciously hot-breathing nostrils – so benevolent now, my darling dragon – blowing prickly patterns in my cunt-hair, prickles of wild excitement. The last delay, I figured, no more teasing after this. But who can predict the unpredictable? I should have known by now. It was happening again – variations on a theme by Julia, artiste extraordinaire! – with one obvious difference, of course, the intimate but inevitably noticeable superiority of tongue over finger. And the rest remained pretty much the same as before, the same up-and-down licking arc, the same preoccupation with the outer furrow, a vulva-fetish of sorts. She had to bob her head now to complete the sweep, a kind of sideways bobbing that I enjoyed watching and hated to stop. But the challenge was more than I could resist, almost second nature to me, and those recently unlocked muscles slipped right back into that spasmodic clenching routine, all but spontaneous in their eagerness. On an all but impossible mission, though. Suck that itty-bitty tongue? The cunt-lips of an elastic virgin might have helped, nothing less.
Too bad about that. My own degree of cuntal elasticity had diminished somewhat since the demise of my cherry. Hardly unnatural, even at my young age. But it became a source of sudden anxiety just the same, driving me to extremes in my effort to sublimate and compensate and perhaps even perform a miracle. Think positive. Wasn't the smooth arc of her tongue already a shade fluttery around midpoint? Slumping a bit? Well, getting a little ragged, anyhow. Ah yes, let her bobbing head bear witness, its slowdown a sure sign of something or other. Slowdown and stop. Less spectacular but infinitely more satisfying. At last! It was mine now, that reluctant tongue of hers, sucked out of its rut by the sweat of my unseen muscle fiber. Or sucked into its rut, more specifically – and by the same token, not really so sweaty a task, just conducive to slippery mucous surfaces. Which, in turn, enticed more tongue into the act, enough to slither around lazily in the general vicinity of my throbbing clit-button. Where she had herself a field day, quite naturally, doubtless gloating as even the near-missed registered with the kick of an incipient orgasm, sending me into convulsion after convulsion…
"Well, little girl?"
"Oooh…"
She must have read my meaning and that it wasn't the big one for me yet, just a long-drawn out disjointed shudder of need, a call to action on her part. And now, summoned up and set free, a whole new slew of sensations that had lain dormant and untapped all my life – talk about novelty – skittered around crazily to add to the confusion.
Always another fillip, another flurry. Until I had to reach out in panic for something to steady myself, something solid to hold onto. And it was solid, sure enough, the swell of a fleshy haunch inside that snugly cut, stark sheath. Even the sight of it affected me sensually, though, as my small white hand appeared to be seeking more than mere support from that big black-clad bulwark alongside. I found myself straining to pull it closer, to nestle my head into the very center of all that perfumed warmth – to steep my cares in its sweet intoxication. A glimpse of nirvana, it felt like, just enough to make me curious for more…
Curious for more what?
Nirvana was out of my line, too remote for the likes of me, a red-blooded little American girl, more concerned with sex than with emotional sanity and such. I let the earthy side of my personality take control, all impulse and pouting impetuosity, lunging with both arms to seize and position that big womanly body for my pleasure. Or for whatever might be appropriate to my next impromptu mood. Luckily, she got the message and cooperated now, otherwise I could have gone on hauling freight till doomsday. But her torso complied with my somewhat ungentle insistence, wriggling into place, followed almost haphazardly by a toss of her long limbs, long and lax and landing every which way – crazy legs – and yet surprisingly shapely despite the slight heaviness accentuated by this rather awkward contortion. A heaviness of calf and thigh. And of the broad hips, too, only I didn't mind that at all, nuzzling into the softly enveloping comfort. Like a shy child playing ostrich in her mother's ample lap, burrowing in and burying her face to hide from the outside world.
I couldn't help noticing the condition of that dress now, the stylish black sheath, all wrinkled and rucked-up from so much rolling around. Rucked high on her thighs. So that even the loose embrace of my arms took in a lot of bare flesh – along with some perilously suspended sheer hosiery and an assortment of metallic fasteners and stretchy straps, all no doubt connected to a matching garter belt somewhere. And all with a certain sexy connotation, of course, the intimately provocative necessities that even the most virtuous of women cannot put on without a leer and a private little whore fantasy. More interesting than the black material cradling my cheeks, anyway. Hmm. What if the hem got rucked a few inches higher? Hmmm…
Oh shit, do I dare?
It was the smell that decided me. The perfume smell. I caught an unexpected whiff of something stronger, sharper, almost pungent to my nostrils. Not the same flowery scent that turned bland filtering through so much fabric. No, this seemed to be billowing out from beneath the skirt – and I simply followed my nose and ducked down there for a moment, boosting the hem along slyly on the way back up. Well, not so slyly. Too far! Because all of a sudden there it was, facing me, all pouched out inside the wispy black panties, a bulging and evidently hairy cunt. I stopped functioning for a while, shutting my eyes and concentrating on the renewed furor of that tantalizing little tongue. It was a cop-out, pretty much, just time to get my poor head together and plan a quick retreat without undue embarrassment. No more impetuous impulses, though – that was how I'd gotten into this fix. Instant lesbianism. Hah! Some lesbian. Afraid to open my eyes. Still, it could have been worse. What if she hadn't worn panties tonight?
Ten I heard it. A sound to chill the blood. The sound of ripping and tearing, a sundering of threads – so close – and at last a grunt of smug satisfaction. Or was it impatience? The next move was definitely up to me. Julia had made hers, sure enough, a dramatic masterstroke! A sacrifice of panties. Expensive ones, probably, and she could have shed them without any fuss. But no, the spectacular was more her style, the smashing of the barrier in one heavy-handed swipe. Even with my eyes shut, I could see that fragile wisp of lingerie in shreds, wide-open, its torn crotch dangling like a weather beaten signal flag, a personal message just for me…