The first thing that came to mind was kind of silly. Right after I opened my eyes. Not the denuded cunt itself, oddly enough. Nor was it my rather precarious position there, a little too involved and a helluva lot too close. No, the eye-opener was that tattered and torn panty-crotch, dangling, dangling, exactly as I had pictured it in the dark; exactly. And then – with an intermittent shudder – I had to pause and think about ESP and such, giving due credit to coincidence but still knocking on those faraway esoteric Doors of Perception.
I was alert enough to make one decision, anyway – again in that "kind of silly" category. Those damn panties! I made a mental note to keep them out of the trash can later. Somehow they had achieved a certain sentimental value, quite aside from the ESP stuff. After all, what other girl had ever inspired such a grand-gesture sacrifice from her would-be lesbian seducer? Wasn't this a night to remember? Let the scrap of shredded lingerie take its rightful place among my souvenirs – bottom drawer, left-hand side. Memento of my first gay affair! First and only, perhaps. And it might still even fizzle out now – the brief-candle computer romance of a would-be and a never-was – doomed in its infancy. In its very conception. No mystery, though, no need for an inquest. Death from natural causes. The generation gap. Lack of communication. Frigidity. Impotence. Premature ejaculation. The heartbreak of psoriasis. And last but not least, the ludicrously looming possibility of a computer-input data error: one of us just happens to prefer men, the one with the thick lips, a natural-born cocksucker…
"Darling?"
"Uh-huh. Wait. Don't rush me."
"Of course not. I wouldn't dream of it. We've got all the time in the world."
"Oh. I-I thought you were getting impatient."
"Umm, honey, that's easy to understand. You might hear me making funny noises. Like a little grunt maybe, you know? Or you might see me get all twitchy and fidgety sometimes. Like a nervous breakdown on the verge. And you might even say all of those are signs of impatience. Well, you'd be absolutely right. But it's nothing for you to fret about. It's just my body acting up, not my mind. I'll keep the lid on, don't worry, I'll be very patient with you. There now, does that cheer you up?"
A rhetorical question. Anyway, she was already angling over to scrooch down between my thighs once more, obviously not expecting much of an answer. And not getting any. Especially the one she must have been pining for, a cherry kiss in the immediate vicinity of that dangling distress signal. Only I wasn't quite ready to commit myself as yet. For that matter, I wasn't ready for anything just then. I had quit functioning a second time.
The perfume smell again, the one with a sexy bite! It was affecting me like a loud rock concert – "heavy metal" – so loud that it seems to compress your body and hold you motionless. Only this was a scent that had me in its grip, an overpowering redolence of crushed flowers and musk and probably too-ripe woman-flesh. Even the floral fragrance had to share in the guilt; it bore the taint of some turgid tropical jungle, abloom with lurid foliage only to camouflage and appease the carnivorous appetites of its quicksands and quagmires – a verdant lure that seldom failed to inflame the senses of some nice plump botanist passing by. The aroma was befogging my brain with its obscenely musky appeal, a state of suspension that I had neither the desire nor the will to challenge. And I could see its source, of course – my personal quagmire! – right under my nose. Smacking its oily lips, smug with power, while it polluted the atmosphere with its silent but inescapable siren song. Promises of perfumed depravity. Promises, promises! Individual ecstasies a specialty. Sweet Sixteen orgies catered. Sexagenarians laundered. Incestuous relationships discreetly arranged. Oh yes, I had just enough evil in my makeup to know evil when I saw it…
I became distantly aware of a change. Something missing. Julia had tapered off again down there. I was vaguely conscious of her face rising and craning back at me. To speak, no doubt. Another gently barbed reminder. Patience may be a virtue, but who remains virtuous in this day and age? Or some such. And I would be grateful even for a demeaning grown-up lecture, a stern finger, just the thing to goose my butt out of this paralyzing perfume jag.
The tension mounted. I waited for the sound of her voice, dreading it but desperately in need. Her body was still uncoiling sinuously if somewhat laboriously, a painstaking movement that edged her head closer to mine without even an extended twist or turn to disturb the sexy status quo, the central battleground for our war of nerves. Olfactory nerves first, I hoped. Imagination, perhaps, but I could actually feel the eddy of scent-saturated currents swirl up around my face. Screw the status quo! Say something nice and nasty, you sarcastic bitch. Must I sniff cunt all night?
And then I got the bad news in a crash of silence. No criticism this trip, apparently. Julia had struck her ultimate pose and was settling into it like a dress shop display dummy with a touch of laryngitis. No sound effects. Adding insult to injury, the purpose of her snaky maneuver became clear now – a chance to play voyeur – at her own it was me she kept staring at, as far as I could tell – intently, but with no more emotion than the lens of a camera. While I remained there, spellbound, utterly helpless.
At that dismal point, I might have easily been forced into any given direction. My tendency to dwell interminably on every little decision was becoming a bore. And so was my apparent obsession with decisions in general. I probably wouldn't have hesitated to resurrect my cuddly dumb bunny personality for the first person who offered to balance my checkbook. Any volunteers? No, not likely. Oh, if only there was a gadget to tell people when to speak up! The expedient moment. Hmm. Like now, for instance? All she had to do was say it. Right out loud. Just tell me! Come on, you horny little whore, what are you waiting for? It's cunt time. Go get it, baby, it's right under your nose…
It would have ended this awful suspense, at least. And wasn't that how an aggressive lesbian effected her conquests? Okay, so I was ready to be conquered. Why couldn't she understand?
Hah! Stupid me. She understood, all right, and far more than I did. Aggressive or otherwise, the key word here was still lesbian. A lesbian was seducing an unreconciled girl. Only it was being done with a certain subtle passivity, a scarcely veiled insistence that the final, fateful thrust of such reconciliation be self-inflicted. A lesbian was making a Goddam lesbian out of me. And was I ready for that too, ready to contrive my own conquest? Decisions, decisions. Wheels within wheels. Prudent one minute, just plain stubborn the next until I couldn't help but wonder which. Anyway, somehow I just didn't feel any reason to kiss her down there, kiss her cunt, kiss those lips, those grinning hairy lips; no reason at all.
With a visible shrug, Julia came out of her voyeuristic pose to turn active again, twisting her head around to land back down between my thighs. And that fiendish little tongue resumed its fiendish little caresses once more. Like before, though, I got the full benefit of it only when my own inner muscles were squeezing. Working hard, actually. As if my cunt was servicing her tongue, not the other way around. Or maybe tongues were considered all-important in certain gay circles! More important right there, it seemed. Hmm. What if she got a jolt of mine? My great big one. She couldn't have noticed it yet, that was for sure. And neither had I very much, for that matter except in relation to my thick lips and generously proportioned mouth – all seen in the light of that cocksucking championship. But in this instance, right here and now, a good-sized tongue would be an advantage all by itself. Indeed, a highly significant advantage. Mine was already atingle over the idea, practically dying to blossom forth and show off a little. Oh shit, wouldn't it put that tiny thing of hers to shame?
So all of a sudden I had a reason, just like that, an intriguing and almost irresistible reason to end the deadlock. Vanity. A bit far-fetched, perhaps, but still within my immediate logical grasp, an illusion of truth and dire necessity. And I was already trembling with anticipation, intoxicated by the winy fleurs-de-mal fragrance in my nostrils, inflamed by the no longer dubious prospect of making love to a member of my own sex. One way or another. I would have carnal knowledge of this incorrigibly perverted creature. To the ultimate perverted degree, no doubt. And the fact of her perversion – and mine! – only made it that much more thrilling.
My lips went uncomfortably dry. I licked them with a hurrying tongue tip, trying to comprehend the abrupt change in myself, eager now for this lewdly inviting venture into the unknown. Eager to partake of the evil wine, its bouquet, its body. Eager to taste the erotic excitement of woman. The love of woman for woman! And eager to sample it all before my bubble of illusion shattered. Which meant that I'd better take the plunge right away – the dive, the tumble, the headlong drop into that pool of seething sensuality. The cunt pool! Scary. Hardly a fiery maelstrom, perhaps, but to me no less formidable than the flaming swimtank of a daredevil circus diver. And with dizzier aftereffects, I'd have been willing to wager.
Anyway, the time had come. Moaning aloud to vent my crescendo of inner tension, I simply surrendered and sank low right there – between her legs and beneath the rucked-up skirt – and at last muted the dregs of my moan in the hot fleshy mound that appeared to split down the middle and yield coquettishly to my slightest pressure. It opened wider and wider to welcome me, giving my zealously primed tongue plenty of room to practice. Only the practice failed to achieve its hoped-for perfection there, fitting me with a sense of loss instead, a vague feeling of frustration that refused to go unheeded.
I had to slow down and figure that one out. The fault lay at least partly in our position, still reversed but more nearly parallel now, the so-called "head over heels in love" embrace. Loving and being loved, supposedly. Only the thrill seemed comparatively weak, not quite up to expectations – not even by less exacting standards – despite the extreme intimacy of our entanglement. And I realized then, after an interim of introspection, that this final classic coupling of body with female body had certain limitations. No wonder she had swung only halfway around before this, twisting herself into an ungainly angle for those earlier kisses. Uh-huh. Method in her madness! Small as it was, her tongue had managed to reach my clitoris quite nicely then, approaching it from below, the more sensitive underside. But now, stuck here in this obviously limited parallel posture, not even the most agile and amply proportioned of tongues – mine included! – could duplicate that feat. Not from the underside. So we were both at a distinct disadvantage, capriciously thwarted by the apparent dictates of custom; after all, this was the classic lesbian position, wasn't it?
Worst yet, my reason for getting involved was still at stake, even more so than ever now, an opportunity already down the drain. Down that great big dark hole, all vagina and no clit. Too big, too damned big! Bigger and looser than a cunt ought to be – especially upside-down like this! – even though I had no right to criticize or complain. No, it was disappointing only because I couldn't really show off my tongue. Ugh. With a little more push I could probably fit my whole head into that bottomless undersea chasm. And drown in a watery grave, no doubt, too limp to evade the dark undertow and struggle back up to the surface. Or too preoccupied maybe, still more concerned with the dashed hopes and dying possibilities for my larger-than-life pink tongue, my uniquely wrought organ of taste and speech and what-have-you…
"Honeychild? Not quitting, are you? So soon?"
The query sounded quite serious, occasioned by an unwitting and almost imperceptible lift of my head. I remained like that but couldn't unclog my throat for the requisite answer, still restricted to no more than a barely audible moan. Even my ability to think rationally was still in doubt, suspended, submerged in the aphrodisiac haze of musk arising from the quivery-hot interior of those lustful loins. I gazed down at its sultry source with mixed emotions, a breakthrough of sorts, my first long and unabashed look at her cunt. Even the prominently thicketed plumage surprised me, light brown at peak density but jauntily overlaid with a charming golden tinge at the curly ends and edges. And now I could actually see the thing, itself, the cleft, the labia, the softly furled petals, all rosy red inside and glistening with her sex dew, tiny jewels of moisture sporadically strung upon stray tendrils of hair. I was too close to view it in context, of course, but the overall color harmony did make an aesthetic impression on me. The tipped, light brown tuft picked up a certain translucence under the lamp, a quality and chromatic hue not unlike the amber of her skin, a fetching blend. And the same easy compatibility persisted throughout, as far as I could tell, the fusion of colors narrowing almost to a single uniform consistency: an antique gold aglow from within. A bit bizarre, perhaps, but no more so than the woman herself, consistently unpredictable…
"Hey there, won't you join me? Come on, Rory."
"Hmm?"
"Get plugged in. It's no good unless you complete the circuit, you know? Just like before. Only better."
"Oh…"
"Unless maybe you really are quitting. Copping out, huh?"
"N-no… never…" I pouted, mumbling my protest slowly but with demure emphasis. Speech was less difficult now, a cover for my injured pride. Then, on the crest of a sudden giggle, "That circuit. If we complete it, isn't a bell supposed to ring or something?"
"Sure. Pavlov's dogs come in and ring it. In case of a cop-out, though, they just bark good and loud."
"Okay, okay. I can take a hint."
A chuckle sounded from between my thighs, and that pointy little tongue of hers resumed its joyous torment. She had it down to a science, I realized, angling her head slightly even in this restricted position. Couldn't I do the same? Regardless, my moment of procrastination had run its course. I had to do something…
And then, inspired by her droll rejoinder, I decided on a new approach. Instant conditioning. Pavlov would have been proud! No more stewing over my sad tongue, no more foolish frustrations about showing it off. No more intellectualizing. Back to basics, back to the simple stuff. Cunt. Even those dumb dogs would have understood that. Cunt, cunt, cunty-cunt. Cunt-conscious, cunt-oriented, cunt-conditioned! Just like that. Hmm. Cunt-crazy? Somewhat premature, perhaps, but it did cast a promising shadow. Crazy over cunt! No persuasion necessary. Instant conditioning. Ah yes, just the thing for a well-bred bitch in heat. A naked little bitch in droopy nylons. Cunt-conditioned now, hot for another bitch! A big one, a nice big sexy bitch with an impatient cunt and conveniently torn panties. And wouldn't they have themselves a ball, those two lucky bitches?
I dove right in and started my suck-kiss. Her great wet maw of a crotch opened in greeting, all warm and moist and slippery, huge enough to swallow half my head. And why not let it? I sank my face in deeper, tentatively at first and then with an almost grudging recognition of its unexpected pleasures. The ripe flavor, for instance, the richly appetizing taste of mature woman-flesh – mmm, yummy! – wasn't it just this sort of thing that could get to be a habit? If so, I was already beyond reclamation, adrift in the slithery softness, lost in the exquisitely intoxicating texture and fragrance. And now I was delving for more depth, using my hands underneath her coyly yielding buttocks to cup and lift and seal the contact. Scrumptious! And oh, the mystery of it, the dark vortex luring me liquidly onward, ever deeper into the tart-sweet slime of our shared depravity. We were doing it together for the first time, really, fulfilling a mutual desire – to possess and be possessed. Together, together! And the sheer physical thrill swelled to wondrous proportions, leaving no room inside me for anything else, not even a random thought. No fallout from this life-exploding bomb, no toxic residue sifting down upon my shoulders like a burden of guilt. Nothing at all. Except perhaps for a fleeting split-second notion, a flash of insight to illuminate the canyons of my conscience with the almost blinding revelation that "lesbian" is not a dirty word…
"Oooh! That turns me on. Do it some more, darling."
"Ummm?"
"Hard, much harder. You know. Fuck me!"
"Mmm. Hmmm? Nnnng?"
"Oh yes, that's it, that's just grand! Isn't it freaky? Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me with your face, your pretty face!"
I clutched at her legs, the backs of her thighs, feeling the urgency in them, in the rock-and-thrust of her pelvis, the writhing contortions of her entire body. Urgency indeed – a need to be served and an imperative demand for that service – all focused upon her cunt, the hot wellspring of her passion, a veritable font of lubricity. And I was more than willing to serve it, naturally, even if that made me some kind of slave girl. Cunt-slave? Whatever. Slave to my big bossy lesbian lover…