Dallas Mayo - For women only

It was pretty silly – even – about pinning that "slave" label upon myself. Although I had to admit that the roar of excitement in my body must have drowned out any possible whimper of shame at the time. A momentary masochistic urge, no doubt. The tendency wasn't exactly unfamiliar to me, a tendency toward submission – not for pain or anything like that, just a normal girlish deference to the more dominant masculine personality. True, it was somewhat less than normal in this particular instance, but my flighty little mind had already accepted the wife as a substitute for her husband. I was socially inferior to both, of course, but Julia's air of superiority was greater and far more overwhelming.

Only it was real, not just an air, and I couldn't help but make the comparison after Simon's next visit. A regularly scheduled visit, with those same old regularly scheduled activities. Leaving me with my thirst unslaked and my hunger unappeased, no longer satisfied with just another mouthful of cock, no matter how big and hard and masculine. Quite the contrary, in fact. I might even have felt less critical had the sweaty odor in my nostrils been daintier, more delicate, suffused with fragrantly perfumed memories of his beautiful wife's femininity. Beautiful and infinitely seductive…

A superior creature, then. Oh shit, I missed her! Especially when the torment took hold, the sexy torment that could be pure hell with no satisfaction in sight. Just once, I thought of going out to make a pickup in some bar – at best, pretty risky! – but now that idea fell completely flat, what with a newly added risk to figure on. The risk of forfeiting even a remote chance that she might come acalling again; what if I wasn't home?

And so, in the wee small hours of the morning, I found myself tossing and turning and gritting my teeth. It got almost painful after a while. I could practically feel her right there in bed with me. The musky scent wouldn't let me breathe. Every curvy square inch of my skin had achieved new sensitivity, a kind of itch that needed to be well scratched. Only all the scratching in the world wouldn't have been more than a drop in the bucket, the way I itched. My poor tits got all tingly. The inner surfaces of my thighs developed an uncomfortable stickiness. There was a void within me, a hollow in my flesh that was raw and aching. And all that tossing and turning wore [missing text].

Until, at last, I succumbed inevitably to the well-nigh inexorable pressure of my need. My hands began to forage. My fingers scurried around on little missions of their own. It still wasn't much good, though – as expected, dammit! – and I was soon sobbing in frustration, further inflamed by a hot but maddingly impossible desire to get my mouth down there and lick where it itched most. To penetrate those quivering cunt-lips and fill the throbbing void with this wet tongue of mine, thick and wet and eager for a taste. If only I could be a cuntlapper to my own cunt!

That helped, miraculously. Just thinking about it. Grotesque as it was, the bizarre whim became a fantasy-like spur that actually goaded me into a big climax. Bigger than I had anticipated. My sobs turned to ecstatic shrieks, loud enough to rattle my eardrums and shock me into at least a semblance of sanity. Loud enough to wake the whole neighborhood, it sounded like, and I modified my two-handed self-caress hastily if somewhat reluctantly, pulling one squishy paw free to cut off the noise. And that too had a miraculous effect! I tasted the palm plastered over my parted lips, the palm and then the fingers – effectively smothering the scream but also delighting my senses with an unforeseen dividend, a little liquid incentive to quell my reluctance. I licked greedily, tasting and savoring the deliciously slimy stuff, the moisture of my cunt in the sweet throes of orgasm. Then everything hit me at once – and I must have blacked out awhile.

It couldn't have been very long, though – no more than a minute or so – because I earns to in exactly that same position, one hand in my mouth, the other jammed up my vagina. Or was it the same? It felt different now, somehow – just as nice in this tranquil afterglow, nice in a gentle way – but different nonetheless, a difference I couldn't quite fathom. Hmm. Of course! I had the good grace to blush at that point, already half asleep but still aware of my cheeks growing hot with shame, hot with my own self-inflicted humiliation. As well they might! And yet it seemed incredible, obliterated from my memory like that. Had I really done it, had I really changed hands back there? I must have. Right in the middle of all that eerie excitement, the thrill of sucking my own juicy sex secretions – overpowering enough to knock me out, admittedly, but still hardly an excuse for such unseemly conduct. Switching hands, imagine, bringing up a scoop of fresh cunt-cream in one and sending the other back down to keep the creamy pot achurning. What a sensual little bitch I was becoming! Or had I always been like that? Was it possible that one small lesbian affair could have uncovered such hidden facets in my nature?

Possible indeed. Highly probable. And the discovery was a source of pride, I decided – more determined than ever now to continue on in this same erotically rich vein. Even the shame itself was a kind of tantalizing addiction, bittersweet, not for children – tasty only to someone like me, a sexy little sensualist just liberated from the sticky-fingered innocence of childhood. I had given up candy for the joys of cunt. And in the meantime, with the aid of those few minor miracles, sleep was no longer a problem this lonely night. My body had received the peace that my mind couldn't offer it. Not much of a peace, unfortunately. Just a temporary truce, I realized only too well, barely sufficient to blunt the keen edge of desire. Oh no, I hadn't solved anything. I even feel asleep wondering if it wasn't just my youthful impatience that made the perverted relationship so attractive to me. Impatience! Plus a touch of imagination…

Sex was whirling around in my brain that evening. It seemed to spin far and wide, saturating the atmosphere of my apartment with its not-quite-familiar provocative perfume, making me feel more alone than ever. All alone and lonesome. And not very anxious to crawl into my vaguely perfumed bed and try to diddle myself to sleep in some hazy fantasy. Musk-and-floral, no doubt, but who could remember anymore?

That was when my phone rang. Eureka! Speak of the devil, I thought. Or rather, think of the devil. Or so I hoped, leaping to answer it – with my fingers crossed for luck and a prickle of extrasensory perception for confidence. Neither of which had much change, really, in view of the circumstances. It just couldn't be Julia telephoning in advance. What for, to request an invitation?

No, hers would be an unannounced visit. Just like that first one. If and when she ever got around to it.

"Darling?"

That was all it took. One word. The magic word to make my dream come true. Darling. It sent shivers racing up my spine. Who else would begin a phone call like that? I recognized her voice immediately – the throaty quality, an endearment with a hint of command. It was enough to set my cunt-muscles clenching in spontaneous reaction, intrigued but instinctively neutral as yet, a half-and-half mixture of anticipation and apprehension. Always unpredictable, my lesbian lover, seductress of small girls, poacher on her husband's province; oh, but it was good to hear from the bossy bitch again. Even over the telephone, an insipid instrument fiendishly designed to make chatter sound like communication. Which was exactly what seemed to be happening now, somehow.

I couldn't figure her out. Idle talk, charming and convivial, full of good cheer but scarcely relevant to the central issue. And how come she wasn't bossy any more? I got the impression that she didn't even know what the issue was. And pretty soon my poor impatient heart started sending distress signals, reason enough to speak upon my own behalf. Hesitantly, perhaps, but with a certain naive clarity.