Dallas Mayo - For women only

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…

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…