This is part of an occasional series of ‘Scenes’, all of which are a single scene in a particular type of location. They are ‘point of view’ stories, and you can imagine that you are either the narrator or the ‘you’ character. This is happening on Saturday night, in a club in your town.
copyright: Lesley Tara, 2011
I’m sending little darting glances over to where you are, on the other side of the bar – hoping to catch your attention, to attract your interest.
And why not? You are just my type: a tall, slender, leggy blonde, with your profile displaying an enticing curve of breasts – they look firm and perky, a nice handful but not too large. Your hair is neatly styled, you are smartly turned out for a night on the town – you have that indefinable chic. You carry yourself really well, with confidence and a kind of unstated command, an oasis of cool serenity in this noisy packed club with its crowd at the bar and the mass of pulsating bodies on the dance floor nearby. You look well-educated and professional: a business executive, perhaps in advertising, or a banker, or maybe a lawyer? All this turns me on so much – and most of all that you look about a dozen years older than me, in your early 30s.
I’m always easy meat for a stylish mature woman, and slim blondes most of all – I suppose it goes back to the woman who first seduced me, a tennis coach at summer camp six years ago, when I was just legal at sixteen. She knew what I needed even before I did, and ever since I’ve been exclusively a girl for girls – or, rather, for women, whenever I get the chance. And now I’ve left college and got a job in this city, I can do what I want – and that’s to trawl the lesbian bars and clubs every Saturday night, looking to get off with someone like you, just exactly like you!
You caught my eye almost as soon as you came into this members-only lesbian night club; I realise that I’ve noticed you here a few times before, but I never got the chance to trail my coat (well, my pussy) in your path. You are with two other women, perhaps in their late twenties, both quite attractive and smart – but you stand out, to me you shine like a beacon, and all the other femmes in the club are just a grey indistinct background behind you. I’m not worried about the chicks you are with, because I’ve seen them around and I know they are a couple. But I don’t want some other bitch cutting in and hooking you before I do, and hence my increasingly unsubtle signs of interest.
C’mon, take a chance, you won’t regret it, I promise you! Look my way, and see what’s on offer – I’m a very pretty girl, everyone has always said so, a cute dark-eyed brunette, quite busty, quite young, in a short tight skirt and black boots – what is there to lose? Try your luck – it’s your lucky night, believe me!
I’m standing deliberately by myself, just at the side of the bar, cradling a vodka and lime and nursing it to last. I sense from the corner of my eye that your head has turned a little in my direction, and I swing a little sideways – I’m giving you my profile, so that you can’t miss my best features, my trim jutting ass and my tits, a fully rounded thrusting pair of 30 double-Ds.
I slip a sly glance back towards you, half-hidden under my large dark eyelashes – I’m a classic brunette, my hair a rich chestnut brown, slightly curly as it hangs to brush my shoulders.
You are looking my way! Yes, definitely, you are – with a slightly amused upturn to your lips, and a glint in your eye. Has the bait so artlessly laid been taken?
Hmm ... oh! Yes, I think it has!
Still looking in my direction, you murmur something to the woman next to you, the blonde of the couple, and she gives an amused shake of her head and a small laugh, as if to say ‘off you go then, don’t let us hold you back’. But then you turn away, more in the direction of the door, and you disappear into the press of the crowd behind you, and I have a moment to admire the sway of your hips and the svelte curve of your ass, so elegantly showcased in a pair of sheer tight-fitting grey linen trousers.
Oh! Oh shit! No, don’t say that you’ve gone, heading off to some better pussy-hunting ground? Surely the hottest, most available babes are right here, right now? I mean, lookit me, for one!
I bite my lower lip with a crushing sense of disappointment, and then – for I’m not a girl to go home alone – I give the room another scan, seeking the next best (but very much second-best) prospect. Perhaps that black woman, although at only little more than my own age, she’s younger than I really want – but she does look quite commanding and authoritative. Oh, fuck, she’s with that cute little busty Latina, who looks hardly old enough to get entry here, I don’t believe she’s 18, not for a moment. Hmm ... well, what about that brunette in the far corner? I don’t know, maybe ... aah!!
My heart gives a lurch, as you suddenly materialise out of the crowd behind me – you have made a circuit around three sides of the room, I guess checking me out from various angles, and seeing if I really am on my own. In an instant you are right beside me, and your hand gently touches my arm, making me almost jump with the electric shock of excitement which this sends surging through me.
Up close, you look even better, if that is possible. You have lovely skin, a smooth flawless complexion, with a light tan that gives a healthy glow and offsets your straw blonde hair and your striking blue eyes. I’m thinking there must be Vikings in your long-ago ancestors, and maybe like them you’d like to seize a local maiden and carry her away in your longship? OK, so nowadays it’s a Mercedes 350SL convertible, but the same principle applies ... I hope!
You are three or four inches taller than me, at about five feet ten, and your greater age and experience add even more authority to that. You are wearing smart designer heels in black below your silver-grey slacks, and you must have gone by the cloakroom – I realise now that this was why you started out in the direction of the entrance – because the matching double-breasted jacket of your suit is nowhere in sight, and I am very conscious of the shiny silk fabric of your shirt-style short-sleeve white top. You have left several buttons open ... well, it is hot in here, as the evening builds up and more hormone-radiating babes pack in to this small space ... but this does afford a nice view down your front, and I seem to be well-placed at an angle to do so. I try not to be too obvious in checking this out, spying the top of a lacy black bra and the promising start of your cleavage.
I realise that you have said something – which, between the noise of the dance music and the pounding of the blood in my ears, I haven’t registered. Oh, great, here’s my chance to come across as a complete idiot!
You smile again, so attractively, your blue eyes surprisingly warm in their regard. Your hand still rests on my forearm, as you repeat:
‘Hallo, I’m glory’.
For a moment I stand, rooted to the spot, mouth half-open in surprise – shit, are you putting me on here? You don’t have to tell me, I know you are glorious – deliciously, amazingly, stunningly, pussy-wettingly, earth-shakingly, orgasmically glorious. Then I realise that in the noise I have misheard you, that actually you said that your name is Gloria – oh, girl, someone knew what they were doing at your christening, you sure had a fairy godmother! Somehow I manage to get out a strangled, tongue-tied reply:
‘Hi, umm – yes, err ... I’m Alison.’
‘Such a pretty name,’ you say softly, running your eyes over my face and body – and I can feel your gaze lingering on the ripe swell of my tits, as you add ‘... for such a pretty babe.’
Oh, yes! It may be an old line, but the old ones work just fine – and when said in your slightly husky tone, and with that sultry look in your eye, I’m falling for it for sure … of course, I probably would even if you recited the railway timetable or the Mets batting averages, but it’s the thought that counts. I’m so thrilled, because now I know for sure that you are interested, that you want me, that we are going to end up fucking like rabbits ... maybe at my apartment, maybe at yours?
You smile, nicely but just a little hawkish, a little hungry – and that turns me on, I’m getting wetter by the second, my cunny-juices must be dribbling down to the lacy tops of my hold-up stockings, and a sudden shiver goes down my spine.
You take my nearly-empty glass out of my nerveless fingers and set it down on the shiny wooden surface of the bar, just behind my elbow. Then you move your hand to my shoulder, not quite resting there but slightly squeezing, possessively – mmm, I like that.
‘Dance’, you say, and it is not quite a question and not quite an order.
My breath and voice have taken a vacation, as I look at you wordlessly, at the pinnacles of your breasts, now visibly pressing against the confines of your smooth cream silk shirt, at your slightly-parted full lips, your lightly flushed-cheeks, and the hot gleam in your eyes. My stomach does a little flip-flop of excited anticipation, my knees go wobbly and for just a second I fear that I won’t be able to take a step with folding up and falling over. I just nod soundlessly and you reach for my hand, your palm warm and surprisingly dry in mine, and you pull me along behind you into the crowd on the dance floor, into the mass of gyrating, thrusting butts and the eye-catching bouncing of breasts.
The first few numbers are fast and furious, and it gives each of us the chance to show our moves, to do what dancing has been ever since the days of cavewomen – a mating display, to attract the best fuck available. We synchronise our swaying steps in time to the pounding rhythmic beat, and you easily match me for speed and suppleness despite being at least a decade more than my twenty-two years – it’s not just that you must exercise regularly, and it crosses my mind that maybe at college you were a gymnast, or perhaps a dancer?
We touch a little as we dance, our eyes are locked on each other, we are in a little bubble of isolation despite the press of female flesh all around. Many them are damn sexy fuckable bitches, but neither of us pays them any mind, apart from neatly sidestepping if they stray awkwardly into our space.
I laugh with the carefree enjoyment of the moment, and of you and of what is still to come. Both our faces are now flushed, partly with the exertion of our dancing, and partly with sexual desire. We smile at each other without any restraint or falseness, and I let you twirl me in the classic rock style – as you are taller, it works easier for you to take the man’s steps, and anyway I want you to be dominant, to take the lead. Perhaps, if we go back to your place – as I hope we will – maybe you have a favourite strap-on you’d like to use on me ... a great big, long, curved, ridged one ... please, oh pretty please, I do so hope that you do!
The music changes pace to something slow and sensuous, and your hands go around my waist and pull me towards you. You don’t hesitate for a second as your lips find mine and press them apart, and your tongue slides between, flicking around my gums and exploding my taste buds with the tang of your saliva. Your hands slip lower to cup my butt and press my pelvis hard against yours, and I give a sigh of part-release and part-desire, as my hips open and our bodies entwine. Your right leg is pushed between mine and you press it hard against my pussy, as I grind against the firm muscles of your thigh, my short skirt riding up for several inches. Because you are taller, the crotch of your trousers rubs more against my right hip, at the very top of my leg, and I sense an urgency building beneath the brittle shell of your so-attractive cool and commanding demeanour. Our breasts are pressed together – because of the difference in height, my fuller ones push up just below yours, and the hard points of my intensely-aroused nipples thrust erotically into the soft flesh of the undersides of your smaller, perky breasts. The flimsy fabric between us is almost no barrier at all – the smooth shiny silk of our tops is the thinnest layer over our bras: yours is a light half-cup in black gauze and lace, whilst mine is an open-shelf design, just a band of fabric below the swell of my breasts to support them, giving no coverage of my tits at all.
You release your hold on my ass, and your left hand rises to clasp the back of my neck, holding me firmly there so that I cannot break away from our passionate kiss – not that I want to, of course, but your assertiveness thrills me through and through. Your right hand slips round in between us and then slides up under my stretch mini-skirt, seeking my cunt with eager intent. Your eyes widen slightly as your questing fingers find my mound, for there are no panties protecting my swollen moist pudenda from your intrusion – I never wear any when I am out on the prowl, they get in a girl’s way at moments like these.
You smile with wolfish appreciation, your nostrils flaring as your fingers deftly explore my fleshy folds. With careful delicacy – for you have no intention of letting me climax so soon – you run your fingertips along my labia, rubbing their rubbery slick surface and then teasing into the valley between them, where the lava of my desire bubbles hot and red. I give a soft appreciative moan, almost inaudible as our deeply probing kiss continues unabated, and with predatory satisfaction you sense the slight tremors running through my body, and accept the signs of my utter surrender to your sexual command.
We are pressed so closely together – mouth to mouth, tits to tits, hips to hips – that no one can easily see what you are doing to me under my skirt, out here on the crowded and dimly lit dance floor. A few of the couples close nearby can see my body tremble, know from experience where your missing hand must be, and smile with amusement – one them at least is doing the same thing, for I see a pretty femme’s head jerk backwards suddenly and her mouth opens in a silent O for orgasm, and she shudders in the tight embrace of the big busty black woman who has swept her almost literally off her feet. In fact, it is quite usual for an assertive dyke to stake her claim in this way here on the dance floor, and I’m not the only pretty girly who comes pantyless – and then comes, pantyless – in that sweet expectation. As long as you don’t shriek and don’t stumble into the other couples, no one minds at all.
As your finger enters me more forcefully, I begin to give soft gasps of pleasure, pitched low enough so that only you can hear them. I am begging you to take me, to use me, to fuck me any way that you want, and you look straight back at me, with the assurance of years of experience in your calm expression, and you say: ‘I will, oh yes, babe, I surely will!’
Just then, the slow number ends, and in the second of silence that follows, we stand there, still closely pressed together. You withdraw your hand from under my skirt, tugging it decorously back into place from where you had crumpled it up, and you give me the languid smile of a woman who knows that she has just sealed her next sexual conquest. I am so conscious of your body heat and of your smell – so enticing, your elegant perfume (Dior, I think? – you are definitely a classy lady) now mingled with the musky pheromones of sexual arousal. As you hold me close and reclaim your firm grasp of my ass, I let my hands rove over your back and butt, and press my breasts even more sharply into yours. I am gratified by the murmur I hear in the back of your throat, and I know that I am warming your fires just as much as you are stoking mine. After several minutes you break the kiss, no longer quite so much Ms Cool the smart executive, with your breath coming that much faster and shallower.
You look me directly in the eye, and say with complete command and assurance: ‘I’m taking you home with me, honey – you’re mine for tonight, and tomorrow too.’
This is Saturday night, and that’s what I was hoping for – I try not to look too eager, but my mouth has dried up somehow, so I only manage a wide-eyed nod of consent.
‘However’, you continue, with a fierce grin and a hot gleam of lust in your eyes, ‘my place is a thirty-minute drive from here, and I can’t wait that long – you hot little bitch, I want you, right here and right now!’
I am thrilled to the core, my knees go weak and my eyes wider still – with an alluring broken little moan, I nod assent a second time.
‘Good!’ you say, sexual hunger making your voice deeper and rougher, ‘babe, you’re coming with me!’
And you seize my hand again, and tow me through the sweaty crowd of lesbian lovers on the dance floor, dextrously threading between the hips and elbows of those couples who are already making out. I know your destination, as we head towards the back of the club, through the swing doors and down the stairs to the basement level – where the toilets are. Before these premises became the present exclusively-lesbian establishment (you have to become a member to enter here, and can only do so if two existing members propose you), it was an ordinary night club, and of course had washrooms for both men and women. The latter have been left unchanged, but there was no need for the former any more, and so they were remodelled as a second ladies’ toilets – you know how there can never be enough of those! The new ones are well-appointed and have longer and wider cubicles than usual, and (as was quite expected by the club management) they are regularly, indeed mainly, used for assignations like this – so much so that the original women’s washroom is known amongst the members as ‘the going room’ and the new one is ‘the coming room’, for the sounds of sex are heard there more often than the flushing of lavatories.
This is where you bring me, both of us heady with the strong wine of lust coursing in our veins. We are in luck – it is still quite early in the evening, and several of the twelve stalls are vacant, although there is already that indefinable aroma of female cum-juice in the air, which will get much stronger later, as more and more lesbian couples seek swift satisfaction from each other. You drag me without hesitation into an empty cubicle, and you push me authoritatively against its side. My back thuds against the wood partition to the next cubicle, for a second knocking my breath away, whilst you turn and close the door, running the bolt into place with a firm snick.
You turn back to me, place your hands on my shoulders and then run them appraisingly down over my chest, grasping and squeezing my full bust in lustful appreciation of my delightfully curvy youthful body. Then your hands press over my stomach and delve down to grasp the hem of my tight stretch-fabric mini-skirt. With a firm tug you pull it upwards to roll around my waist like a thick soft belt, and I shift my stance, straddling my legs apart, opening myself in silent offering, as you gaze at my naked cunt.
I am fully shaven and so totally exposed to you, wet with my juices and with my labial lips swollen and projecting puffily outwards. You take my cunt in the palm of one hand and press hard against it, whilst your other hand – now almost shaking in your lust for me – jerks my top up and over my head, dropping the flimsy garment in a crumpled ball onto the closed lid of the toilet, the rim of which is pressed against my right calf.
You savour the sight of my full heavy breasts, and swiftly pull them out of the meagre cover provided by my balcony bra. Your mouth descends like a swooping hawk, and you take my left tit between your lips, eliciting a broken cry from me as your sharp teeth nip around my engorged nipple. All this while, the heel of your hand has been grinding against my soaking pussy, pressing hard against my soft mound and stimulating my swollen and throbbing clitoris. It’s almost too much for me, even though I’m far from a sapphic novice, and my head is spinning from your overwhelming stimulus of my most erogenous spots.
‘Aaahh, you bitch!’ I gasp into your ear, as your head is bowed over whilst you switch to devour my right nipple, sucking it deep into your mouth; ‘oh, you bitch ... God! fuck me, fuck me! ... ah, fuck me, you bitch!’
Your head rises, leaving a trail of wet saliva around my tits, and at once I take the opportunity to grasp your breasts and then swiftly to unbutton your shirt. As soon as I have done so, you strip it off and – with a self-control that I can only envy, you carefully hang it on the clothes-hook on the back of the cubicle door. I admire your trim shoulders and your smaller but well-formed breasts, which are encased in an enticing, lacy and clearly expensive black bra. I reach to expose them, but with a silent shake of your head that clearly indicates ‘not now – later’, you push my hands away to the sides, against the wooden wall, and you sink gracefully to your knees, your face on a level with my jutting naked pussy.
‘Oh, God! Yes, yes ... eat me, you bitch ... eat me! eat me out, eat me now!’ I whimper in a voice that quivers with desire.
You waste no time – your fingers pull my labia apart, and your long agile tongue penetrates my pussy like a spear. As it lashes up and down inside my vagina, with its rough edges rasping along my inner walls, your fingers push against my clitoris, sending waves of erogenous excitement coursing through me like breakers on an Atlantic beach, curling over with successive thunder. It is too much for me to contain, and my hips buck and quake as I climax, my eyes tightly closed in the moment of crescendo.
Your tongue licks around my pussy, sucking up my leaking cum-juice and savouring my unique taste. I shake my head to clear away my sudden dizziness, and then let out a startled sob as your thumb enters my pussy again, sliding down to its very base hidden deep between my thighs. You press against the lowest end of my opening, sending shivers through me, and then the index finger of the same hand curls round and probes the tender rim of my ass-hole. Entering me there, you press your thumb and forefinger together, squeezing my most sensitive parts together, with an intense effect like an electric jolt. There is a sensation like being in an elevator and then the bottom dropping out, and I come again with redoubled and desperate intensity, my pussy juices squirting like a miniature fountain onto your hand and wrist.
My eyes are glazed, and a sheen of sweat coats my face, my chest, my back and my flanks. My shoulder-blades and my ass are stuck to the wooden partition wall behind me, and I am panting for breath as if I had just sprinted a thousand metres. In those brief seconds of pause, we both hear a shuddering moan from the cubicle behind me, as some other female gets fucked to her orgasm. Barely discomposed by your efforts, you rise smoothly to your feet, regarding my breathless and befuddled condition with a mixture of amusement and accomplishment.
‘Third time is best’, you say meaningfully, and my brain catches up with your intention to take me again, just as your index finger finds my cunt-hole and penetrates me, hard and fast for a good four inches. You withdraw it, and then vigorously re-enter me with two fingers, side by side. I give a little plaintive whimper, not of protest but of exhaustion, as you begin a fast finger-fucking, using the thumb of your left hand to rub on my clit whilst the two long fingers of your right hand rasp in and out of my vagina with increasing force.
I am clinging to you as a drowning sailor would to the only lifebelt in sight, and I bite my lip and grunt as your abrasion of my swollen clitoris and your penetration of my tender vagina overwhelm me. Your eyes are dancing with merry delight as I melt in your firm grasp, my cunt so wide open and wet that without much difficulty you force a third digit into it with each insertion, and twist your fingers in a cunning motion that takes its sensual toll of my pussy. I gasp as you add a fourth finger to your drilling impalements, opening my gaping gash still wider as your firm hold keeps me in place.
You tuck your thumb into the palm of your hand and bunch your fingers together to make a shape like the point of a spear, your arm its long shaft. You ram this into me, meeting some resistance from my vaginal muscles, and I give a little hoarse scream from the indescribable mixture of pain and pleasure which this causes – and another high-pitched gasp as my cunt stretches to accommodate your inexorable thrust. You withdraw your fingers for a couple of inches, letting me get some of my breath back, and then with power and purpose your hand once again pushes up into my pussy. Your long fingers are lubricated with my juices, and both they and your slender wrist are suddenly past the constriction – and sliding deep into my vaginal tube. My eyes almost bug out, and I would scream if I could get only a gulp of air into my lungs – dear God, you are fisting me!!
I can’t believe it – I’ve only ever been fisted once before, a couple of years ago, and it was a mind-numbing experience then. This is even more powerful – you have taken possession of me in the most absolute and total way, and I am nothing but your glove-puppet, dancing and cavorting at your will. With a shocked sob, my arms swing wide, the palms of my hands smacking with a dull thud against the partition wall, and my fingernails scrabble hopelessly for purchase on its smooth glossy surface. I dare a glance downwards, and nearly faint at the sight of how far your arm has gone into me – shit! almost half of the distance from your elbow to your wrist has now vanished from sight!
‘AAAH! ... please, wait! Oh, no ... oh, you can’t ... aaaahh, I can’t take it!’ I plead, but my sobs are turning to moans under your pile-driving pressure: ‘Oh!! ... mmm ... you can, can’t you ... oh, you bitch, do me ... go on, do me, do me good – now, fucking do me now! ... aaaAGGHHH!!
I can’t believe it, I simply can’t believe it is anatomically possible for so much to go up inside me – you must be almost up to my cervix! Your every motion is magnified a hundred times in effect, the short withdrawals as convulsive as the insertions. My heart is hammering in my chest and my back arches with rising passion, as I make animal barnyard noises from between clenched teeth. You deliver the final thrusting fisting fuck, and my volcanic orgasm leaves me almost fainting and leaning bonelessly against you for support. I pant for breath, my tongue hanging out from parted lips, and moan as your withdrawal of your arm and hand makes me feel like someone has just sucked out all my guts with a vacuum cleaner.
You kiss my parted lips, savouring my state of stunned satiation. You smile, and whisper one instruction in my ear:
‘Eat me, babe, eat me now!’
This is accompanied by a firm downwards pressure on my shoulders, and of course I know what you want. Miraculously, my physical and sexual energy returns redoubled at this delightful prospect, for I have been longing to get my tongue into your slit ever since I first laid eyes on you. I drop down to my haunches, my knees spreading apart for balance. My skirt is still rucked up around my waist and, as I squat in front of you, a fresh draft of air wafts under the wooden partition wall and tickles around my pussy. I glance downwards for a second; through the gap of four or five inches between the base of the partition and the tiled floor, I can see that in the cubicle behind you there are two pairs of feet – one those of a black woman wearing smart cream-coloured pumps, the other a pair of red stilettos with leather straps encasing slim white ankles, and I can tell, from the placing of their feet, that the women are grinding their cunts against each other in a pussy-pulverising scissors-fuck.
It takes me barely a second to register the sapphic activity next door, and I lift my eyes again to admire your elegant grey linen slacks. Their sheer cut is classically elegant and, seen close up, the fine weave of the fabric is clearly of the highest quality. At first, I run my palms over the outside of your trouser legs, and then across the smooth rise of your pelvis and up and down your inner thighs, working my way ever closer to the triangle where they meet – the fount of desire, the place where X marks the treasure trove of Gloria’s golden glory.
This subtle stimulation is all the more erotic because I have not yet removed any more of your clothing, and it is having the desired effect upon you, teasing your libido and setting your nerve-ends tingling. Now I become firmer in my caresses, and I rub my hand hard upwards against the crotch of your slacks, pressing the seam against you and creating an involuntary cameltoe effect. You give a throaty sigh, and look down. Here you enjoy a splendid sight from directly above my head – my full breasts stick out conically, as I lean closer to you and rub my nipples along the thin fabric that covers your upper thighs. This has a powerful effect on both of us. Your voice has a shaky note for the first time, as you rasp with sudden urgency:
‘Get my cunt out, you slut! Get my pussy and eat me, you slutty bitch, EAT ME NOW!!’
Spurred on by your command, I change pace altogether and move into rapid action. I swiftly seize the zipper at the side of your trousers, and with a sharp downwards jerk I open its six-inch length. Then it is only the work of a second to undo the two buttons at the waist-band, and pull your slacks down to your ankles. I pause for just a second, transfixed by the proximity of my face to the crotch of your panties – which, as I might have expected, are both stylish and sensual. Your pussy is just barely covered by a black thong of gauze and delicate floral lace which matches your bra, and it has my favourite feature: shoestring sides that have to be tied together in a little bow. And that means ... yes, I think ... ahh, yes!
I loop my index fingers through the hoops of the neat little bow-ties and tug outwards, quickly and firmly. Of course, both ties come undone simultaneously, and the front of your panties flops down like a drawbridge under siege, exposing the gateway to the citadel of your cunt. With a half-grunt, you open your legs a little so that I can remove the whole garment, and – as it is obviously an expensive example of the lingerie designer’s art – I put it carefully on the toilet lid. I gaze admiringly at your lightly-tanned thighs, at the curving jut of your mound, at the prominent puffy projections of your labia, at the widening slit of your vagina, and I drink in the heady perfume emanating from your arousal.
You are, of course, impeccably clean-shaven, and the skin around your pussy has a healthy and even bronze sheen – not for you the ugly contrast of pale and pasty skin outlined by some cheap crude beachwear, like a plastic porno star. You exude class and elegance, from the perfect neatness of your coiffure, where there is still not a strand of hair out of place, and your tasteful clothes and lingerie, to your well-toned muscles and smooth flawless complexion. No one has ever more deserved their name, and I am thankful to kneel in awe before Gloria, and worship at the font of your vagina – if my devotions are sincere enough, perhaps you will accept me into my new faith, and baptise me with your love-juice?
I press my pursed lips against your parting pussy lips, and I probe the slash between them with the tip of my tongue, in little darting licks and dabs. Then I bring my teeth to bear upon your bare skin, running them up and down each of your protruding outer labia, giving little nipping nibbles as I do so. I know I am having an effect upon you, for your breathing becomes more audible and your hands tighten their grip upon my shoulders, your nails digging into me.
Now my tongue thrusts in further and deeper, retreating to lap in wide strokes up and down your pussy and then delving again into the vortex of your vaginal hole. I bring my fingers up to supplement my oral attentions, and with one hand I tease apart the top of your slit, seeking and squeezing the nub of your clitoris – my reward is a moan and a shiver that runs through your frame. My other hand seeks the other end of your gash, and with two fingers I stretch it apart, allowing me to squirrel my tongue even further into you.
I clamp onto your slippery vagina like a limpet, and I suck up your juices, pulling your pink inner flesh against my teeth and then abrading it with them, before thrusting my tongue inwards to penetrate you again. Now I can feel you starting to tremble, and your breath becomes louder and sharper, in erratic pants and gasps. Your hands release my shoulders, and from the corner of my eye, I see you grasp the cups of your bra and tug them downwards. Your shapely pert breasts spill out of the flimsy garment, and you seize your nipples, one in each hand, and maul them.
I redouble my efforts, corkscrewing my tongue into your hole, squeezing your swollen clit between my thumb and finger, and probing your gaping slit with my other hand. My every sense is engaged: I can feel your thighs quivering, I can smell the wafts of arousal from your pussy-glands, I can taste the flowing stream of your pussy-water, I can see the sheen of glistening sweat that beads your golden body, I can hear your rising gasps and broken words, and so I know that you are on the cusp of coming.
It is time for the coup de grace, which I know is ten times more effective if you have the patience to wait for the right moment, and like a Californian surfer take the monster breaker as it crests and ride it to crash upon the shore in a welter of foam and spray. You are ... almost, almost ... ready ... YES!!
Without warning, I do three things at once which fuse into a sexual A-bomb. My fingers holding your clitoris squeeze it tightly, my teeth nip sharply at the soft inner flesh of your vaginal wall, and – the detonator to the blast – my other hand leaves your slit, and instead I jab my thumb upwards into your anal hole, entering you for its full length and then rotating around inside your anus.
Your head jerks backwards, slamming with a wincing bang against the partition wall behind you – but it is only thin chipboard, so it will not have hurt you. Your hands release your nipples, and instead you grab the back of my head and grind my face hard against your cunt, arching your hips wide apart and forcing me further and deeper into you. You give a loud inarticulate cry, your ass-cheeks clench and quiver, and you come in a climax of breath-taking, earth-shaking, dizzy-making intensity. As your iron grip on my head relaxes slightly in the aftermath, allowing me to get a gasp of breath, your vagina squirts a spray of your juices across my face, and I open my mouth wide to lap it up.
The high-priestess has indeed blessed and baptised me, and I am now admitted as a communicant in the worship of Glory. I am content indeed, for now I will eat of the flesh of your pussy and drink the golden wine of your cum-juice, whenever you open your temple doors.
You recover your breath, but still lean for support against the wooden wall. In the sudden silence, we hear from the cubicle behind you a series of rising harsh cries:
The wall vibrates against your back, as the older black woman that I saw earlier on the dance floor and the pretty baby-faced busty Latina come together, hot pussy mashing against pussy in fierce eager urgency. You look down at me and smile – oh, what a lovely smile you have! it is warm, and yet with still a tinge of vulpine desire! – and we both laugh. You put a finger under my chin and gently raise me to my feet, and then your arms wrap around me and pull me into a tight embrace, and I feel again the wonderful sensation of my erect tits pressing against your smaller firm globes. You kiss me, in slow languorous pleasure, both of us content in the security that comes after the first furious sexual lust has been satisfied, after the commitment has been made to share our bodies utterly, and in the knowledge that the night is young and there are many hours of lesbian passion still to be enjoyed. Then you whisper, a husky tone in your throat:
‘Well, babe, I think I can hold off for just about long enough to drive you back to my place – but, honey, get your strength back, because once we’re there, I’m gonna want you – again, and again, and again!’
Oh, Gloria, thank you, thank you – sweep me up in your chariot of fire, and take me to heaven, to your glorious heaven!
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