She had the prettiest vagina he'd ever seen. Wisps of dark, neatly trimmed hair against pale skin surrounding small, perfectly symmetrical lips enticingly open in a surprised "O" of delicate pink.
Whenever he saw it — she took great pleasure in showing it to him — there was always a glint of moisture, a hint of arousal. And it was always framed by lace. Sometimes black, sometimes ecru, sometimes peach. Always expensive.
She loved crotchless panties.
Not the scratchy, bargain variety. No, not those. Only the best money could buy.
He could vouch for their silky softness, their tantalizing perfume when she let him lick her, the caress of the lace against his hardness when she finally — after the delicious torment of long, languid foreplay — let him enter her.
"Slow! Go slow!" she'd cry then. This, after she'd wound him up like an old clock, its spring overtightened, till he desperately wanted her friction to release the unbearable pressure built up within him.
But he wouldn't get to feel that delicious friction till late in their lovemaking.
They'd met years before. He was married, she was vulnerable after a breakup. His wife invited her to stay in their home for a couple of days. He had unwisely stroked her bare back in the hallway one afternoon; she gasped, shuddered, melted in his arms.
They broke apart that day, but both harbored fond memories. He saw her name in the paper; a show of her art at a local gallery. Looked up her number and called. He was divorced. She invited him over. The embers, still warm from years before, glowed white-hot and burst into flame.
Their assignations always began with a candlelight dinner at the little bistro down the street from her place. Kitty-corner from the sprawling park that had been, two centuries earlier, the homestead of the city's first important architect.
The maitre'd was attentive to her, almost obsequious. He knew her wines, her whims, her wiles and — presumably her lovers and their tastes, too.
He knew she took other lovers; sometimes only one, other times ... more. From time to time he'd wake up in a cold sweat, having dreamed of — them. With her. He always hoped he hadn't talked in his sleep when his steady girlfriend shared his bed.
In summer, they'd stroll in the park after dinner. Sometimes watch a Shakespeare play presented under the trees. Or just feed the swans. If it was warm, they might cuddle in a blanket as it got dark, their fingers tracing the planes of each other's faces, shoulders, backs, bellies.
That usually let to more erogenous zones, and inhaling the fragrance of moist fingertips and pressing sensitive points and — sometimes — quiet gasping climaxes in deliciously dangerous (but judiciously selected) public places.
When they got back to her place he was inevitably hard in spite of walking several blocks. She too was aroused, rubbing her hand up and down his trousers as she fished one-handed for the key in her purse.
But still she'd tease him for an hour. Disappear into her bedroom for a spell, only to emerge barefoot in a belted pale grey silk robe that clung to her slight frame and showed her rock-hard nipples to devastating effect.
If he'd softened in the interim, he was hard as soon as he heard her quiet footsteps, knowing what was coming. He might have been on the couch, perusing one of her books — she was a published author, as well as an artist who'd been ostracized from a teaching job for a well-reviewed show of explicit intimate photographs celebrating her sexuality — he'd leap to his feet and simultaneously come to attention.
She'd smile sweetly, reach up with her rosebud mouth to kiss him on tiptoes, then boldly undo his belt and lower his fly. Sometimes he'd discover her magically on her knees, her hands worshipping his erection as he stood, back to the doorframe.
Her voice was husky, throaty, sexy. It drove him crazy. He almost regretted when she stopped talking and took him in her tiny mouth, surrounding him with ethereal warmth and licking him along his length till he wanted nothing more than to splatter her classical face — she could have been a Renaissance painter's inspiration — with boiling cum.
But no. Too soon.
She was an artist with more than words and paint and photos. She was, he had to admit, a temptress of the tease. She could bring him so close to climax that he was aching for relief, then keep him there with exquisite torture for a couple of hours.
He knew she must pick her lovers for, if not stamina, their willingness to be brought to the edge of orgasm then kept there until she — glamorous goddess of gratification that she was — had had her way with him.
And she would have her way.
Tantalizing foreplay — kisses, massages, licking, nibbles, caresses, love bites — would give way to fondling, mutual masturbation, oral sex. (He remembered her as the sweetest tasting woman his tongue had ever teased.)
The image that stuck in his mind, though, was of those crotchless panties. No one ever put them to better use.
After an hour of teasing, they'd end up on the couch by the window, or on the thick carpet in the living room, or against the wall in the kitchen. Never, ever in her bedroom.
The silk robe would slide off her shoulders. She was petite, with high-set B-cup breasts that drove him wild, so much more so (which he couldn't admit at the time, even to himself) than the deliciously pendulous swaying Ds of his steady girlfriend. She knew it, and would sway her shoulders, tickling his nose with her tight little pink nipples, hard as the erasers on her sketching pencils.
Then, for him, the ultimate excrutiation: She'd slide off his clothes, and with her soft hands stroke his already rigid hardness.
"What a
beautiful
penis," she'd croon, in her soft, seductive voice. Sometimes wrapping her lips around the head and licking the ridge on the underside of his glans as his fingers curled in her long hair.
She'd bring him — almost — to the point of cumming. And stop.
"Touch me," she'd command gently. "You know what I want."
And he did.
She'd spread her legs. Sitting against the couch, or her back to the wall, she'd open herself up to him, her legs in a V.
She'd show him what was, undeniably, the most beautiful vagina he ever saw. In his entire life. This was long before the days of vaginoplasty, of purchased pussies, of designer labia. It was breathtaking. And it was insatiable.
As she opened her legs, he'd see the dark, downy hair around those soft pink lips, molded into a surprised "O" that always took his breath away. But he learned quickly that his swollen, aching member wasn't going there anytime soon.
She'd take his hand and softly lead it to her lower lips. He'd slide a finger into the raging fire between her legs, then a second.
She never uttered the word fisting, but she introduced him to it.
