The most sexually responsive woman I have ever known is called Ermintrude. Not quite the name for a female forever on the brink of coming? And she appears the image of the sourest puss of a cast-iron virgin schoolmarm you can imagine. Further, she has looked like that since she was eleven, she tells me, and she is now sixty-seven. But she is also, she says, as ready as ever to tip into a sequence of orgasms, and I can well believe it. She claims, too, that she always deliberately dressed to be taken for that sexless spinster who has never admitted a hint of desire. She even sports pince-nez, secured to her bosom with a black ribbon.
There are, however, little clues to her true disposition, and those who detect them may be abundantly rewarded. That bosom, for example, is prominent and seems to come at you, like the prow of an approaching ship. And when the vessel has passed, you may note that the shapely stern undergoes an intriguing jigging, circling motion.
Facially, too, she is at first forbidding, for her nose is thin and aquiline, her chin recedes and her cheeks are hollow. She uses no cosmetics or perfumes, other than baby-powder and lavender-water. But, again, there are signs she is not the dried-up dame you at first assumed. For her lips are full and prone to little secret smiles, and her dark eyes behind the round lenses are large and lustrous, contrasting agreeably with her short white hair.
She is in my mind because yesterday Trude, as her intimates call her, came to the gallery with her latest picture. She makes a modest living as an artist. I have sat for her when she needed a female nude, sittings always ending highly enjoyably, when she shifts her concentration from the painting to the sitter. She also amuses herself with erotic pieces from time to time. This latest presents the interior of a suburban house with its front wall removed, so we can survey its kitchen, sitting-room and two bedrooms. In each room, there is a couple.
In the kitchen, the housewife is bent forward over the table, skirt round her waist and her knickers round her knees, and a delivery-man, in uniform, with trousers down, inserting his enormous penis between the cheeks of her fleshy bottom.
In the sitting-room, the husband has what is probably the baby-sitter on her back on the sofa, while he kneels on the carpet between her legs, running shorts at his ankles, offering his organ, which she is guiding towards her gaping vagina.
In one bedroom, the daughter's, as we know from its décor and posters, a half-naked young man has lifted the girl, his hands clasped under her bottom, so that she can wrap her legs rounds his waist, ensuring that his penis is part-way into her shaven pussy.
In the other bedroom, that of the son, the young man is naked from the waist down while a girl-friend, naked from the waist up, has just gathered from him a glaze of sperm on her huge breasts.
The caption is born on the house's name-plate, 'Home-Coming.'
When I had admired, and accepted this opus, she took me in her arms and kissed me long and hard, tongue probing everywhere in my mouth. Then, as I expected, she said, 'Can you do me, Norma love? I need to get off, if you've the time.'
My answer was to lock the door and slip off my shoes. She did the same.
Trude is not only the most orgasmic woman I know but the quickest to come, and I enjoy greatly bringing her off. I can now reveal what she has worn for fifty years under the high-necked white blouse and dark grey skirt of her customary costume. For, when I had undone the little buttons and lifted off the blouse, there was the industrial-strength bra, with the straps like belts, and the thick cotton cups, permitting only an inch of cleavage.
'As usual, I see,' I said, wrestling with the tamper-proof fastener, 'Where do you get these vintage breastplates?'
'In the market, my dear, as ever. They have tougher ones than this, bullet-proof.'
