Anusphilia Ch 01

[Well, Gentle Reader, here I am again, asking for guidance. I did, as the opening line of this story puts it, wake up one morning thinking that I like women's assholes. But I'm not sure if it's something that others share or, more to the point I guess, if it's something you want to read about. So let me know. If you like this story, leave a comment. If you hate this story, leave a comment. If you don't care, well, I have plenty of other stories out there, so try one of them.

Anyway, thanks in advance for your help.]

I woke this morning with this weird thought in my mind - - I like women's assholes.

So, being a professional researcher by trade, I started looking. Google, of course, has made my life much easier, taking away the need to search card catalogs or hang around in dusty stacks in the bowels of the library. I thought, if a word for my particular, well, let's call it an "interest," I don't think it rises to the level of "fetish," existed it would have "-phile," or "-philia" as the suffix. I Google searched for terms like "anusphilia," "analphilia," and even "assholephilia." The only return was from the

Urban Dictionary

was "kolotripidaphilia,"

According to the

Urban Dictionary

, Kolotripidaphilia is:

When a person is sexually aroused by buttholes. Usually by touching, licking, or looking at an anus.

Well, that certainly describes me but I'd like to know the derivation of that weird word. I kind of suspect the root is somewhere in "colon," the large intestine of the human digestive system, you know, that part they explore with the dreaded colonoscopy, with the anus the final exit for used food.

Oh, well, enough of the etymology of the word.

Why do I care?

Because I've always been fascinated by assholes. Well, by women's anuses, you know, not that asshole that stole your parking spot at the WalMart.

My family is very matriarchal. When a boy comes of age he's turned over to a post-menopausal woman to be taught the things he needs to know. According to the family legend, and I believe it to be true, the couple, Ira and Gladys if it matters, who started the Colorado branch of our family moved west when the Oneida Community was falling apart and brought with them the traditions and beliefs of the Oneidas. Most of the religious part of that system had fallen by the wayside but the understanding that sex was important and should be done properly was retained.

In my case, that summer I was turned over to my great-grandmother, a 70-something Matriarch in a small town in eastern Colorado. She got me past that first burst of young, testosterone-driven passion while every human being with a functioning Y chromosome learns the pure pleasure of climax and thinks that's all that matters.

She taught me patience. She taught me, a lesson that three wives have thanked her for, that a man should give a woman at least three orgasms before he considers his own pleasure. She taught me the proper way to nurse at a woman's breast. She taught me how to find a clitoris and a G spot without fail. Mostly, she taught me that men are easy to please, you know, rub the damn thing for a few seconds, squirt, aaaaaaaaaaaaah, but women need patience and work.

Only after I had mastered those basics, a month or so into my summer, did she roll onto her belly to teach me the special places of a woman's back. She taught me to caress her calves and thighs. How to tickle a back and watch the goosebumps rise if it is done properly. To lightly brush the roundness of an ass, making her squirm as the sensation got too intense.

I still remember the first time I saw her asshole. Lunch was done, the dishes up, and I had undressed her in that slow, careful way she taught me, kissing revealed skin and telling her she was beautiful and that I loved her - - "

Remember Davey," she said often, "a woman needs to hear the words."

- - and was taking my time, massaging the backs of her thighs in that way she liked, leaning forward, my weight pressing down and watching the soft flesh pressed ahead of my hands like the bow wave of a boat. At her age, the skin was soft, what I've since learned to call "crepe skin."

I was massaging her legs like that, each long stroke of my hands moving from the backs of her knees up to her

gluteal sulcus

, that line where the roundness of her ass met the tops of her thighs.

I scooted forward, and on the next long stroke of my hands they ended on her ass and as I leaned forward I spread her cheeks and there it was.

And I was hooked.

Her cheeks spread like that I could see the fine line of pubic hair that continued from her pussy across her taint (You know the old joke, right? Q: What's that area between a woman's pussy and asshole called? A: The taint. T'ain't ass and t'ain't pussy.) and framed the smooth circle that surrounded her anus.

I couldn't look away.

It was very darkly stained. There was a very smooth circle surrounding her anus, and the butthole itself was a puckered circle even darker. And four distinct hemorrhoids hung like grapes.

It was like a compulsion as I bent forward. There was a scent, of course, and I was surprised that it was not unpleasant. I inhaled deeply and got so damn hard I hurt.

I blew and she murmured, "Nice."

She flexed some internal muscles and it looked like a tiny mouth blowing me a kiss.

I kissed and and I was hooked. I touched those firm little hemorrhoids and then traced a circle.

I had never imagined anything so sensitive, so intimate, as I kissed the sensitive skin along her gluteal cleft.

By then her pussy was flowing. At her age, her lips were wrinkled and a little floppy, but the mucus membranes lining her vagina and the Bartholin's and Skene's Glands deeper in her belly were working just fine. She was shiny and slick, as she overflowed.

I took her from behind, holding myself up with my hands on her asscheeks and watching her asshole. As her body responded to what I was doing it would pulse with the way vaginal muscles would squeeze and relax.

When she came she squeezed hard where I was inside of her and that beautiful asshole bulged enough that those sexy little grapes moved around. I couldn't resist touching them, and that made her body jerk and she came again.

My control failed and she giggled, an oddly girlish sound, as I thrust a half dozen times, you know, the "short strokes" while my body fulfilled the demands of millions of generations of evolution and sent my seed deep into my mate.

I watched, absolutely captivated, as her anus bulged and relaxed and bulged and relaxed a half dozen times.

When her orgasm passed and I softened and slipped out, I bent and kissed her asshole, allowing my tongue to trace the shape of those little pearls.

Now, don't get me wrong. This didn't turn into a scat thing. I have no interest in eating shit (coprophilia if you care) or drinking piss (a type of urolagnia). But I find a woman's anus to be, well, attractive. I like the look of it, in all of its wonderful variations. I like the intimacy of doing something so completely taboo. And yes, I even enjoy that earthy scent as my nose is right there and I'm kissing or licking.

In my life, I have been intimate at that level with 46 different women. Each is different. Some are more attractive than others. Some are truly beautiful, well, in my eyes anyway. But none are ugly. When I see a scene on television or in a movie, and we've all seen them, when a man typically, although sometimes a woman, turns his or her back on another character and the reaction is a loud, "ewwwwwwwwwwwwww" often accompanied by an exclamation something like, "Oh, God, my eyes!"

When I see that scene my reaction is, "What is wrong with you people."

Here's what I mean.

Remember, that summer I spent with my great-grandmother was for the specific purpose of teaching me the "things a man should know."

Once my great-grandmother was convinced I understood the basic rules I was fair game for the women of the Family.

Oh, it's not that they had a meeting one afternoon and Grammy Cleo said something like "Come and get him." But, well, here's an example.

My cousin Marji, one of those "elbow kinfolk" as my Grammy Cleo would have called her, was one of those third cousins twice-removed. She reveled in that stuff.

Anyway, my cousin Marji came to Grammy Cleo's house and said, "Come on, let's go swimming."

In that small town, the swimming hole was on a stream that ran through a little line of woods where the trees and vegetation could draw water in the generally arid plain, a few miles out of town. I had been there a few times with town kids.

Marji parked her little car, a Mustang convertible that I wanted to drive but she wouldn't let me, and we walked. At the swimming hole I knew, there were a few kids, younger than us, with an older woman, I presumed a mom of one of them, keeping an eye on them. But Marji led me past that spot, down an almost invisible trail to another spot, several hundred yards farther down the stream. Here, the surrounding woods opened into a little meadow, something I would later learn that the native Indians created by girdling the trees in an area allowing them to die, creating little clearings that would attract deer and other game animals. Now, unused for a century, it was simply a pretty meadow.

She spread a blanket, a heavy weave thing in a distinct red and white checkerboard pattern, on the ground, anchored the corners with waterbottles and shoes, peeled off her T-shirt, unhooked and tossed her bra to join the T-shirt on the blanket, pushed the Daisy Duke cutoff shorts down, her panties going with them, took off running, and did a dive that barely caused a ripple, disappearing as comfortable and graceful as an otter in the water.

She was one of those true blondes. Her long hair, worn in a ponytail almost always, was almost white, as it was sunbleached in the summer. She was natural for the summer, and her pubic hair was that pale tan color of a true blonde, thick and curly as it framed full labia and the slit of her pussy. When she was undressing I couldn't help but notice that the hair in her armpits was the same color and texture. She was tall for a woman at about 5'8" I guessed, with small breasts, high on her chest, tipped with very pink areolas and tiny nipples. She was an athlete, a gymnast, and a cheerleader. And her long legs were beautiful. Her navel was a delicate little slot, her hips flared giving her a slightly bottom-heavy look although, even with no more experience than I had that first summer, I figured that as her breasts filled out she would be a pretty damn spectacular hourglass. Her feet were long with long toes painted bright red.

Honestly, of the 46 women in my life, my cousin Marji was the prettiest.

So I stripped, not as gracefully as she had to be sure, and followed her.

My cannonball into the pool made us both giggle.

As we lay there, afterward, shivering and getting warm, she kissed me.

It was different from Grammy Cleo. Not necessarily better, but different. Her lips were firm and dry and somehow, well, young. The kisses were somehow more energetic. Her body, when I touched it, was young and firm. Her breasts were very small, very firm, and her nipples little hard points. She caught my hand and pressed it down, my palm flat, pressing down on her breast.

And then she moved it slowly down her body, across her belly to the firmness of her very prominent

mons veneris

, that beautiful Mount of Venus that highlights her sex, pressing my palm against that thick curly thatch of hair. Her breath caught when my fingertip found that little button of her clitoris and her hips began rocking.

I masturbated her then, slowly as Grammy Cleo had taught me, using my free hand to lightly brush imaginary hairs away from her forehead and cheeks, to brush her eyelids forcing her to close her eyes, tickling her lips, distracting her a little from what I was doing between her legs.

I told her how beautiful she was and that I loved her.

When I felt that shuddering of her body telling me she was close, I bent and kissed her.

When she came I kept at her clitoris while I pinched her nose shut, sharing a single breath with her. When she gasped her release I inhaled, drawing her breath into my lungs. When she inhaled I exhaled, sharing that breath, feeling the warmth of her used air. This wasn't something Grammy Cleo taught me. I thought this one up myself.

And it worked.

We shared that breath until I started getting a little lightheaded as the oxygen in that breath was depleted.

When I released her she gasped like a swimmer breaking water.

And I rolled her onto her belly to get what I wanted.

She was young and strong, an athlete, and her back was beautiful. From her wide shoulders down those twin ridges of muscle that left a valley for her spine, to the beautiful inverted heart shape of her ass to her long legs, she was model-quality lovely.

But that wasn't really what I was interested in.

I moved so that my knees were between hers and began lightly caressing her ass. Marji is one of those honey blondes with very thick hair and a fine, almost downy, coat of body hair.

When I laid my palms flat on the roundness of her butt and spread her, it was like I was looking at a different species.

Her pubic hair ran in a fine line between her legs and made a beautiful round frame around her asshole. Her anus showed no signs of staining, no skin tags, no hemorrhoids. Rather, it was a beautiful pink starburst centered in a very smooth, hairless circle.

And there it was again. I was drawn to it. I'm not sure if I could have stopped my body from bending down, but that doesn't matter because I didn't want to.

I kissed that beautiful spot and inhaled deeply. There was no scent at all beyond the clean scent of girlskin.

I kissed it again, touching it with my tongue, tracing the puckered skin to find where it was centered on the tiny orifice at the center.

I felt, more than heard, her soft hum of pleasure and then there was a scent, but it was that clean womanscent of her arousal and her pheromone-laden natural lubricant.

I took her then, not really "doggie style," because I didn't bend forward and wrap my arms around her, but from behind. My hands on her hips lifted her until her butt was up, her pussy, flowing now with her milky, thick honey, exposed, but her breasts still on the blanket. As I slipped into her I held her cheeks parted watching her asshole as I set up a slow rhythm.

As her second orgasm of the afternoon approached I could see her moving and when she came her asshole tightened, seeming to draw inside until all I could see was a tiny pink dot.

As the orgasm passed I watched as she slowly relaxed.

As I watched I had one of those epiphanies that you might get a half dozen times in your life if you're lucky. I realized that Grammy Cleo was, well, more interesting, than Marji and I suppose, at that instant, my, well, my "taste" for older women was set.

Marji was beautiful. Hell, anyone would agree with that. But she just wasn't as interesting as Grammy. When I thought of her face, Marji's smooth, pink, flushed with excitement, Grammy Cleo's wrinkled with soft skin and deep folds, I preferred Grammy's.

But Marji was beautiful and in an hour, when she coaxed a second erection from me, we made love in the missionary position, and I held her eyes and covered her face with kisses and told her she was beautiful and that I loved her as she bucked under me, her face still beautiful even as it was a rictus of pleasure, her mouth wide open, eyes tightly shut, and her nose running a little.

"We should do this more often," she said as we lay side by side, gasping from the exertion of what we had done.

"Yes, we should," I said, looking up at the sky.

But we didn't.