Gramma Torrie Ch 08

Rogers story

It had been a pretty light sleep, more a doze actually.

I woke to the sound of her, well "muttering" is as good a word as any. I could make out the occasional word. "Crazy," came through a couple of times. "Yes," and then "no."

I felt the change in her breathing and knew she was waking up but I didn't move. I was kind of fascinated. It was like she was talking in two voices, one was strong, one was kind of defensive.

"Who's winning?" I asked, snuggling against her, erect, enjoying the feeling of her hard body against me.

She yelled a little and then giggled softly.

"Just a crazy old woman, honey," she said.

"Soooooooo," I said, my hand finding her breast, lifting it gently, touching her nipple, where it was hard on the cone of her areola. I traced the distinct love bumps with my fingertip and felt her squirm a little against me.

"So," I said softly, nuzzling her neck, "what were you arguing about?"

"Nothing, honey," she said, squirming under my hands, "just being silly."

"It sounded pretty serious to me," I said, nipping gently at the soft skin between her neck and shoulder, "tell uncle Roger."

She turned, quick as an otter, and kissed me, hard. It was a good kiss. It was a goddam good kiss. She put her whole body into it. She was arching against me, and her fingers entwined in my hair, her hips were rocking against my erection, the coarse pubic hair a bit scratchy.

It was an EXCELLENT kiss.

But like all kisses, it ended and I was curious.

"What were you arguing about?" I asked again.

"Nothing," she said again.

"You're a terrible liar," I said, smiling and kissing her again, "what were you arguing about?"

She held my eyes, and I saw hers start to brim over.

"Did you mean it?" she asked.

I knew what she meant but I asked, "mean what?"

"Did you mean what you said?" she asked.

"What I said?" I replied.

And she was suddenly angry. I could see it in her eyes. She was hurt too, but mostly angry as she reared back and hit me with a closed fist, on the shoulder.

And she was crying, real, deep, soul-wracking crying, sobbing actually.

"Please don't tease me about this Roger," she said, and she drew a deep, sort of bubbly, shuddering breath, "please."

She took a very deep breath, like she was a free diver getting ready to go after pearls, and said, "you said you loved me, did you mean it?"

I kissed her, a tear salty and snot slick kiss, a good kiss, a deep kiss, and my tongue traced her lips, enjoying her tastes.

"Yes," I said, and kissed her as she started bawling again.

Her fingers were in my hair and she pulled hard, pulling me away.

"Say it," she said, the thick mucus-laden saliva of a crying woman making strings between her lips as she spoke, "please, Roger, say it."

"I love you," I said, and I meant it. I didn't understand it. I goddam sure hadn't planned it. But there it was.

I started covering her face with kisses and saying it over and over.

She was bawling and saying it back.

I've often said good sex is usually messy but never dirty, and this was messy.

The kisses were snot slick and tear salty and delicious. I meant it every time I said it, and I said "I love you," dozens of times as I covered her face with those tiny kisses.

I rolled her over and straddled her, not stopping my rain of kisses, until I had her pretty well captured and then I started kissing my way down her body. At her neck I kissed and sucked very gently, not wanting to give her a hickey or anything silly. That soft little pouch of skin under her chin was fair game, though, and I sucked on it hard, deliberately marking her. I took my time with her breasts, enjoying the way her nipples got hard and her hips rocked. She cried out very softly, I don't think she even realized she had done it, when I lifted her breast to kiss the tender skin at the bottom where it usually lay against her rib cage.

I felt sudden tension in her body, not excitement, nervousness, as I kissed my way down her ribs, the ridge where her ribs met the softer skin of her belly, and the lines of her abdominal muscles, distinct on her skinny body. She writhed and squealed as I probed her belly button with my tongue and then shrieked as I blew a raspberry.

As I kissed my way downward, finding the roundness of her mons and kissing softly, brushing that wiry hair with my lips, she said, very breathless, "Roger, you don't have to do that."

I bent my neck to look up and meet her eyes.

"I'll stop if you tell me to," I said, smiling.

She took a deep breath, but she didn't say "stop."

So I kissed those full lips, oddly plump, gently, lightly, my tongue brushing.

Her womanscent was powerful and I inhaled deeply.

I felt her entire body shudder when I used my fingertips to part those full lips, gently, seeing those delicate pink folds, shiny with her excitement. When I kissed the taste was salty and slightly oily and absolutely delicious. I used my thumbs to gently lift her clitoral hood and played with her clitoris, a tiny pink hard button, with my tongue.

I heard her soft moan and tasted her excitement.

"Help me," I said, pushing her knees up until they almost touched her breasts and then guiding her hands until she was holding herself in that position, her legs spread as wide as it is possible for a woman to spread them.

When I opened her wider, my fingertips penetrating slightly, she groaned a little but I was pretty sure I wasn't hurting her because she was flowing by then, her nectar shiny and thick and salty and I lapped at it, hungrily, licking the insides of her full outer lips, swallowing, being deliberately noisy, wanting the sound to help her over her inhibitions.

And it worked. She came, suddenly, that salty nectar filling my mouth and I was drinking it greedily.

As she settled down from her orgasm, I opened her wider, and saw, deep in that beautiful tunnel, her pink cervix peeking out.

"Push," I said.

"What?" she asked.

"Push," I said again, "like you were delivering a baby."

"ROGER!" she said.

"Push," I said again, I want to kiss your cervix."

"ROGER!!" she said again, and "push," I replied.

"Oh God," she sort of moaned but I felt the tension in her body, and watched, fascinated, as her cervix moved forward until it was right there, begging to be kissed.

So I kissed it. When my tongue probed deeper, touching the tiny opening to her core, she flinched and it pulled back, like a prairie dog disappearing into its hole.

She was panting hard now, like she had run a long hard race.

"Push," I said, and her body clenched with that wonderful tension and there it was again.

And I kissed again and this time she didn't flinch.

"PUSH!" I said again, and she did, and that beautiful core emerged a little, a timid thing, peeking out, nervous but interested.

"PUSH!" I said again, and she cried out, "Roger," and did a partial situp.

And there it was, her true core, that place where every woman's inner Goddess dwells, where a precious egg gets fertilized and a new human being is created.

It was very pink and shiny with her nectar.

I was barely aware of her sort of chanting, "oh God, oh God, oh God" as I held her uterus, her core, her sex in my hand. I bent to kiss and when I did she cried out, a sound only written as "aaaaaaaeeeeeeeeeeiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii" and twisted away, rolling onto her side.

"Did I hurt you?" I asked.

"God no," she said, "but wh.." and she cut off as another wave of pure pleasure took her.

I held her close, snuggling, my erection leaving no doubt of my interest.

I reached down and guided myself, slipping in where she was so slick and ready, and felt her sudden release. She cried out again, and I felt her next wave, soaking us both.

I pulled her close, my hand on her belly. I held still, just enjoying being joined with her.

She came in waves for some measurable fraction of eternity. Each time I would feel the tension of her body and the wetness of her release and her soft cry of "oh Roger."

As I felt her tiring, I surrendered my control and took my own pleasure. The ejaculation was good, and I liked the way she squeezed on me, one final orgasm joining my pleasure.

We laid like that, quiet, catching our breath, my hand covering her belly, low, where the triangle of her pubic hair started.

But I'm a man and as always happens, I softened and slipped out.

She turned to face me, meeting my eyes.

"What did you do to me?" she managed.

"Prolapse is an ugly word for a beautiful thing," I said, nuzzling her neck.

"What?" she murmured.

"It's called prolapse, Torrie," I said, my voice soft, "when you pushed so hard that last time, your uterus came outside of your body."

"Oh God," she said, "did I hurt myself?"

"Did it hurt?" I asked.

"Noooooo," she said softly.

"It's a precious intimacy, Torrie," I said, holding her eyes, "and I'm proud you shared it with me."

She held my eyes and said, "Say it, Roger."

"Prolapse?" I said, and she laughed.

I held her while she laughed, and laughed with her. It was a moment of pure joy.

When she stopped she met my eyes again and said, "you know what I mean, say it."

"Torrie," I said, and kissed her softly, "I love you."

And damn if she wasn't crying again.

I held her, kissed her, and said, "I love you," again and again as she cried in my arms, not sobbing, but sort of weeping.

Eventually, I felt her relax and when I leaned back to look I saw that she had fallen asleep in my arms.

I liked it.