Gramma Torrie Ch 09

Torrie's Story

He was right, Prolapse was, indeed, an ugly word.

But what had happened was indescribable. There was the physical sensation, of course, and that had been wonderful, so far beyond anything I had ever imagined as to be, and the word is silly I know, but it fits - indescribable.

When he had touched me, my uterus, my womb to use the word I had grown up with, I knew I was his, and that no other man would ever know me.

I just giggled when I read that last line over. "Know me!" God, I'm feeling biblical as I write today. I meant, in my newfound freedom to think such things, that no other man would ever fuck me. Would ever, as the crude saying goes, "eat my pussy." I was his and I knew it on a level far below any thinking. Almost at a cellular level.

I was his. I was holding nothing back. My heart was his. My body was his. My very soul was his. And for the first time in years, I felt like a woman.

I felt his breathing and heard his soft snoring, and I didn't want to wake him. But I was, and I giggled at the thought, so different from anything I would have thought before Roger came into my life, horny.

I rolled, very slowly, not wanting to wake him, onto my back and reached down to touch myself where I was a little swollen and sore and very tender.

Then I pushed, using those muscles still a bit sore from fatigue, and felt movement.

No, more than that. I felt shifting, deep in my belly, what he had called my "core." As I lay still, my palm covering myself, I felt a slight pressure against my palm, and I couldn't help the little shudder in my body.

I held still for a while, enjoying the sensations.

I pushed again and felt my labia stretch a bit and something hard and warm and wet touched my palm.

I screamed softly as his hand covered mine. I hadn't been aware he was awake, I was so busy concentrating on what I was feeling.

"Push," he said very softly, kissing my cheek, "let's hold your core while I tell you how much I love you."

I pushed and felt that sudden pressure as the thick part of my womb emerged from my body, and then an easing as it was fully out and we were holding it.

The sensation was beyond sexual. Christ, it was beyond anything I had ever imagined, even in my deepest fantasies. His hand covered mine and when he squeezed it was like nothing existed but that tight little ball of pure pleasure.

I knew, I suppose, on some level that I was crying softly, that my nose was running, that he was kissing me and saying, "I love you" over and over. I had to since I remember it. But in that moment, nothing was left of me but the pleasure he was giving me. No, that we were sharing. Because I could tell it was his pleasure too.

He scooted around, his hand still covering mine, until he was, once again, on his knees, his knees between mine, and he adjusted me again, something I was coming to love, until my hands were supporting my womb.

As I watched he bent forward slowly.

"Offer yourself for my kiss," he said.

And I lifted, the new pressure making my perfect pleasure even more intense, and squeezed very gently, opening my cervix from the pressure, offering myself for his kiss.

When he kissed me there, his lips circling the tiny opening to my womb, and his tongue probing very gently, what I felt was beyond orgasm.

Oh, I was wet. Jesus, my ass was slick and I could feel the sheets under me, sodden with my arousal. But the sensation was reduced, hell, my whole world was reduced, to that small area where his lips and tongue were finding my core. Every nerve in my body was focused on that contact.

When he opened his mouth and took more I felt my womb tighten, the hard, powerful muscles that could push a baby out contracted and my fingers worked hard to keep it from retreating. The pleasure was so perfect I could ignore, hell, I didn't even feel, the pain in my knuckles.

And I came like no woman has ever cum before. EVERY nerve ending was screaming its pleasure. EVERY muscle fiber was contracted. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move, my muscles were all rigid. I felt the wetness and was certain that this time I had lost bladder control.

And it went ON. His mouth was an insatiable thing, the perfect male to my perfect female.

And it went ON. He was nursing at my womb like a baby and my fingers were locked, holding it for him.

I felt myself getting lightheaded and my lungs just would not draw a breath, my muscles were too locked.

The stray thought that kept me from passing out from lack of oxygen was the sudden image of my tombstone, "Victoria, the dates, Died of Too Much Pleasure."

I giggled and the spell was broken.

I laid back, utterly spent, utterly relaxed, utterly satisfied, my womb still outside of my body, it was relaxed too, finally, and I felt him lift and support and kiss it, but this wasn't a sexual act. It was just sensual and loving.

He crawled up beside me, one arm cradling my head while the other hand cradled my uterus.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you," I said.

And we drifted off.

I woke and, feeling silly, reached down to check but everything was back inside after my sleep.

I could hear vague sounds from another room so I rolled out of bed.

It was an interesting feeling. EVERY muscle had a sort of a deep ache and I remembered how I had felt, it seemed like a hundred years ago, after a serious workout when I was a 14-year-old gymnast or a 16-year-old track star. And the arthritis that seemed to plague every joint was, well, it wasn't gone, but it was less intrusive than it had been for a very long time.

I giggled a little and thought, "I wonder if my rheumatologist knows about this."

I went into the bathroom, peed, pooped, brushed my teeth, washed my hands, and went in search of Roger. I didn't put on any clothes, and didn't feel odd walking around naked.

Roger was in the kitchen, naked, and looking like he knew what he was doing. My old Pyrex percolator was perking away, he had found the pots and pans and eggs and cheese and bacon and bread and butter and milk. He stopped work to kiss me when I walked in, held the chair at the kitchen table for me as I sat, placed a cup of coffee in front of me, said, "Good morning, beautiful," and went back to work.

Oddly, I FELT beautiful, sitting there, watching him move around the kitchen, knowing my hair was a mess, that I had no makeup, and that I was sitting in a bit of a puddle from the way I was leaking. Still, I FELT beautiful.

As I watched he worked up an omelet with bacon and toast on the side. He was whistling something tuneless but pleasant.

I felt comfortable, as well as beautiful, as he placed a plate loaded with breakfast in front of me, another plate opposite me, and sat.

"I could get used to this," I said, smiling and giggling, feeling foolish about that.

"Good," he said around a mouthful of eggs, "because this is just the start."

We finished our breakfast in a companionable silence. I felt no need, as I often did, to fill the silence with small talk. It was enough to be able to look over and see him as we ate.

Finished, he started the water running in the sink and said, "I'll wash, you dry and put away so I can see where things go."

And so we did. It was fun, and another first for me. In our 47 years together, I couldn't remember Chester ever joining me in domestic chores like this.

Finished with the dishes I asked, "what now?"

He grinned, took me in his arms, kissed me (his hands roaming and me enjoying that), and said, "this is a Torrie Day," and the way he said it made that capitalization obvious.

"Oh," I said, "and what exactly IS a Torrie Day?"

"Think of it as a spa day with benefits," he said, making me squeal a little as he lifted me, his left arm under my knees and right under my shoulders.

He carried me into the bathroom and had me wait while he got the water running hot and the tub filled. He rummaged around and found my little bottle of bubble bath and poured that into the running water, covering the top of the water with an inch-deep layer of bubbles.

I gasped a little when he helped me into the tub. It was hot, just slightly this side of painfully hot, and I had to ease into it.

When I had settled in he said, "relax now, Torrie," and left me there.

The hot water was soothing and I felt my muscles relax. My arthritis eased too, even in those particularly hard-to-help areas of my hips.

"I could get used to this," I thought as I lay back and just relaxed, letting the hot water do its work.

I heard him come back in and didn't bother to open my eyes. I just waited to see what he had in mind next.

I felt a slight ripple and then he laid the washcloth he had soaked in the hot water across my face and left it.

"Be honest," he said.

"Okay," I said.

"Does a beautiful woman like you realize how she affects the men who see her?" he asked.

"Honestly?" I asked.

"Yes," he said.

"Roger," I said, "until you came into my life I never thought of myself as beautiful. That IS the honest answer."

He didn't say anything, just started washing my face.

I had never dreamt that being bathed could be so sensual.

At first, he was barely touching the washcloth, softening rather than washing. Then I felt him dip the cloth into the water again and this time I caught the scent of my expensive face soap as he started washing my face.

Just doing my face took some measurable fraction of eternity. He washed and rinsed and washed again. He did my ears, making me giggle, and my neck then, playing with the soft wattles under my chin and I wasn't ashamed of them. He was gentle around my eyes but really scrubbed my forehead at the hairline.

He did my hair, making me snort when he poured water over my head to wet it and then making me hum in pleasure as his fingers worked up a lather. My hair may be grey, but it's still very thick. I giggled and snorted again as he poured more water over my head to rinse.

He did my body then, not focusing on my titties or my hoo-ha (I still wasn't ready to call it Madeline) but not ignoring them either. When he did my armpits I was terribly aware that I hadn't used a razor on them in over a year, but he just washed and rinsed and then kissed each one, lightly.

He had me lean forward to do my back, and then get up on all fours to do my bottom.

As he was cleaning back there, the washcloth and soap feeling good even in that awkward position, when his fingertip penetrated just a tiny bit as part of the washing it flashed through my mind that if he wanted me that way I wouldn't say "no."

Finally, he pulled the plug and helped me stand. Then he used the handheld showerhead to give me a final rinsing, making me giggle when he parted my nether lips and then my butt cheeks to make sure all residual soap was gone. Anyway, that's why he SAID he did it.

He dried me and for those few seconds, I felt like a little girl again being dried by mommy or daddy.

Then he carried me into the front room where he had set out a small washtub about half full of water. It was steaming and I could smell the faint scent of Epsom salts.

He sat me on the couch and put my feet into the small tub.

"You are beautiful," he said, "but I HAVE to do something about those talons of yours."

I giggled and he kissed me.

"While you soak," he said, standing before me, "see anything you like."

He was erect and again it hit me - "he DOES want me."

So I crooked my finger, beckoning him.

When he was close enough I took his erection in both of my hands and squeezed, pushing down, completely exposing his glans, his little head, by pulling the residual foreskin (he was circumcised) away.

I looked up, met his eyes, smiled, and said, "I want you in my mouth."

"You don't have to do that," he said, mimicking what I had said last night.

"I'll stop if you say to," I said, mimicking what HE had said last night.

He did not say "stop" as I slowly bent forward.

I had never taken a man into my mouth before. When I was growing up, the word "cocksucker" was an insult. Of course, after what he had done with his mouth I was more open to new things than I had been just days ago. But still, this was new.

And, as it turned out, it was wonderful.

I pushed forward, my mouth open, my lips barely brushing his cock (another word I was not used to using yet) until I felt my gag reflex trigger and pulled away quickly.

His fingers in my still-wet hair twisted a little, making me look up at him.

"We'll get to that," he said, smiling, and slowly getting to his knees before me. I felt an odd mixture of relief mingled with regret.

"I want it," I said, softly, and meaning it.

"I know," he said, "but there's no hurry. I'm here for the long haul."

I had nothing to say to that and so, for a wonder, I said nothing.

He turned on the television then and the pedicure began with Fox and Friends in the background. I can't say that I heard anything Steve or Brian or Rachel said about anything. I was, well, distracted.

I had never imagined that feet could be so sensuous. Oh, I knew how ticklish mine were, of course. But this was a new level of pure sensation.

Just working on my bunions and corns and those hard horny calluses on my heels took well over an hour. He used my little callus tool, looking for all the world like a tiny cheese grater, the emery boards in varying grits, and finally the little pumice stone for finishing and shaping.

Only then did he start on my nails. I was fascinated as I watched him working. He was SO intent on what he was doing. Each stroke of the file, as he worked the thick, yellow nails, especially the big ones on my big toes, seemed to require a separate plan. His concentration was so perfect I'm certain he didn't even realize I was watching him.

Finally, he released my feet, dry and soft now, and said, "hold that thought."

He was back in just a minute with my glass jar of cotton balls and my one bottle of nail polish.

He got back to his knees, laid a towel on his lap, smiled at me, lifted my right foot, kissed it, and inspected it very carefully, his fingers brushing across where bunions were gone now. He kissed the soft skin where those ugly corns had been and I felt a sudden rush deep in my belly as I watched. The fresh skin he had exposed was SO sensitive. But it wasn't the same as having my feet tickled. It was pure pleasure that made, well, kept my nipples hard and had the little ball of pressure in my belly starting to build.

Then he carefully inserted a cotton ball between each toe, two between my big toe and the next one, and began applying the nail polish.

As I watched, the pressure in my belly was growing and my breath was catching.

By the time he finished with my other foot, I could smell myself. I wanted him desperately, but he still made me wait.

"Don't be in such a hurry, insatiable wench," he said, touching between my legs where I was swollen and very wet, that light touch making me shiver.

"We have all day," he said, moving up to sit with me on the couch, brushing my hair back and kissing me on the cheek.

"But you ain't messing up my hard work," he added as he scooted around and laid his head in my lap, his mouth finding my nipple.

He latched on like a hungry baby, and I felt that rush of pure sensuality only a woman can feel. My arm automatically moved to support his head, and my other hand began caressing his forehead and his face. That pressure in my belly was building as well, his suckling sending tiny electric charges from my nipple to my clitoris and from there deeper into my belly in a loop of sensuality that was shifting to sexuality quickly. I could not have stopped myself from humming that little lullaby if I had wanted to.

My climax is hard to describe. There were none of those hard, muscular contractions I associated with "cumming." But I felt myself, flowing, felt hot sticky wetness running down the crack of my ass. And it went on and on as he nursed and I hummed that little lullaby. He was suckling hard enough that my nipple was getting sore, but that was just part of the experience for me. The ache felt good.

I realized I was saying "I love you," over and over as he nursed and I kept flowing with my ecstasy.

And I meant it. Deep in my core, I meant it. And thinking that word made me want to push again.