The first thing I ever noticed about Lady B were her legs. They were gorgeous.
Her upper body was hidden by the side of a wing-backed chair but stretching out over the side of the chair were her legs, endlessly long and clad in a pair of black seamed nylon stockings, the rounded white thighs above that wide band of dark double webbing bisected by black suspender straps. They were perfection - totally erotic, beautifully shaped, warm soft flesh which made you automatically lick your lips - in anticipation of licking her lips -- upper and lower, outer and inner.
You couldn't help but imagine pushing those luscious limbs apart and nuzzling your way from the black toe-ends of her high-heeled shoes up the nylon covered calves past the rounded dimpled knees, trailing your lips and cheeks over the silken sheen of her lower thighs onto the broad black band of the stocking tops, and thence onto that last-lap final pathway of warm bare skin leading to the intricate mix of soft whorls of hair, glistening folds of flesh and oozing juices that made up the earthy, earthly paradise of Lady B's beautiful cunt.
I was mesmerised by them. But touch them I could not for unfortunately these mouth-watering legs were wantonly displayed not in the live succulent quivering flesh but on the front cover of a paperback underneath the fancy flowing script which announced the book's title: The Erotic Adventures of Lady B. At the bottom of the cover beneath the back of the armchair was the literary legend by Erica von Lustweiber.
So how did I know that Lady B had a beautiful cunt, I hear you ask. Because I'd seen it. It was not on the book's cover of course. Even in this permissive day and age that would have been a publishing coup several steps too far. Neither was it hidden away discreetly on the inside of the book. No, it was spread for all the world to see on the internet - on Lady B's own website. You don't believe me? I'd give you the web address right here and now for you to see for yourself but you'd likely leave me for a gander at this most gorgeous of glands and never return and that's not good journalistic tactics, so stay with me and I'll describe it for you - if, that is, I can find words adequate to the task.
For how do you describe the ineffable? You can't. Perhaps in metaphor. Lady B's cunt is like some exotic underwater flower, blooming on the edge of a reef, wispy delicate fronds over pink glistening lips which are slowly moving to the pull of the water like some small exquisite sea creature. I have no wish to be blasphemous, but god created this. She must have. It is perfect. So beautiful and so unusual it deserves a botanical name. Cunnilingus deliciosa erica.
There. Will that do?
I guess I'd better introduce myself. My name is Dickins, David Dickins. That's what I was christened anyway but since I was born and brought up in Rochester, Kent, England, it wasn't long before some wag called me Charlie and the name stuck. Charlie Dickins. I'm a writer too - of sorts, a reporter on a local paper. I also free-lance for a little-read literary magazine under a pen-name but that's enough of names and anyway it's not important. Though whether I shall turn out to be the hero of this my story or whether that station shall be held by someone else I leave it to you the reader to decide.
It's a Saturday, my day off and I'm on my way to an interview. But you'll need to know a little bit more background at least to understand why my driving, normally very good, is so erratic today. My mind is elsewhere - on a pair of legs and the most ineffable cunt I've ever seen. Are you with me? I fancy you might be ahead of me. Then slow down dear reader, all in good time. Which I have to say at the moment I'm not. In good time I mean. I'm on my way to interview Erica von Lushlegs and I'm late. Saturday traffic is worse than a weekday.
So, I'm 32 and single. Playing the field and enjoying life. There's plenty to enjoy around Rochester and we get a lot of summer visitors. A sizeable number of whom are more mature, drawn by the town's Charles Dickens Museum. I like mature women. I get plenty of opportunity to meet them for I also have another part-time job - mostly Saturdays - showing people around. I am fluent, knowledgeable, tell a few well-honed jokes and generally give them their money's worth. And if some of the more attractive, mature women fancy a little extra, over and above the official tour it's not difficult to meet later and go into a little more depth and detail in some cosy English pub, of which Rochester has plenty. And maybe afterwards at my flat a glass or two of Kentish mead which to the non-habitual drinker can make the head spin and the body relax. I see you're ahead of me again.
But today promises to be special and already I'm feeling tongue-tied. I've persuaded the editor of the literary magazine to let me broaden the normal academic scope of the articles with a slightly tongue in - wait for it - cheek piece on Erica von Lustweiber's promotional tour. She's staying at the Spread Eagle, one of our plusher hotels, just outside town. Her agent is highly suspicious on the phone. Is he expecting a leg pull? But he does finally grant me just an hour of Lady B's precious time. She's flying back to the States today after the first part of the tour and resuming up in the northwest after a week's rest and recuperation. I'm late, And for once very nervous.
By the time I get to the Spread Eagle I'm a good twenty minutes late and her agent, Ronnie Steinhammer is not a happy bunny.
"You're late!" he says. "Another five minutes and you'd have blown it. Come on. At the double."
I run up the stairs behind him and he knocks on the door. "Erica! He's finally arrived. You ready?" "Yeah. Come on in." And he opens the door and escorts me, somewhat brusquely, inside.
"Hi honey. Wanna coffee?"
I nod. For once in my life I am struck dumb.
Lady B is quite something. I delete the image I have been carrying around in my head for the past few months. She is not the woman on the cover. But I am not disappointed; The woman I have been lusting over was but a model. This is a woman. A mature woman. Fleshier, fuller, more vibrant. My lust for Lady B is both renewed and redirected. She is wearing a dark blue, pin-striped business suit, light blue collared blouse opened to the beginnings of her ample cleavage, navy blue stockings and half heels. But strangely enough it's her face which captivates me. I have seen plenty of her body over the last few months on her website but never her face. It is elfin. What the French call gamine. Her auburn hair is cut short close to her face. Despite the easy, out-going American manner she seems slightly vulnerable. There's something of the young Shirley Maclaine about her. She has a red slash of a mouth. Wide, with full, sensuous lips.
"It's OK Ron. He'll be safe with me. You don't have to worry honey." And she winks at me as he turns and deflates through the door, pulling it closed behind him.
"Sit down honey," she-says brightly, indicating two easy chairs and a couple of small tables.
I sit down and watch her full arse; cheeks jiggling nicely as she walks towards the little kitchen area. I could sit and watch her jiggle all day. The room feels suddenly close. Just the two of us in it. I am already sweating. She looks back at me appraisingly.
"Hey! You're cute! How do you like your coffee? Let me guess. "Strong and hot." Pause. A lifted eyebrough. "A little cream."
I give her a frozen rictus smile and nod again.
"What's your name honey?"
I clear my throat. My mouth is dry. I need some saliva. "Dickins," 'I manage to get out. "David Dickins."
She comes over all sexy coy. Puts on a breathy girly voice. "Do I like Dick-ins? Gee I don't know Mr President. I've never been to one." And she giggles, still in Marilyn mode, It's an old joke but she mimics Miss Monroe so perfectly I laugh out loud and for a second imagine that, maybe, in far off Arlington a smile lights up the dead president's face and for him once more the earth moves.
She has broken the ice. I relax and smile happily. She smiles with me.
I bet they call you Charles," she says.
"Charlie." I grin.
"Charlie it is." She smiles again.
She turns with the two coffee cups and walks towards me.
"One of my majors was Victorian novelists," she says. "I just love Dickens."
