"You'll need to nuzzle in deeper than that to lick me, Honey." Ms. E's voice was a gentle contralto - just as calm and pleasant as it was when she greeted me in the hall.
"Are you going to crack my head like a walnut again?" She'd pulled up her skirt so our eyes could meet, and she could see that I was smiling.
"I'd never." But we both knew that she would - or at least her plump thighs would try to when she was on the verge of orgasm. The truth was that I really didn't mind, but I liked to teas her.
I gave her thighs one last kiss. I always started by kissing her thighs - her skin was so soft there, so supple that it begged to be nibbled and licked. When she wore nylons (and she often did) I couldn't ignore the curve where her pale skin blossomed fleshily out of the top of the lacy band - I was an addict.
Her legs shifted position, and her round bottom lifted from the comforter as I slid further into the vertex between her thighs. She cinched her skirt up to watch me and flinched, giggling when my lips pressed against her panties. This week her panties were cotton, but a sleek black printed with tiny purple flowers; they were always pretty and feminine. And as always, they were new - the creases had been ironed out, but they still smelled faintly of plastic beneath her subtle perfume and her own, stronger odor. I sucked them into my mouth until they were slick with my saliva, until I'd leeched out both the light dew of her anticipation and the slightly bitter stain of some excitement earlier in the day when she must have soaked them through. I often found her new panties previously (or still) moist, and I liked to imagine that she'd spent the whole morning at church thinking about the afternoon. I imagined her sitting on a hard wooden pew in my mental image of some generic church, pretending to focus on a hymnal, crossing her legs to contain the warmth flowing in her loins, but squeezing her thighs tight and squirming just enough to cultivate the pleasure of her clandestine fantasy.
For a minute or two I pushed my nose into fleshy part of her mons while I tongued and nibbled at the bulges of her labia through the screen of her panties, but that was just a wicked tease for both of us and she'd soon slipped the panties down her legs to drape around one of her ankles. It was important to her that she be the one to remove her panties herself, so while they were in place I didn't probe with my tongue or finger or push the crotch stirrup away for better access. And I pretended not to notice the pause when she pulled away from me to remove her panties. But when she settled back into place, providing my face with a full view of her luscious pussy (lit by the curtain-filtered afternoon sun, half shadowed by her crumpled skirts and angled thigh like she'd hired a cinematographer to frame the shot) - that's when I really began.
She enjoys it more than I do - or at least I hope she does - but I love it. I love going down on Ms. E. Her bush isn't shaved, but she keeps it neatly trimmed; the short, glossy brown curls frame her labia without really getting in the way. Then again, a good nibble in the brush excites us both, and it's worth the occasional hair in the mouth for a nostrilful of the scent that lingers there. I loved her smell and her taste, not because it was remarkably different from other women I'd gone down on, but because it suited her so well. She was musky, earthy, but clean and with a delicate hint of some floral perfume.
She and I were both patient, so I took my time tracing her inner and outer labia with the tip of my tongue, slowly swiping from bottom to top with wide, wet strokes that left her glistening, or sucking lightly at the bulge of her clitoris still hiding beneath the hood - whatever I felt like and whatever made her sigh and say, "Yes... like that, Honey." We paced ourselves and built slowly through the steadily increasing waves of her pleasure, so while she'd crest, running her fingers through my hair and pulling my face against her for better friction while her hips bucked, she'd take a deep breath and let go again after a moment so I could begin again to build her up again. Each crest - each time the passion overwhelmed her sense of restraint and she forcefully took her pleasure from me instead of letting me lick her - came stronger and lasted a little longer, until at last, in the midst of a session of deep, throbbing grinding that had buried my nose and lips and chin and left me breathless, the big wave came. Her calves crossed over my back, her thighs clamped tightly around my cheeks and ears, and her hips arched off the bed as she spasmed and gasped. I knew to hold my breath, because she'd keep me there, clenched in place until she'd spasm again and maybe again, then push me away as urgently as if my face was on fire.
We both lay in the bed afterward while we caught our breath, and we chatted a bit. I mentioned that I liked her panties this week, and she told me how I'd done particularly well by her today, but soon I was in the guest bathroom washing my face while she changed and started to prepare lunch.
* * * * * * *
So, yes, we had a routine, but don't call it a rut. We both enjoyed it. I don't remember exactly how or when it started, but it must have been pretty soon after I moved in, because it seems like it's been forever. I have the J unit on the 3rd floor; she has condo C on the 4th - the one with the balcony big enough for more than a couple potted plants on the rail. We probably spoke a dozen times in the lift up or the stairs down, or down by the mailboxes. She was older than me - I guessed in her late 40's or early 50's - so at least fifteen to twenty years my senior - but there was still more brown than gray in her roots each month before she had her hair styled. She dressed fashionably and drove a nice car where the rest of us on the lower floors shopped at JC Penney and walked to work or rode the subway, so I suppose she had a good job, but we never spoke about it. She was the kind of woman who would have always been described as "having a pretty face." She did, too: a pert nose that looked a little more black than Puerto Rican - full, expressive lips - hazel irises that seemed to jump out of the whites the way she painted her lids and lashes - brows that arched playfully without being penciled. She was also the kind of woman who would have been been called "full-figured" or "plump", but no-one would have called her pudgy, not unless they were just trying to be mean. She had a few dimples and the beginnings of creases above her hips, her large breasts sagged (or so I guessed, since I'd never seen her out of a bra, or even really out of a blouse), but a tasteful application of make-up filled in most of her wrinkles and made her lips glisten, and her skin-tone was as firm as mine, probably due to the Manhattan skyline of bottles next to the sink in her bathroom. More than anywhere her age showed in her gracious attitude, her confidence, and her carriage. She made me want to stand up straighter and speak more carefully when I was around her. I'm not going to say she reminded me of my mother, because that's just creepy. She was like those teachers I had a crush on when I was just a kid, but in a totally innocent way.
Now I was the kind of guy who'd never been described as having pretty anything - not until I met her, anyway. She liked my eyes and told me often, whether we were passing in the entryway or whether they were all she could see beneath my tousled hair, peering at her from above the horizon of her belly. I was more average than attractive or ugly, and I was more intelligent than outgoing. I was the kind of guy who balanced my free time in high-school between cross country and the chess club, if you know what I mean. These days I had a degree and a good job, but most importantly I had an apartment on the floor beneath Ms. E's.
I vaguely remember a night a few years back when I'd been out drinking with friends. (I wasn't drunk, no matter what you think.) When I'm a little tipsy I'm prone to say things I I wouldn't otherwise, and that's probably how it started: some Friday night riding up the unbearably slow lift with Ms. E, who was either a little tipsy herself or just amused with alcohol-inspired conversation offered by the new tenant. We would have commiserated about our lack of a sex life (which wasn't entirely true - I had the occasional girlfriend), and I would have told her that in her case I found it hard to believe. You know - we flirted. Through the slightest of slurs and the overconfidence of Jack Daniels, I would told her in conspiratorial terms about the origin of the word "hysterical". As recently as eighty years ago doctors recognized that women needed regular orgasms (or hysterical paroxysms, if you'd prefer to be both clinical and out of date) in order to avoid the malady of "hysterics", which could manifest in just about whatever symptoms suited her fancy. Manual pelvic massage was the preferred therapy then, but I'd heard that more recently oral pelvic massage had come into vogue. Okay, I probably had been drunk, because I never would have said that otherwise, but she probably tittered and covered her mouth to hide a naughty grin. I reminded her that this was a serious medical condition and relief was prescribed for any need female, be she maiden, married, or widow.
I do remember now a Saturday evening: I was in the laundry room waiting on a load of whites and reading some silly book when she came down to take out a load of delicates. She made no point of hiding the lacy, satiny underwear and bras; in fact I think she was flaunting them as she pulled each piece out in turn and folded it neatly. "Big night ahead?" I asked.
