Her name is Kathleen, but her lover calls her Kitty. She is a woman, mature and experienced of life, with lines on her face left by trials over the years – marriage, children arriving, children leaving, and children coming back. And then divorce, loneliness, but a gradual return to strength. She is not one to give up. But some of those lines, in fact, are from laughter, plain and simple, and full of joy. It is the laughter that helped her overcome the hardships and allowed her to maintain her tenderness for others and a sense of self.
And yes, her body has softened, but her spirit is firm and capable of much love. He is so proud, so happy that this woman's love is his. Her eyes are auburn; he calls them green. Her hair is blonde; to him, it's spun gold. Her breasts are ample, soft, and ripe, and they suckle him. Her laugh begins brightly and trails off into quietness – a tenor saxophone in the closing notes of a ballad. And he yearns for her when they are apart. And he yearns for more of her when they are together, whether holding hands, or locked in passion, wetting each other's sex.
And when they are apart, he asks, "What if?" What if he were to bring his lips close to hers on a moonlit boardwalk? Would she kiss softly at first, wetting his lips with her tongue before kissing more fully, or would she thrust her tongue aggressively into his mouth like phallus into vulva?
What if he were to suck on her fingers? Would they be flowery sweet with the fragrance of her perfume – "Faraway" – that what it's called – or would they be creamy musky, with the fragrance of the sex hole from which she'd just withdrawn her fingers? Whatever the taste, she would surely probe the insides of his mouth, stroking his tongue, and lapping up the saliva that she made to run down his chin. Her tongue would find its own way along his neck, leaving a silver trail of wetness, and end up in his ear. Her tongue would flutter in and out between whispered words that are at once crude and alluring. And then she would reciprocate, sucking on the fingers of one of his hands as the other explored the full length of the crevice between her legs. Sometimes he fantasizes that the fingers of his two hands would meet, deep, deep inside his Kitty – how much deeper can a man enter a woman? And of course, she would swap fingers once she'd licked his fingers clean of her.
What if he were to kneel between her thighs as she sat on a sofa, legs apart? Would he first lick, suck, nibble those nipples, large, engorged, and erect and listen as her girlish sighs became the throaty moans of a woman in heat? Or would he plunge his face into the crotch of her panties and find that his Kitty had soaked them through? He would then have to suck the fabric of her panties to wring out her essence. And although she later gives him her panties to remember her by, it is never enough. He just ends up yearning for more of his Kitty. No, there is no choice of nipple or panty; he would simply taste both and she would end up nude, mouth open, nipples hard, and thighs spread to reveal her womanhood. Yes, her womanhood.
Even when she stands with legs together, the split of her vulva is visible through her sparse hair and her delicate inner lips pout as though they were emerging free of the outer ones. Now, with her legs apart, the complicated, folded pinkness between her open lips is laid bare. These folds, ribbed and mushy, lead from her under her clit and ends where her inner lips join together and then continue as a single ridge to her anal ring, which he has tasted. That pinkness is punctured by that tiny opening through which her golden essence can escape. Oh, my love.
