"You are not—Here." She puts her hand to her neck.
Yes! That's where I feel it."
The gift of water
With ten minutes left, Ming's round face peeks out from under the clear shower cap that keeps her hair dry, dry for the next client. I soap her shoulders, breasts, belly, thighs: Washing her clean from our juices, clean for the next client, clean as the enamel of the hotel tub.
Kneeling, I soap her stiff twisty bush, the plump lips of her twat warm now in the showerspray, but cold when the lube met my fingertips as I started to stroke her. She was on all fours above me; I had my knees up and my legs spread, while she had her head down working my crotch:
Gliding warmth as she curled her tongue round my balls: kissed the wrinkled skin of my bag, liptugged the matted hair: using the same lips I'd later kiss: using the same tongue I'd later French:
She babied my balls, sweetly lapping and sucking: contouring them, cupping them, taking them into her mouth: as gently as if she were carrying eggs. Warmed and wetted, they loosen, hang low in their sack: She presses the tip of her tongue inward between them, finds the sweet hairless spot where I can feel her catlike roughness.
Her slit smiled before me flushed from my stroking but I only lipsmacked, licked, nibbled one cheek, then the other: then pushed her cheeks forward:
And she moved her head, and her tongue, further down. I swung my legs into the air and locked them round her back.
Kneeling, I soap the little saddlebags of Ming's cheeks, shaped so like Lan's. "In you go," Lan would have said, using her cozy voice.
Lan's skin was pale gold, though she called it "yellow." We brush our teeth at the sink in the morning, the mirror still steamy. Being so much taller, I stand behind her and caress the nape of her neck, her shoulders, back: but with my eyes only.
"Hirsute," Lan said her sister had called her, which I thought, then, merely, meant "hairy." That sister:
"17 grey hairs. My sister counted them."
That sister again, who had given her the front-opening brassiere in green (not her color) we'd cheerfully opened and stripped off last night.
The shower beats on my back; I've got my eyes scrunched shut against the soap and the steam and the spray but I sneak a look through my lashes, down at Lan's 32Bs.
Jaw set, lips compressed, Lan peers up at the work to be done: She scrubs hard as if she were cleaning the kitchen tile: Soaping and rubbing my armpits, chest, belly, thighs: She kneels into the spray: I brace myself and lift a foot, as if I were a horse lifting a hoof for the groom. She washes my sole, my heel, my toes:
Her hair, cut straight across her forehead, so carefully glossy, dry, will have gone dull now that she's gotten it wet; there's nothing like conditioner in my bachelor apartment.
Her hands stroke volume into my flesh, as a painter's brush strokes color into the canvas.
Behind the sliding glass shower doors, the world floats fresh and clean and new.
When we were very young, our father told us stories in our bath: Steadying my head with one hand, his other hand, cupped, pours water over my hair: A cascading life mask that flickers and vanishes.
For those of who remember the '70s
The highly slack [ahem] Trojan "X-Rated [ahem] Box Set is a must-have.
Shrewish girls just in from the country, lubricious DJs, cheesy sound effects, Rastafarian patois, the almost-sound of fireflies in the studio yard in the hot still night, and those thick and gummy bass lines—it's all here, just like you remember it—except much, much dirtier. The heavy beats will let you know where you are coming from and going to.
The lyrics are even better than the moaning and groaning. There are so many to choose from: Stranger and Gladdy's How your panty get wet? ("I was watering my garden! You can ask mama..."); Lloydie and the Lowbites' massively tight Fatty, Fatty ("Work it whichever way you want to, whoa-ah Fatty..."). But my lyrical favorite is Matador and Fay's novelty item Grand National:
But I don't want to give away the climax.
Friday pussy blogging
I have a sentimental attachment to the blog for which Laura writes, "I am yellow (curious)"—it was one of the very first sex blogs I read. Here she is:
[All rights retained by Laura the tooth.]
Tags: pussy; friday; fridaypussyblogging, and the ever informative DirtyTalkingGirl (from last week but, unaccountably, I missed it).
NEXT WEEK Pagan Moss. Antiquarians, if you'd like to guest post about pussy drop me a line.
LAST WEEK Melissa Moon.
FRIDAY PUSSY BLOGGERS Eden, Freya Brett and Hiromi, Pagan Moss, and the ever-informative DirtyTalkingGirl (from last week, actually. Unaccountably, I missed her), and Prospero (from last week, again. I'm thinking Angel being out of town affected me more than I thought).
Quickly, I reach down my right hand and wipe the lube and her cuntal juice off on the sheet, keeping my torso vertical so, while she waits, head down, she isn't disturbed by the action:
before grasping her cheeks:
All characters and situations fictional. Copyright (c) 2003-2007 by "John Psmyth."