Miss L tastes her own cunt..... at last!

Miss L stared at her toes of her flat brown brogues, and did not look up when I opened the door.

“I think that I might be a little… early,” she mumbled.

She did not look like a woman who mumbled very often. In fact she looked more like the sort of woman who considered mumbling to be symptomatic of a society in terminal moral decline. There was an unmistakable air of cold disapproval about the tiny woman on my doorstep; most of which - I felt safe to speculate - was directed towards me. There was something almost glacial about her: hair - frost-white – and cut into a frosty little bob, that perfectly framed her frosty little face. I was reminded of a geography teacher I had once had; a prickly, brusque, little woman who was intolerant of boys, bad manners, poor posture, and tardiness in any form whatsoever. Similarly cold, similarly petite, and similarly upright, my visitor struck a similarly flinty figure - chill, even as she was set against the wintry sky. First impressions, of course, are rarely reliable, but the brittle iciness of Miss L did not inspire in much confidence that our ‘relationship’ was likely to prove a long, or fruitful one.

On the positive side; she was far from unattractive, and looked some years younger than her age – even with her lips pinched almost to a pucker. But this was her visit, and I felt that some allowance had to be made. After all, such introductions are often tense. Prospective ‘pupils’ are rarely at ease, and often display behaviour that turns out to be atypical.

“Not too early,” I said, stepping back to allow her to enter.

With no attempt to hide her irritation – at herself, more than anyone else - she flicked her tiny feet, in general direction of the doormat and, with an audible ‘tut-tut’ marched smartly into the hallway. I noted that her immediate instinct was to check all surfaces for dust and scuffmarks. I was not in the least offended. She was of that generation that still firmly believe cleanliness to be ‘next to Godliness’.

When I was certain that my hallway had passed its inspection, I offered to take her coat.

“I would rather keep it on,” she said, frostily - clasping her fingers around the top her top button.

“You are not sure why you came,” I stated, softly as I could.

It was a very nice coat, I thought. Flecked and woollen - Trench in style, and might have looked rather elegant on a more obviously elegant woman. Not that Miss L was inelegant in any way; it was simply that she lacked the stature to carry off such a formidable item of clothing. She would have been aware of this too, but obviously felt willing to sacrifice some degree of style; in order to have the fortification (against potential assault?) it afforded her.

“I’m Gus,” I said, proffering my hand.

“Miss L,” she offered - accepting my gesture.

Her grip was light, and the palms of her hands were a little clammy.

“You reverted to your maiden name?”

The slightest trace of a smile kissed at the outer corners of her lips. For the first time Miss L raised her eyes to take a good look at me – no doubt checking me too for signs of dust and scuffmarks. She didn’t seem entirely displeased with what she saw, and I thought I detected some hint warmth as it stole into those ice-blue eyes of hers.

“Oh I didn’t keep anything that was… his.”

Her former husband was one topic (perhaps the only one) that Miss L was not entirely guarded about.

A lot of pressure can build up over forty-three years of marriage – especially one as relentlessly unhappy as hers. In the lounge, sitting at some distance from the wood burner (for fear of melting perhaps), Miss L listed her husband’s many faults. The list consisted of all the usual little things: his failure to put the toilet seat down, his habit of leaving his socks on the floor of the bathroom, of never picking up after himself, or lifting so much as a finger to help her around the house. I let her talk, though I barely listened at all - or even pretended to listen after a bit. Instead I used the time to continue my careful inspection of Miss L herself.

Slowly, button-by-button, she loosed herself from that great chrysalis of a coat of hers. If it wasn’t quite a butterfly, it was a still surprisingly colourful, and pretty little creature that began to reveal itself. As Mrs D had indicated, her friend had a very neat figure, and the simple, pink pencil-dress she wore suited her figure very well. It was quite a modest dress, with a burgundy collar, but the fit and cut of it softened her edges, and rounded out her breasts in very pleasant fashion. Her tights - woollen to meet the chill - were the same collar, and the combination somehow conspired to make the flat brown brogues she wore look almost girlish. Perhaps because it was her era, I couldn’t help but note that there was something of the Chelsea Girl about Miss L. Only the slight blurring of her jaw line, and the even slighter scrawn of her neck betrayed her sixty-five years.

It took her a while, but eventually she noticed that was no longer listening.

“Am a boring you?” she enquired, clipping her words carefully.

“Yes,” I replied, not bothering to hesitate.

“But don’t be offended. I’m easily bored. And you didn’t come all this way just to tell me that your husband never bothered to put his socks into pairs.”

Miss L seriously considered putting her coat back on – I could read it in her eyes. It was clear that she hadn’t yet fixed in her mind her reasons for coming in the first place. I felt that it was incumbent on me to help her in that regard.

“You came to tell me what a terrible lover he was, and how it was only when he was dead that you realised what a miserable, selfish, demanding… all taking, never giving, nasty little fucker he really was.”

The woman who lived two doors down from Mrs D slapped her hand onto her mouth, but was too late to stop herself from chuckling. The sound trickled through her fingers and warmed the room.

“You met my husband then?”

There are days when I am almost certain that I have met all the husbands at some time or other - and I told her as much. This too made her chuckle. And by the miracle of a few words I could see that Miss L was ready to properly introduce herself.

“Mrs D tells me that you never saw your husband’s cock.”

“Is that what you call it? I mean is that the… appropriate word?”

“Do you have another word for it…? I mean, obviously, there’s penis, and prick, and… member… and… God help us… meaty sword, and salami… and… any other number of terms. But cock is perhaps the least worst of all the options… in my opinion.”

“Manhood,” said Miss L, as though suddenly inspired.

“What?”

“In books… well in the sort of books that I’ve read… they always refer to… it… as the ‘manhood’…!”

“As in: ‘the firm tip of his huge manhood glinted in the moonlight as he heaved it from his flesh-tight jodhpurs’?”

She laughed, and admitted that that was exactly the sort of book she had been reading most of her life.

“But no,” she added. “I never did see my husband’s… cock. Actually I did, but not… in its… engorged state…. If that’s the correct term?”

I said that I thought, if anything, it was probably much too correct a term, but that at least it wasn’t ambiguous.

“You never saw your husband… aroused.”

“Not hard… no. Never.”

She paused, as if suddenly unsure of the tone of the conversation.

“Is this the sort of thing that you and Mrs D talk about?”

“When we talk… yes.”

“Doesn’t it get a little… tedious…?”

“Not so far.”

I poured us both a drink and let her talk a little more. For a while her words drifted, seemingly aimlessly around the subjects of memory (and the tricks it plays on the mind), age (and the tricks it plays on the mind), and… animal husbandry.

“We had a whole shelf in our fridge given over to bull… stuff…!”

She grasped at the air in front of her face as though trying to catch a better word.

“Cum,” I offered.

“Yes… that’s it. Bull… cum! I rather like that word…!”

She asked me if I considered ironic that a woman who had never actually seen an erect cock in the flesh, should have fridge that was effectively a shrine to the ‘male orgasm’? Then, almost before the question was fully formed, she interrupted herself:

“Actually that’s not true! I did see one… once! In the flesh….”

Miss L adjusted her posture, tamped down the hem of her skirt, and then she told me all that she could remember about the man on the bus.

“I would have been in my forties… I think. I usually drove to work, but my car was off the road for some reason… so… I used the bus. It was a quiet route… very unreliable service.”

“And the man?” I asked, steering her back towards the main subject of the story.

“I don’t know what age he was… older than I was then, younger than I am now… probably. I don’t really remember.”

What she did remember was that he was a tall man, with a dark complexion. Not ‘foreign dark’, she explained, just the sort of dark that a man gets if works outdoors a lot. She said that sometimes she had the impression that he had been rather handsome – though she accepted that this was probably just one of those tricks that memory can play on a woman her age. For obvious reasons, though, she said she would prefer to think of him as handsome.

“In a rough sort of way,” she added - because it pleased her.

Miss L said that she probably hadn’t taken much notice of the man as he sat down. When she did glance in his direction she could see that he had: ‘done that thing that all men do when they find themselves on an empty seat on a bus’, and sprawled himself all over it.

“He’d managed to his drape his elbows over the back of two seats, and his leg was hooked up so that his big workman’s boot was left hanging in the aisle.”

She said that he struck her as a little ‘fidgety’, but didn’t think much about it, as that was just another thing that men were like on buses. At some point however she must have sensed that something had changed, because she found herself drawn to look again.

“He was making this little, throaty… humming sound. So it might have been that that made me turn.”

Miss L said that even though she could see straight away what he was doing, it took a while for her brain to properly register it all.

“Even when I saw it… his cock… I didn’t really see it - if you know what I mean. I suppose it was partly because his hand was obscuring… some of it. Partly because I couldn’t quite… believe that he would be doing such a thing… on a bus.”

“You couldn’t describe his face?” I asked.

“No,” said Miss L.

“But you can describe his cock.”

“Yes,” said Miss L, staring off into the middle-distance, where the memory still vividly lingered.

She said that it was thick, and upright - darker even than his heavily tanned hands, and looked sort of livid almost at the end, almost raw, as he pulled down on that hood of skin. When he felt her eyes on him - on his cock – he opened his big hand so she could see how hard it was, and how it twitched. Under that thick stem she could distinctly see how his testicles had been drawn upwards by his arousal. The sack, she said, looked tight and full. Miss L said that it did not occur to her that she should look away, even as he took hold of his thickness again and pointed it directly at her. Fat tears of almost clear fluid dripped from that split tip. They flowed into uneven little streams, gathering together over the heavily veined shaft, and spilling over his fingers so that his cock became slippery with it.

“It made these… delicious little wet noises every time he… pulled back on it,” Miss L was almost whispering by then.

The fist quickened in its gestures, almost blurring as he fought to relieve the unbearable throb of it. His breathing altered until it was a continuous groan as his hips rose almost violently to meet the driving weight of his hand.

“And then,” she licked at her dried lips. “And then it just… gushed out of him. Thick… slops of white… cum… trailing along the leg of his jeans. And then another gush… less violent – and another – until his cock… his hand was completely coated with it.”

Miss L shifted her hips, and fell silent.

“And then?” I prompted.

Her gaze wandered back from the distance and met with mine.

“Then… he said: ‘Sorry missus.’”

She smiled and almost shook her head at the wonder of it.

“He just kept saying it… how sorry he was.”

Mr L couldn’t explain why, but said that she had felt compelled to offer the man the small cotton handkerchief that she kept in her pocket. He did his best to wipe himself clean, but it was a small handkerchief, and less than adequate for the job. Visibly shaking he pressed his softening cock back inside his jeans, and returned the little square of soiled cotton.

“It was cold,” said Miss L. “I thought it might be hot, or at least warm, but all the heat was already out of it. It was thick with… cum. I’d never really felt the texture of that before, but the smell of it was familiar enough.”

Having apologised once again, the man got off the bus at the next stop.

“You didn’t throw away that handkerchief did you?”

I know enough never to ask a question I do not already know the answer to. It came as no surprise then, when Miss L confirmed that she had not discarded that cum-soaked square of cotton.

“You even tipped your tongue to that strangers cum didn’t you?”

Miss L nodded. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were much brighter than before. I told her to get up, and to cross the room, and to stand directly in front of me. I was sitting by the window in an upright chair. When she was close enough so that her knees were almost brushing mine, I put my hand firmly on her thigh, and pushed her legs a little further apart. She did not resist.

“Did it arouse you to watch that stranger?”

“Not really,” she said. It was an honest answer.

“Not while he was… tugging on it. Perhaps, a little… when he… climaxed. More still when he handed me that wet… musky handkerchief…. I was aroused then….”

“Wet?”

“There was a… dampness. Yes!”

“And later… when you were alone in your room… you took that handkerchief out again didn’t you? Did you put it to your mouth? Did you wipe your lips with it, and breathe in its thick aroma? And when that smell had filled you up… did you feel yourself swell, and the wetness spill out of you?”

She said yes, to all of it.

I moved my hand slowly upwards. The inner part of her thigh was warm and soft. I had thought wearing tights, but half way up her thigh my fingers found bare flesh.

“Hold ups…!” she explained, blushing. “I thought tights might be a little… inaccessible,”

“And when you told me about the man on the bus, did that make you swell?”

“Yes.”

She almost held her breath as I lightly pinched at the portion of exposed flesh above the hold-ups. I could feel the heat of her arousal in my knuckles.

“And are you very wet now?”

Before she answer I pressed my fingers directly onto that heat. She gasped. The cotton was drenched, and I could feel how it had moulded itself over the swells of her labia, and how it had begun to sink into that delicious cleft. Her legs were shaking. The stiffness of her clit was obvious.

“Your cunt is very wet. Yes?”

I sensed a slight, and not unexpected, stiffening in her spine.

“I don’t… that’s not a word I… like.”

I withdrew my hand from under her skirt.

“Your cunt is wet… yes?”

It was my turn to be stern. I wanted her to in no doubt of what was expected of her. My fingers were slippery where she had seeped onto them. I brought my hand towards my face so that I could smell her cunt. She shuddered as she watched me. I tipped my fingers a little way between my lips, and licked.

“You taste of cunt,” I said.

I put those still cunt-slipped fingers into her mouth, sliding them over her tongue. Her lips trembled.

“I taste of… cunt,” she said - understanding at last.

Satisfied that we had made some progress, I fetched her coat and told her return the following Tuesday. She seemed a little taken aback.

“That’s it?” she asked, as I slipped that huge coat over her narrow shoulders.

“For now,” I said.

I told her that of course she was free not to return. That was to her decision – not mine. Whether she would be welcome, however, would depend on her complying with certain conditions – none of which were negotiable. She would arrive wearing exactly the same clothes, though without the panties. This we would have to confirm in some way before she would be allowed to enter. In addition she would bring a clear photographic print of her cunt, already framed, and the handkerchief that I knew she had kept all these years.

“If any of that seems… impossible… for any reason… then you would be wasting your time… and mine, to come back again.”

I showed her to the door.

First encounters are very delicate affairs. It is as easy to lose a ‘pupil’ as to gain one. Experience has taught me not to rush. There is a pact that must exist between the dominant and the submissive, and it is very easily broken. I hoped that Miss L would come to understand that – in time. But I understood as I closed the door behind her that I might never see her again.

It was a risk that I was willing to take.

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