From Teen Bride To Hot Wife, 7: Her First Taste Of Pussy free porn video

The first Monday of the last week in October, Caroline is on her fifteen-minute walk to work. There is an autumn chill in the air, a hint of a change in the season. She thinks of shopping for new boots, and maybe a pair of smart pants like the gorgeous blonde girl wears — the tall one who often passes through the square where in fine weather Caroline and Dorothy sit to eat their lunch.

In town, a bus discharges its crush of passengers across her path: office workers, students, shop girls. One girl who draws her eye. Only a fleeting glance of her face. At first, Caroline is not sure, and then she is definitely sure — almost. Her red hair is a fabulous shout of colour, wayward curls and ringlets gathered and restrained to leave a ponytail swinging wildly behind her as she briskly ups her pace.

Looking as young as her portrait, she is fleet on her feet as she weaves between the others. She has the same boyish frame, the same always startled eyes. She wears jeans that cut tight into the narrowest of hips, tightly binding shapely legs, both moving with lithe urgency as they propel her on her way.

Caroline is sure it's Harriet, though she only snatched a glimpse of her face. She calls out, "Harriet!"  But her shout is not a shout, just a half-hearted plea of uncertainty. Suddenly she feels foolish and does not dare call the name again as she watches the girl is lost in the crush other alighting passengers.

Caroline's thoughts return to Penny Dammartin's portrait of the person she called Harriet. Why does a glimpse of this one strange girl fill Caroline with foreboding, a suspicion there are secrets kept from her?  It is not as if she finds Harriet attractive — far from it, the girl holds no physical allure. She appears too fragile for any of that. Or is that impression due only to Penny's rendering of the girl's state of mind after her visit to Dammartin, constructed to please her father, done just for effect. She is determined to speak to Harriet if she ever sees her in town. How she would love to talk to one of their "girls", compare notes on the Dammartins.

Saturday after work, Dorothy and Caroline are going to a gig in the Polytechnic Student Union bar. Pub rockers Dr Feelgood are touring. Last week Caroline saw the band on the telly and loved the guitarist's frantic back and forth strut across the stage, his guitar as a Bren Gun, fingers firing idiot-riff after idiot-riff. She tells Dorothy she just has to see them, wants to say she was there when they came to town. She tells a lie, says she has no one else to ask, though there half a dozen people she could go with.

Getting ready for her date with Dorothy, she chooses her knee-length velvet dress of blue darkness, the one Joe so likes to see her wearing. It's her favourite too. It has long tight sleeves and is low-cut at the chest, shows her cleavage at its best. Under the dress, matching black undies and barely black tights. It will be the first time out for her still boxed new heels, their expense her only indulgence courtesy of Dammartin money, the rest deposited in her Abbey National account for when she starts her full-time teaching course.

She spends time on her makeup, more than in the early days with Joe, and an hour coercing her long, straight hair into Looby loo ringlets. She'll risk jewellery tonight, even though it is a live gig: large loop earrings, a string of pearls around her neck, and silver bracelets for each wrist. Dorothy will plainly see the effort she's made.

She has arranged to meet Dorothy at seven-thirty outside C&A, the same spot she met Joe on their first date four years ago. Upstairs on the bus, she spots Dorothy looking anxious around as if afraid her date might not show, and it touches Caroline to see her friend's uncertainty. The girl is dressed in Levis and a fashion biker jacket, her usually ponytailed long dark long hair is tonight set free, now harassed and made wild by the unforgiving breeze that sweeps along the shopfronts. Standing alone the girl looks quite forlorn, and Caroline feels a pang of affection, a need to take her in her arms and hold her close.

Off the bus and a dash through the precinct. A heedless a passage among late evening traffic to be with the girl.

 "I thought we were going to a gig," Dorothy asks when Caroline kisses her cheek in greeting."

"We are. Why?"

"You're all dressed up."

"It's the Poly bar, not Glastonbury. I always dress up on Saturday night."

"But look at me?"

"You look the proper rock-chick. What's the  wrong?"

"Oh, I don't know. I thought I'd try and look the part for you."

"I love the way you look."

"Sure?"

"Never been surer," Caroline says, leans and kisses Dorothy quickly on the lips.

The music the D.J. plays before the band takes to the stage is too loud for a normal conversation. Caroline has to almost shout into Dorthy's ear to make herself heard. But that is not a bad thing, Caroline thinks, it means she has to be close to her friend to make herself heard, from where she can smell freshly washed hair and the essence of her soap held by cheeks still freshened by the earlier evening chill. It's that lemon marbled brand called, Zest, which she occasionally buys for her and Joe.

But there is another perfume whose source she can't determine, its fragrance comes and goes like mist. Musk oil, Caroline soon decides. She knows it from when shopping at the perfume counter in Debenhams when once she dabbed her wrist with it and found its pungency sickly, though tonight its redolence is only a suggestion of that essential oil's pervading intensity.  

She is dying to confess everything about Dammartin Manor to Dorothy, those things she allowed the toffs to do to her. Sometimes she feels she might go insane if she does not tell someone about her and Joe's new secret life. She knows it will be Dorothy she will bare her heart to some time soon, hopes she will not judge. No, Dorothy will understand everything, Caroline is sure of it. But she does not know where to begin, and so she talks about Joe instead, tells Dorothy how handsome he is, how Dorthy will have to meet him when he gets back from Germany.

When She leans in to speak, whisper as a shout in Dorothy's ear, Caroline's cheek brushes her friend's cheek. She imagines parting her own lips to send her tongue gently across flawless skin. And when it is Dorothy's turn to speak, Caroline pushes back her hair and cups her own hand behind her ear to capture Dorothy's voice above the din of music. She watches how her lips form shapes that are words she cannot decipher, thinks of how those lips appear to be always on the threshold of a pout, crying out to be kissed.

She imagines her own tongue searching for Dorothy's, tentatively scouting her warm mouth to find and coax it out, and pictures their two tongues enacting a back and forth dance, coming and going from mouth to mouth. Now her desire to delve into the compelling petulance of Dorothy's lips is almost beyond her will. But she cannot muster the courage to initiate the act. It is not rejection she fears but the eyes of students all about her.  She imagines their laughter, their accusations of look at the lesbos. After all, this is a Lancashire Poly in nineteen-seventy-five, not CBGBs.

They watch the band, anonymous in the audience, and Dorthy slides her arm around Caroline's waist, her palm resting on the swell of her hips. This simple act of intimacy pleases Caroline, and she turns to her friend and smiles. For a moment neither can turn away from the other, both girls immersed in a shared silence that hushes even the crack and thrash of Wilko Johnson' guitar-as-machine-gun, merciless riffs.

At ten-thirty they catch the last bus home, and by eleven they are together on the sofa looking through Caroline's photo albums. She wants Dorthy to see Joe, and so she shows last year's snaps of their camping holiday in St Ives.

"You're so lucky to have someone like Joe," Dorothy says as she flips the pages of the album.

"Have you ever had a serious boyfriend?" Caroline asks.

"The longest was six months. Tommy."

"What happened?"

"Oh, nothing really — just he was getting sort of needy, wanted to see me every night. Such a downer."

"That's the last thing you want, some guy telling you how to live your life. Joe and I have an understanding..."

And that is the beginning of Caroline telling all: Kath and Mike, the swinger's magazine, her blossoming open marriage, her visit to Dammartin Manor, and lastly her assignations with Harrington. Caroline is amazed at her own words, how they arrive and fly from her lips. Her talk grows reckless in its honesty.

"Your life is so exciting," Dorothy says when Caroline has no more to tell.

"Not that exciting. I still work in Woolworths."

"Nothing ever happens to me."

"I've happened to you," Caroline says, reaches out and strokes her friend's cheek.

"Yeah, you have," Dorothy reaches out her hand and touches the back of Caroline's hand, slides her fingers up and begins to toy with her silver bracelet as they talk.

"But if lord what's-his-name asks to see you again, will you go back?" Dorothy asks.

"He's already asked me. There is to be some big party up at the Manor."

"What kind of party?"

"Harrington says there will be all sorts of wealthy people there, not just the creepy toffs — people from embassies, the television. All sorts of people."

"How much will they pay you?"

"Five hundred pounds."

Dorothy becomes thoughtful, does not look at Caroline.

Caroline wonders if her confession was a mistake. "Does it bother you that I take their money."

"I never thought it would be so much. Do you have to do whatever they say?"

"Pretty much."

"I'd love to be like you, Caz, but I don't have a Joe to look after me."

"But if you did have someone to take care of you, would you?"

"But I don't."

"I could look after you — Joe too."

"He's never met me. Why would he?"

"If he met you I'm sure he would really like you."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because you are lovely, and I know my Joe. When he gets back from Germany, you must come over and meet him."

"Are you sure he won't mind?"

"And I could take some photos... show them to Harrington sometime."

"Could it be sooner?"

"We could do it now if you like."

"But I don't know about you showing them to this man, Harrington, but I'd love to see a photo of myself naked."

"You might not like what you see. I didn't. Polaroids can be so unflattering."

"I don't care. I still want you to photograph me."

"And show them to Harrington?"

"If you think so — he won't like me, though."

"How could anyone man not like you. You're perfect."

"No, I'm not."

"Stop fishing for compliments. I'll just have to get that camera to show you how lovely you really are. Even that horrid thing can't make you look bad. And don't you dare move until I get back. I want to watch you undress."

"You kinky girl," Dorothy says.

"I'm not joking. I really do want to. You have such elegance about how you go about things,"

The intensity of Dorothy's eyes captures Caroline, and at that moment there is a mutual understanding shared of what is growing between them, how their two minds now resonate, each captured by the other's gravity of affection and need. Each finds the other someone with whom they feel safe to explore something previously only vaguely hoped for.

Caroline goes upstairs. A frantic rummage in the bottom of Joe's wardrobe. Where does he keep the bloody thing? She is about to give up, is angry at him for hiding it away. Then she remembers: under the stairs, along with the magazines.

"Sorry that it took so long. There are only six left," Caroline says as she comes back into the lounge with the camera. "How do you want to do this?"

"Sexy, of course."

"How could you look anything else? Okay, you can take off your things now, if you're still up for it."

Dorthy starts to undress. She is wearing a thin, pale blue cotton top that is almost like stocking mesh. It has long puffy sleeves and string-ties at the wrists. She fiddles with the left tie but it has knotted and she cannot unravel it with just one hand. She asks Caroline for help.

"I spoke too soon about you being elegant," Caroline says, almost laughing as she goes to her friend and begins to loosen the snagged tie.

"I suppose I'm nervous. I've never undressed in front of a girl as lovely as you are."

"Only ugly girls?"

They both laugh, and then Caroline attends to the tie on the other wrist. When it is freed, she steps aside to watch Dorothy undress. Up over her head goes the garment, quickly thrown aside. Then her hands reaching swiftly behind herself to unfasten her bra, She stands for a moment, her breasts displayed for Caroline's delight. The girl's nipples are swollen, and Caroline imagines the texture and flavour she will find when the time comes to taste them.

"You have lovely breasts," Caroline says."

"They're my one good feature."

"You have more than one. You are very pretty too."

"But I like my breasts best. They're what draw men's eyes — and then I love to catch them staring," Dorthy says as she undoes the button of her jeans, pulls the zip slowly down.

There's nothing elegant about watching Dorothy escaping a pair of tight-fitting jeans. She has to sit on the edge of the sofa and kick them free. Even so, Caroline still thinks the act of Dorthy undressing is beautiful. She watches wistfully as Dorothy's white silk panties follow her jeans.

Dorothy stands naked and self-conscious. She moves to cover her pussy with her hands and tries to hide her breasts by squeezing inwards with her upper arms. Caroline remembers her own feelings of vulnerability when she stood naked for Lord Dammartin, how her instincts had prompted her into a similar pose.

"You haven't gone all shy on me, have you, Dorothy?"

"No, it just feels weird being naked for you because you're a girl. Tommy always liked to look at me when I was undressing, and that was nice."

She lowers her hands and stands beautifully revealed for the camera. Caroline points and presses. There is a disorientating flash, and Dorothy is captured in monochrome. One click to change a life. That's all it takes.

"I wasn't ready," Dorothy says.

More shots. One of Dorothy at her best: her sexy pout, the lift and substance of her breasts. Another, the full half-apple roundness of her hips viewed from behind, her looking back a the camera over her shoulder. Another of her face in closeup, full-front, and another in profile.

Caroline directs Dorothy step by step to pose for the last shot. It will be one like the wives assume so often in those magazines; one like Joe took of her to use in their small-ad. Dorothy on the sofa, head propped by cushions, her legs raised and wide apart.

This is so intimate, Caroline thinks. To see another female's hidden part so revealed affects her as she never expected it could. She looks at the girl's pussy without shame or embarrassment, and the sight fills her with an overwhelming need to touch and taste her in that place. But once the shot is done, Caroline is unable to proceed with what only seconds before she so desired to do. Now she just stares and stares.

"You okay, Caz?" Dorothy asks.

"Just that I can't get over how beautiful you are."

"It's made me so horny being photographed like this, and how you look at me like you do."

"Look how wet you are."

"Where?" Dorothy says quickly casting  her eyes over her body."

"You know! Your pussy."

Dorothy touches herself between the legs, rubs two fingers together as if to gauge the viscosity of her own cunt. "Oh, god! How embarrassing."

"It's not embarrassing, it's such a turn on to know I'm responsible."

"You and that camera. Can I see the photos now?" Dorothy asks.

Caroline is busy with the camera, says "They take ages to develop; fifteen minutes, at least." She puts the camera down on the table and looks at Dorothy, still uncertain about what the girl expects.

It is Dorothy who breaks the silence that has settled between them:

"Did it hurt when he spanked you?"

"Yes. It hurt a lot," Caroline says, remembering how much. "They say some people enjoy it."

"Did you?"

"Enjoy it?"

"Yes. But not at first."

"I can't imagine how anyone could get to enjoy pain," Dorothy says.

"Neither could I before it happened."

"And then you did?"

"Sort of."

"Would you show me, you know, spank me like he did you?"

"Don't be silly, Dorothy. It really hurt."

"You could be gentle to start with. I want to see if I could be brave too —as brave as you."

Dorothy's nakedness continues to entrance Caroline, and she runs pictures through her mind of the girl spread out across her knees, just like she had been for Lord Dammartin, and later his wife.

"If you really want to, I could show you how Lady Dammartin did it. It wasn't half as bad with her — until she took a brush to me, that is." Caroline goes and sits in the armchair opposite the telly and pats her knee, "Come to me, wench," she orders Dorothy theatrically.

"'Straight away m'lady," Dorothy says while performing a cute little curtsy.

Both girls burst into hysterical laughter.

"Shhh." hushes Caroline, a single finger to her lips. Don't spoil it."

"You started it," Dorothy says.

Now as she anticipates spanking Dorothy's bare behind, a thrill of cruel intent is seeded in Caroline's mind. Spiteful images heat her blood: Dorothy's flesh made red-raw, and the cries of pain she imagines her hand will elicit. But she catches her train of thoughts, puts an end to that momentary reverie, feels almost ashamed by allowing it. Dorothy is so sweet, is her friend. How could she ever even consider seeing her suffer even a little? And yet...

Caroline takes a breath, lowers her voice to a masculine tone and resumes the charade. "Come to me, Wench. Cease your dilly-dallying at once."

Dorothy steps forward again, her demeanour now fitting enough for a spanking from an actual Dammartin, "What is m'lord's pleasure?" she asks.

Caroline once again pats her knee. "Do you need me to draw you a picture, Wench?

"No, m'lord."

Caroline remembers the sensation of Lady Dammartin's stockinged legs against her belly, and so she folds back the hem of her knee-length velvet dress to reveal her thighs sheer in barely-black ten denier tights.

Dorothy stretches her naked body across Caroline's knees, and the air becomes replete with the musk oil scent that rises from the girl's flesh. Before she lowers her head, Dorothy looks up over her shoulder at Caroline and says, "Don't hold back. Give it to me like they did you," and then lowers her head and her hair falls to curtain her face, and her cheeks brush Caroline's calf.

"Are you sure? It really hurt."

"I'm sure. Go on."

"Okay. Get ready!"

Caroline's hand goes as high as the bright kid in class who is eager to please teacher. Before she administers the stroke Caroline takes a deep breath, and then her hand is a doodlebug descending on a London suburban street, and the scream contact elicits is cruelly sweet to Caroline's ears. Immediately her hand goes skyward again to quickly come crashing down. In a quick concession, her hand rises and falls, and the splat of palm on soft, curved flesh fills the small back room. As she beats her friend's behind, Caroline's pussy whispers its delight.

Twenty ferocious slaps, and though Caroline hears the cries that diffuse the girl's pain, she does not see the tears that water her eyes. Not until her palm comes to rest does she senses the depth of hurt she has inflicted on her friend. Now as she strokes the curve of Dorothy's backside, she is startled to feel the heat of punished flesh warming her palm.

"Was I too cruel?" Caroline asks.

"It was hard to take, but now I know if I'm asked to I can bear the pain too, be as brave as you."

"He beat me harder than I could ever beat you," Caroline says.

"I don't care. I wanted to share what you experienced. Will the photos be ready now? I've decided I do want you to send one to that man Harrington. I want to be there with you at the party."

Caroline wonders if she was wise to have been so candid with Dorothy, her enthusiasm for meeting the Dammartin's a growing concern. She feels responsible for the younger girl and considers not telling Harrison about her. Whether to allow Dorothy to meet the Dammartins will require more thought.

Now they are on their feet and standing by the table ready to inspect the photos. Caroline peels open each developing pouch and hands the prints to Dorothy one at a time.

"They're not as bad as you said they would be," Dorothy says. "But I see what you mean. They make me look a bit common, like some tart from the Gresham Estate."

"Yours have come out nicer than mine did. You can keep two if you like and I'll send one to Harrington. I'll have two. Which do you want?"

"No, I can't take them. If my mother ever found them she'd kill me. You keep them, and I can look at them when I visit again."

They pass the prints back and forth. And then they have seen enough and the camera and photos are left on the table.

 "Can I hold you?" Dorothy asks.

She does not wait for an answer, quickly takes Dorothy in her arms. She rests her chin on the girl's bare shoulder, closes her eyes to savour the reality of having another girl in her arms. Dorothy's large, firm breasts cushion against her own, and she feels the gentle rise and fall of her chest in breathing and pulls the girl even tighter to herself.

She runs her palms over the smooth expanse of her back, her hand skating over skin like silk until she reaches the explosion of the flesh of Dorothy's full hips, pliant pudge and so pleasing to take in handfuls and squeeze. She lets her finger explore the contours, the fissure that divides those sumptuous haunches. And as her hands go back and forth over Dorothy's buttocks, Caroline repeatedly pecks at her neck with lips that want to devour her inch by inch, travel down and taste all the soft, stacked flesh that fills her palms.

But it is Dorothy who initiates their first kiss, taking Caroline's chin and tilting her head back a little to access her mouth. Then it is a delicious swirl of girlish lips and searching tongues, their kiss quickly becoming slosh and swallow. The kiss is like a sudden immersion in iced water, robbing her of breath. She has to break free and gulp in air, her head buried among Dorothy's recalcitrant curls as she gasps for breath. She becomes aware of her own racing heart, its thumping presences behind her ribs; a boxer is skipping with rope on rickety floorboards in an old gym.

This naked girl in her arms is soft and fragrant, the muskiness of her scent much stronger now she is this close. What a curved and sumptuous female mystery a girl is, Caroline thinks, and wonders what she is to do with Dorothy now she has her to herself? She tries to remember own seduction at the hands of Kate, how her mouth was the protagonist of the revolution initiated by her lust.

She can barely ride the storm of desire the kiss she shares with Dorothy evokes. Knowing of her lover's growing excitement makes Caroline's mind gloriously reckless. Their kissing becomes furious, rampant. It is a sacking of this moment in time of its every treasure.

They take their lovemaking to the bedroom. Dorothy stands behind Caroline at the foot of the bed and unzips the fastener that runs down the back of her velvet dress. She hardly dares breathe, becomes as moribund as death itself as she is undressed. Dorothy's nipples press against her exposed back, her cheek, against Caroline's shoulder, while both hands encircle to find and cup and lift both breasts. A moan of satisfaction comes from Dorothy as she appraises what her hands support in an assessing of worth from substance,

"And I thought I had good tits," Dorothy says. "Yours are nicer."

Caroline can hardly exhale the words: "We have a similar build." Even in her pitch of need, her good manners insist she replies.

Dorthy stoops to pull down Caroline's tights, hooks her fingers over the waistband and tugs the stretching material, bringing along her panties for the ride, while Caroline lifts each foot to let the tangle pass and be gone. For Dorothy, this is a reckless unwrapping of a long-promised gift.

She kneels to strafe Caroline's buttock cheeks with kisses until she stands and the pair are face to face again.

Before they kiss again, Dorothy says:  "I've wanted to be like this with you for so long. I can't believe it's finally happening."

"Do you really like me, Dorothy? The way a man would?"

"Feel for yourself how much," Dorothy says, taking Caroline's hand and drawing it down to touch between her legs. "That's how much."

They kiss and kiss, their colliding breasts flattening against each other. Frantic in kissing, the hands of each ply the buttocks of the other,  filling their palms and squeezing as if vying to outdo each other in how much flesh can be held. Soon it is fingernails as kitten claws kneading and scratching red-raw-long.

They tumble onto the bed in a playful tussle. Then it is Caroline on her back while Dorthy straddles her. Already Dorothy's cunt seeps a trail that glistens in the lamplight, the tracks of her cunt's to and fro. Caroline does not see the slithered cum, but she senses a chill of wetness, and how it facilitates the roll and slide of Dorothy's buttocks. The plumpness of Dorthy's flesh traversing belly, abdomen, and mons is delicious in its intimacy, and  Caroline cannot believe how she never saw the potential pleasure another female body could bring to her.

"Is this good for you?" Dorothy asks Caroline breathlessly as she increases the momentum of her hips sensuous rhythm."

"Oh, God! The best. Where did you learn to do this?"

"I have a filthy imagination."

"Yes, you do, if you've been imaging doing this to me."

Dorothy's leans forward, her head descending to kiss Caroline. And then she abandons their kiss to draw her body over Caroline's torso, letting her breasts brush the length, over her belly and abdomen until they are level with her pussy. Caroline's legs are spread wide now, and Dorothy pushes her right nipple into Caroline's exposed tissue, her left soon to replaces it. A moment later it is Dorthy's head that is between Caroline's legs, her tongue curling to gyrates and lap in a frenzy of slurping, sucking, and licking.

Caroline's clit is now Dorothy's sole intent. This is new to Dorothy too, though for many years she has imagined herself with a girl, repeatedly rehearsed what she would do if the moment ever came. As Dorothy works Caroline to orgasm, her fingers claw deep into the abundance of darkness that is Dorothy's hair, twisting locks to a tangle as she is brought to the razor edge of release. When Caroline calls out from the pitch of her completion, it is with a cry to rouse the entire street. Her hips buck, pushing her cunt onto the girl's chin in a desperate bid for a penetration that she knows will never happen.

Orgasm as a purge, an exquisite cleansing of neural circuits, not one ganglion refused a place at the synaptic carnival. And all the while, Dorothy continues to lap at Caroline's clit as if the grand mal of bliss her friend undergoes is none of her doing. It is as if the thrash and twist of female flesh that undulates below and all about her is an act of God.

Eventually, Caroline's cries become a simper of satisfaction. Her arms settle, legs lose their tension, and her heads cease its frantic to and fro. She is calm now and looks down over her own body to see Dorothy's head emerging from between her legs, a smile of smug delight bright in her feral-girl eyes.

"Did I do good?" she asks.

"Better than good."

"My turn. Budge up," Dorothy says, wriggling into position in the spot that Caroline now vacates.

Dorthy naked on the bed, her sex revealed in the forgiving half-light of bedside lamps. Caroline sees how the girl's excitement leaches from her cunt to glisten viscous in the slash of her labia, a waxing patina of her need. She leans closer and sniffs what she will soon taste, and now so close she discerns the source of the musk that has teased her with its mysterious origins throughout the evening.

Dorothy must have dabbed musk oil to her pubes before dressing for the evening. Within her panties, the redolence of it has matured and thicked in the heat of her long night and now permeates her pubes. Its sweetness has blended with the girl's essential femaleness and grown pungent. For the rest of her life whenever she smells a musky scent, Caroline will think of Dorothy, and her own first taste of pussy.

She parts the girl's knees to make a flesh V of her thighs that taper to pink tissue enfolded in hair and flesh like bruising. She leans forward with poised lips to kiss the glory of Dorothy's fragrantly revealed cunt, her tongue slipping between her own lips to serpent-like taste molecules of Dorothy in the air before her. Caroline's mouth is awash with saliva from the pungent musk, and from the thought of the copiously secreted cum plain to see among what she will soon taste.

 Caroline is beyond rationality now. This is mind-altering, as conscious-changing as hallucinogens. She can not make sense of how this girl makes her feel the way she does. At the moment before she begins what she yearns to do, she ceases all attempts to construct a meaning for what this even promises to mean. The mode of her passion is singularly visceral, a desire unaccountable to nature's drive to procreate.

And when Caroline takes her first tentative taste of pussy, Dorothy sings out her gratitude in long, harmonious moans of pleasure that grow in volume in response to the flash and stab of Caroline's unleashed tongue. When orgasm is close, the coaxing hum of Dorothy's delight grows louder, becomes a demand for completion.

At the pitch of her orgasm, Dorothy's thighs come together as if bound by rope, firmly securing Caroline's head in place, leaving no option but to continue licking until she Dorothy is fulfilled. And when the girl's orgasm does arrive, arrives like a disaster unprepared for,  Caroline is subsumed, is the fuel that stokes the erotic furnace that roars within her lover's flesh. Then from Dorothy in her abandon, a kind of aikido-twist that causes the pair of them to flip over.

This shifting by Dorothy, while on the verge of ecstasy takes Caroline off-kilter, and the two girls settle on their sides still fused together. Only when Dorothy has ceased to writhe does Caroline desist in licking, and only when her lover is calm in her exhaustion is Caroline able to slide from the slackening vice of flesh that holds her head fast.

Caroline feels she will never be sated making love with Dorothy. She remembers an experiment she has read of in her psychology textbook, one where lab rats are wired to a mild electronic stimulator that sends a small charge to the pleasure centre of their brains by employing implanted, fine electrodes. The rats could press a button whenever they chose to send a mild current to the brain's pleasure centre, and soon they chose nothing but directly induced bliss.

In their need and growing addiction, they would forgo all usual sources of pleasure: food, sleep, even sex to get that un-mediated ecstatic hit. Tonight Caroline has become a sexual lab rat, Dorothy her very own button to press.
 
                                                         ***

It is two in the morning, and Caroline has stolen away from the girl who now sleeps in her bed upstairs. But she cannot find sleep, her head is spinning from the wonder of lovemaking with someone as sweet as Dorothy. How she wishes Joe was here to share the girl.  To share a girl like Dorothy is what he has dreamed of, and she cannot wait to show him the beautiful creature she has brought into their lives.  

The musk of Dorothy's pussy still adheres to Caroline's lips, is on her breasts too; is in her hair, her palms, on fingers-tips and knuckles. She needs a drink but does not want to wash away the clutch of oversweetness that lingers, fills her with a yearning so intensely arousing.

 Before she begins her letter to Joe, Caroline kisses the page on to which her words will flow, presses her cheek to the paper to infuses it with Dorothy's girl-scent, her sex-ripe pheromones, her musk oil's overpowering extravagance.

At the table in the back room, she writes by lamplight while Nick Drake's voice haunts from two large speakers, softly singing to her about lost love and regret.

                                                             ***

My darling Joe,
                       I hope you are still not sad about being away from me. It's only two more weeks until you are back here by my side in our lovely bed. I cannot wait for that moment, because being apart from you seems like forever, and sometimes I wonder if that day will really ever come around. I keep imagining you have found a cute German girl to keep you company through your lonely nights. If you have, you must write and confess it all. I promise not to be too jealous.

Do you remember me telling you about Dorothy? She is the new girl at work — at least she was when I first mentioned her to you. You must recall me saying how cute she is? It was her birthday last week. She is eighteen now.

Tonight Dorothy came to our house and I used the remaining six Polaroids on her; I hope you do not mind. I have enclosed two of the shots with this letter, but you've probably looked at them by now and wondered who she is. Don't you think she is adorable? Or is it just me that has gone a little crazy? Dorothy says she likes being photographed very much, says the camera makes her terribly horny. I know it made me horny to see her naked and posing like that.

Later, she let me go down on her, and oh-god, Joe, her pussy tasted so good — as good as it looks in that close-up shot you now have with you. It seems our horrible little camera likes her more than it does me. That's my opinion, anyway, but I know you think I always look beautiful, even when I don't look beautiful at all.

Remember how I said I wasn't into girls? How wrong did I get that! I have Dorothy to thank for her showing me who I am. Oh, Joe, she really is so lovely. And I am so sorry for repeating it, but she is, she really is.

I know you'll be pleased with me now — my eating pussy for the first time ever, and how much I loved it. It was upstairs in our own bed, the one in which you and I have made love so many times, and where we so often discussed our plans. Before tonight, Dorothy and I had only ever talked of being together like we were just an hour ago. But now I find that I like her pussy very much; her scent is on my lips as I write. I am still all dizzy from her.

Yes, her pussy still on my lips, and I have kissed this page and sent a part of her to find you, all that way. But her flavour was intense and will travel well. But I'll tell you all about it when you get back home —  but then, of course, you will not need the telling, you will meet her for real, maybe to taste her for yourself.

 Oh, Joe! Dorothy is the kind of girl you dreamt about finding. I showed her our photo album, the shots of you last year on the beach in St Ives. She said you look very sexy, so maybe when you get back home the three of us can do that thing we so often talked about.

That reminds me. Do you think our ad is published yet? It's been nearly three weeks.

Oh, Joe. It's making me ever-so horny still thinking of what Dorothy and I have just shared, and my tasting her pussy on my lips, how soft, and how fragrant she was in my arms, and how when naked, she got all crazy for me. I am going to sign off now and go back up to bed to find my sleeping beauty. I will be her Prince Charming and wake her with a kiss.

I'm off now. It's Dorothy's turn to lick pussy.

                                        All my love,
                                your ever yearning,
                                               Caz
                                                 XX

p.s. One of the above kisses is from Dorothy.

P.P.S.  Can we afford a strap-on like the one I told you Lady Dammartin's maid used on her mistress?  Perhaps they are cheaper over there in Germany.