Womanly Woman

I spread and lifted her legs, picked up another strawberry, and pressed its cold tip against her clit. Cassandra gasped. I pressed it down into the gash below her clit and stroked it up and down. The chocolate quickly disappeared. I pressed the strawberry gently into her vagina, then withdrew it. This time I ate it. Then, pulling her lips farther apart, I buried my face in her lap and licked up the chocolate from her now creamy cunt. Cassandra squirmed and moaned on the couch.

I pulled her face to mine, and we began to kiss. Her lips were full and soft and yielding. Her tongue danced with mine, never too obtrusive, but in and out of my mouth, and mine did the same in her mouth. I pulled her to her knees before me. Now we were chest to chest. I untied my robe, and now our arms encircled each other, and I could feel her warm breasts and soft belly pressing against mine. Her belly was softer than her breasts, more giving. I loved the luxuriousness of it, like the belly of a Renoir nude. Pulling back, I saw a deep scar running from her naval to her pubic hair. "What is this?" I asked. "A C-section scar?"

"It is," Cassandra said. "Used twice. I know the scar is ugly. I'm sorry."

"It's not ugly," I said. "It's you. It's your badge of honor. Anyway, most women have a scar on their belly. So do I."

"Well, in any case," Cassandra said, "the good thing about having C-sections is that my vagina has never been stretched out."

"I can testify to that," I said. "You are definitely tight." I tightened my groin muscles, lifting my hard cock, and slid it slowly back and forth in the channel through the fat of her belly left by the scar. I couldn't think of a better way to show Cassandra that I was accepting her the way she was, not accepting her provisionally on condition that she alter various things about herself.

I moved the vase of flowers from the heavy steel and plate glass coffee table where I'd placed it, spread out my robe on it, raised Cassandra to her feet, then guided her to a sitting position on the end of the table. I slid over until I was kneeling between her legs. I began kissing her lips again, sucking first one lip, then the other into my mouth. I moved to her neck, licking and kissing. I gently kissed her eyelids, then licked my tongue around them, then blew, cooling them. It's a very weird sensation, putting people off-balance. I gently nibbled an earlobe, then ran the tip of my tongue around the whorls of the ear, then plunged my tongue as far in as I could, tasting the bitterness of it.

I transferred to her breasts, caressing, stroking, molding, fondling, kissing, and sucking. Her nipples were delightfully small for such large breasts, and they were thick, pink, and sensitive. I sucked them in as far as I could and swirled the underside of my tongue over them, then gently used my teeth to scrape them as I pulled away.

I pushed Cassandra onto her back and lowered my head to her soft belly. I probed her deep naval with my tongue while touching her belly the same way I'd touched her breasts. One of the pleasures of loving a womanly woman, big and beautiful, is that there is so much of her that is as pleasant to the touch as are breasts. To that may I add that according to my own unscientific survey, well-rounded women tend to come faster, harder, and much more often and to be much better lubricated. They are also, I think, more grateful to receive masculine attention. It's a shame more men don't realize the delights of the full-figured woman. As an old man once told me, "Nobody loves a fat girl, but oh how a fat girl can love." Is that an old saying? I don't know. He looked as if he might have been speaking from experience.

I began stroking Cassandra's thighs, full and yielding, spread them wide, and began lightly scoring the hollow of her inner thighs with my fingernails. Cassandra shivered with passion, then reached another in a series of orgasms. I licked this sensitive area, first one side, then the other.

Then I transferred my attention to her beautiful cunt. Her pubic hair was silky and brown. I munched on her pubic mound as if it were a hamburger, biting it through her fur in big mouthfuls. It's an area that responds better to that approach than to something more sensitive. Then I moved down.

She was very clean, with no strong smell or taste. I know men who prefer a "gamy" smell and taste, like the smell of pheasants hanging for a week or two outside an English butcher's shop. Some prefer a certain fishiness. I prefer a milder taste, perhaps more like a light melted butter. That's how Cassandra tasted. And she put out a lot of lubrication. Her thighs and bottom were already slippery.

I sucked one of her fat cunt lips into my mouth and chewed it, masking my teeth with my lips. I transferred my attention to the other one, pulling and sucking. Then, in time, I sucked her labia minora into my mouth, stretching them as far as I could, letting them slide between my lips, then sucking them in again.

I spread her still wider and plunged my tongue as deeply as possible into her vagina, trying to reach her G-spot (which isn't all that deep, so it is sometimes reachable). I spread my tongue wide and lapped from her vagina to her clit, slowly and teasingly. Then I narrowed my tongue and licked up and down the little valleys alongside her inner lips. Finally, as she was going crazy from eagerness, I transferred my attentions to her clit, circling it with my tongue, flicking my tongue back and forth across it, sucking it in as far as I could, sometimes just her clit, and sometimes a larger area. Sucking the larger area made it engorge with blood, increasing sensation.

I slid two fingers into her vagina and a thumb into her anus. That's such a sexy position. It lets me squeeze the thin and sensitive partition between the two and gives me a solid grip in case a woman begins bucking. I continued licking Cassandra's cunt, and she continued coming.

I pulled my fingers out, lifted Cassandra's ankles to my shoulders, and plunged my cock into her, steadily and deeply. She was so tight that it was hard not to come. I stroked for several minutes, then pulled out. I raised her up and began kissing her mouth again.

I thought Cassandra would like more vaginal stimulation, but I couldn't well provide it without coming. Looking around, I spotted her hairbrush. It had a curving plastic handle, nicely rounded, and it had little bumps on it. I began sliding it into her, and she groaned with pleasure. Then after a while I encouraged her to take over. This freed me to concentrate on touching and kissing her clit or anything else I wished.

"Shall we move to the bed?" I asked. She suggested that I put down a towel, lest she soak the sheets. I went into the bathroom and got a dry towel as she pulled back the covers and top sheet. I spread out the towel, doubled, and she lay down. I knelt beside her and continued licking and sucking her clit as she slid the brush handle into her vagina.

"Would you mind if I sucked your cock while you do that?" Cassandra said. Mind? Not at all! I moved my legs toward the head of the bed, and Cassandra began playing with my cock, sucking it deep into her mouth, licking it, stroking it. This seemed to really excite her, as her orgasms increased.

After several minutes of this, I rotated and slid my cock back into her cunt, plunging in and out. Then I pulled out and asked Cassandra to get onto her knees. She obeyed. Again I slid two fingers into her vagina and my thumb into her ass. With my other hand I reached around between her belly and her thigh and began massaging her clit. A woman's belly is at its most luxurious when she is on her hands and knees. Whatever padding there is hangs down. Some men find this disgusting. I've learned to find it incredibly exciting. I left her clit and squeezed her belly for a while. It was delicious.

I slid my cock into Cassandra's cunt and drove it home hard a dozen times. Then I pulled out and slid my cock up the furrow between her cheeks, over her well-lubricated anus.

I rolled Cassandra over and again plunged home in her vagina. She was screaming. Every few minutes she would begin screaming with pleasure. It was such a pleasure to me to bring this pleasure to her.

I again lifted Cassandra's ankles to my shoulders. I pressed the spongy soft head of my hard cock against her anus. She didn't tighten up or shy away, and she was very well lubricated there from her many orgasms. So I gently pressed home there, and she opened to welcome me. It was intense, a very different feeling than a vagina, tight at the first and open behind. Cassandra groaned and moaned, "Oh, God." I don't know why, but in my experience, most women start calling out to God when I enter their ass. Actually, I hadn't had anal sex in years. It was very sexy. I slid the brush handle back into Cassandra's vagina and played with her clit, then continued stroking. We were both so hot from our action that we were wet with sweat.

I was getting closer and closer to coming. Cassandra's eyes were rolled back in her head much of the time. She grunted, moaned, and screamed with pleasure. She was so lost in the experience that I wasn't sure she even knew I was there. It was as if she was having a nearly continuous orgasm. The thought of her pleasure made me come, shooting stream after stream of sperm into her ass. Cassandra fell silent and stopped responding as I made my last slow thrusts. I stopped at once. I pulled back her eyelids and found her eyes rolled back. Her breathing was slow, but panting. I felt for her pulse, and it seemed strong. Cassandra had passed out. I didn't know whether to be proud or chagrined. I had literally fucked her senseless.

Chapter 6: Steve Writing

Ha! Do you believe that? Every guy wants to think he can do that. Actually, I don't think Cassandra was quite unconscious, according to the medical definition of the term, but to some extent she had "swooned away." That does happen at times during a powerful orgasm. You don't have to call it unconsciousness if you don't want to, but some women sometimes have such powerful orgasms that they lose track of everything for a while. I once kissed a Korean woman who was twenty-eight but had never been kissed, and she definitely did pass out when I kissed her, but I don't think it was because the kiss was so terrific. But maybe it was. You can ask her. Maybe she just had low blood pressure and got dizzy.

In any case, I wasn't worried about Cassandra's apparent lack of consciousness. Within a minute, my cock had shriveled away and slipped out, and I went to the bathroom and scrubbed my equipment with soap. Cleanliness is a pleasant trait in a lover.

When I returned, Cassandra's eyes were still closed, but she had a beatific smile on her face. She had liked that. No doubt about it. But did that mean she had had enough? I doubted it. In some ways I was finished for the time being, but not in all ways. I returned to the bed and began kissing her again, first feasting on her luscious lips, then gradually working my way around here and there. Meanwhile, my fingers had found her tender alley and were gently rubbing her to more orgasms. I shifted my tongue to her clit and slid two fingers into her tight vagina and began rubbing her g-spot. For another hour or so I delighted in giving her pleasure.

I'm always amazed to hear women speak of how their ex-husbands (nearly always ex-husbands) paid no attention to making their wives come, but stopped as soon as they themselves had their orgasms. Maybe these men had really astonishing, earth-shattering orgasms that left them utterly drained, and they assumed their wives must have shared the feeling. That's not the way I am. For me, and maybe for a lot of other men, an orgasm is nice, but it's only a couple times more satisfying than a good pee when you've been holding it for a while. I don't shout or moan or bark or neigh or anything. Maybe that's because I'm usually intent on my partner not noticing I've come, as I don't want to break her concentration on her feelings. For me, an orgasm is nice, but giving an orgasm is better, and there are lots of ways to give them.

Eventually I decided we'd had enough for the time being. "What I propose," I told Cassandra, "as it's only about 9:00, is that we take another shower, get dressed, and go out to see what the streets of Pasadena may have to offer us. Then we can return refreshed for more fun."

"That sounds good to me," she said.

So we got up. I actually had to help her stumble into the bathroom. I think if I'd left her alone for three minutes she would have fallen asleep for the night. After all, we were still on Pennsylvania time. However, I got her into the shower, and the strong hot water soon perked us up. Hot showers are great, and shared hot showers are better, and better yet are shared hot showers in a shower that's big enough for two. We luxuriated under the water, rubbing each other clean, hugging, kissing, just leaning against the wall under the spray.

"Ooh," Cassandra said, "I need to pee."

"Go ahead," I said. "Do it right here."

"I can't do that," she said.

"You have to," I said. I spun her around so her back was to me. "Squat," I said, putting my arms around her under her arms and pulling her into a squat over the drain in the center of the shower, while kneeling behind her on one knee. "Now go."

"I can't," she said.

"You can if you really need to go. Now do it."

Cassandra closed her eyes and concentrated, then let fly. I could hear her urine splashing around the drain. Somehow that made me hard again. There is something exciting about "forbidden" acts, but what could be more natural?

After we'd made sure the shower floor was clean, I turned off the water. I rubbed Cassandra dry, being sure to be thorough about it and being sure to make her nipples wet and hard again with my mouth after I'd dried them. How could I resist? On the steamy mirror there was a message. It read, "YOU ARE THE BEST LOVER IN THE WORLD!" "Who wrote that?" I said. "I didn't. Did you, or was it a prior occupant?"

"I confess," Cassandra said.

I was touched. "And did you come to this flattering conclusion even before what just happened in the bedroom?"

"Umm," Cassandra said, "even before, though perhaps in hope that we weren't done yet."

Of course, Cassandra had to go through the hair-drying thing again. Then she increased her beauty in several cosmetic ways, though I thought her utterly desirable right from the shower. Still, by 9:30 we were dressed.

We wandered down Colorado Avenue, looking for adventure. There were lots of restaurants, some with lines of customers waiting outside. We examined several menus posted near the restaurant doors. It seemed that whatever we cared to eat we could find, but eating wasn't what we felt like doing. We passed a couple dance clubs, but they seemed sort of kid-centered, and I think we both felt rather grown-up and a bit above that sort of foolishness. One was playing disco and the other trance. Not my sort of thing, and evidently not hers, either.

We turned down an alley and found ourselves among more restaurants and clubs in an attractive little neighborhood that had once been warehouses. One club that caught my eye was a blues bar that was advertising an open mic night. Cassandra clearly liked the music, to judge from what her body was doing. "Want to go in?" I asked.

"I'd love to," she said. A waitress showed us to a table in the front row to the side, then brought Cassandra a rum and Coke and me a tall draw of Heineken. I like a lot of hops in my beer.

The band wasn't terrific, but it wasn't bad, and the music was fun. I figured out that actually it was primarily a pick-up band, rather than a band that does a lot of practicing together, but individually some of the musicians were pretty good. There were not only drums, bass, and guitar, but a keyboard, a tenor sax, and a trumpet.

The vocalist asked if there was anyone who wanted to sit in. No one took him up on it. He wheedled a little. Well, I really did want to sit in, but I felt a little shy, and I didn't have a guitar with me, of course. Finally I said, "Do you have a spare guitar?"

"Sure," the singer said, a white guy about my age but quite a bit heavier. "Come on up."

I stepped onto the stage, and the singer fixed me up with a nice Gibson Dot, an ES-335, sort of like B. B. King's Lucille. It had great action. I shifted up to the neck pickup and tuned in a very fat sound. "Ready when you are," I said.

"How 'bout 'Sweet Home Chicago'?" the singer said to the band. "Key of A," he said to me. The guitar player led the band into the song with a tasty lead. I let the organ carry the song, just throwing in a sharp jab of a chord here and there. Then the organ took a lead and I filled in with chords. The singer told us how homesick he was for Chicago. Then it was my turn. My guitar wailed like a woman left lonely, with long, bendy notes. The other guitarist and I started trading licks like a couple women mourning their dead. The trumpet and sax filled things out for us. A few more verses, a few more solos, and we ended up with a resounding major chord and a barrage of beats on the tom-toms and the bass drum.

Everyone looked pleased. "Do you want to call one?" the singer asked.

"Sure," I said. "Let's make it easy for you guys," I said to the horn section. "Follow me into a jazz-blues groove in Bb." I turned down the volume a little and headed into the standard jazz-blues line, not common in traditional blues, but I knew the horns would know what to do. It was sort of finger-snapping beatnik music. Kerouac would have approved. I nodded them into solos that were fat and juicy, and they would have been grinning if they hadn't had things in their mouths. The bassist was walking all over the fretboard. The organist took a stab at it. Then I stepped up to the mic and began rapping the old Lambert, Hendricks, and Ross song, "Twisted," that Joni Mitchell introduced to younger people in the seventies. But she didn't rap. Once the audience caught on, they loved it.

That was enough. I returned the guitar and returned to Cassandra and my beer. We enjoyed the music throughout the rest of the set, then thanked the band and strolled out.

Wandering along, we came to a karaoke club. I'd never been in one, but Cassandra insisted that they were fun. She signed up to sing. There were quite a few people ahead of her. We got a table and ordered more drinks. The sound system was good. The DJ added the right amount of reverb and compression to make the singers sound like they were part of the band, rather than merely singing along as best they could. There was a wide range of songs sung, from unbearable rehashes of "Saturday Night Fever" disco hits to a rather surprising aria from "The Marriage of Figaro" to an unintentionally amusing version of "I Walk the Line" sung by a gawky, adenoidal teenage-looking fellow with glasses.

Finally it was Cassandra's turn. I wondered what she had chosen. I hoped I wouldn't be embarrassed by her choice. I like opera, but I'm not a fan of disco. I wanted to be able to tell her I liked it. Strings swelled, there was a calm, and Cassandra began to sing, low, warm, melting. The song seemed familiar, but I couldn't quite place it. I knew I'd recognize it when she got to the chorus. Sure enough, she slid into the ultimate Gershwin torch song, "The Man I Love." Some day he'd show up, big and strong, and he'd build a house for her. I love that song. The crowd fell silent, sensing the passion and longing in her voice. It was a gorgeous voice, smooth or throaty, depending on what was called for, a heart poured into a microphone. It brought down the house. Karaoke, maybe, but this was a pro singing. I was very proud of her. There were calls for an encore. After a few words with the DJ, she breezed through the old Billie Holiday standard, "Let's Call the Whole Thing Off." You know, the one about the correct pronunciation of "tomato" and "potato" and "oyster." The audience demanded another! I couldn't believe it. Straying farther afield, Cassandra switched tracks and surprised us with a Janis Joplin imitation, the acid rock hit "Take Another Little Piece of My Heart," wailing creditably. Then she called it a night, her vocal chords strained from the screams.