Clit Chat

She bridles a bit, feeling I'm digging at her. Not really relaxing, as I commanded, but she is such a recalcitrant fem, in constant need of correction, which I am more than happy to deliver.

But not now. Later.

I pull back, and pull off the bra as I go, keeping the blouse on her in that magical way we women can dress and undress our undergarments, remaining fully dressed.

I look down admiring first the right, then the left, breast. Mine, and mine. I'm tempted to lean in and kiss them, but if were to start that, I would be lost in them forever, a babe at her mother's breast.

I sigh, tearing my eyes away, and cover my regrets by massaging the base of her generous C-cups where the cups of her bra so cruelly dug into her flesh.

Saga is an exotic Finnish-Gyspy girl, living in Ice Queen Sweden, and Saga is a woman, so like all women, she looks with a critical eye at everything, and when her eye turns on herself it turns scathing. She regrets her breasts, but I don't.

I don't have breasts to regret. To say I wear an A-cup is to say the truth, but for me to wear a bra is self-defensive. I go to gym, and I change, and I'm not wearing a bra? Because there's nothing but two mosquito bites underneath?

You know how cruel girls can be to girls? And in the locker room at school?

But Saga is so good to me, admiring my 'elfin' figure, as I call it, because I don't use the other words that make her furious with me. Like my nickname at school: 'Jean Paul,' a boy's name, that when mispronounced in Connecticut French sounds like 'bean pole.'

That's me, 'phfina, the bean pole, a stick figure. Well, at least I can always win games of hide-and-seek. All I have to do is turn in profile, and I disappear.

But Saga calls me 'phfina and her 'phfinaste, which in Swedish means, to her, I'm 'so fine,' her 'finest.'

Just as Saga is my horseback-riding valkyrie and Indian Belly Dancing Gypsy and Arabic speaking and writing genius, and that would be the third or fourth language she's fluent in? And she admires what in me again?

It's easy to be humble, and humbled, by imperious Saga with her flashing eyes and clouded brow: Freya, Sif, a thunder goddess in the Great North Lands.

Yet she gives herself to me. And lets me take her and make her mine, every day, day after day.

Each day, I'm shocked anew at her generosity.

And, as her knightess in shining armor, well, I have to take command, and rescue the fair damsel from the evil research paper dragons.

Unless I'm the wicked witch, and I put on my elbow-length black leather gloves, and bend her over the table and strap her down, and, yes, like all wicked witches, I do indeed eat my fair, hapless victim, but only after cooking her fucking ass with long, hard and vicious lashes administered with very firm smacks to her very receptive ass cheeks.

And sometimes I turn her over. That cunt needs cooking, too, and I have just the thing for it, besides my exquisitely electric and forceful gloved hands: his name is Monty, and he's big, long and purple, and strapped on and humming away, ready for action.

Ever fuck a girl strapped down to the kitchen table with her legs over your shoulders and all she can do is grunt into the ball gag and take monty as you thrust him into her, over, and over and over again, until you feel her clench down, and then relax? But are you done, no, not by a long shot, and you keep at it until she does it again, until you're satisfied that she is?

Nothing quite like that feeling, let me tell you.

And the dirty talk I whisper viciously into her ear, as I take her, again, and again, and all she can do is whine and grunt and take it?

Saga cums so prettily when she's mine like that, and I'm fucking her like that. She's so helpless in her cum, so mine. And, like her, I'm so helplessly lost in her, hanging on her every word, her every look, so hers.

Fuck, losing focus, and losing control, as the runaway rate of my pulse is telling me.

I ease myself back into her chair, controlling my breathing and put my hands on her inner thighs, examining her purrfect pussy cat. I look up at Saga, who can't help but peek at me and what I'm about to do.

Saga looks into the eyes of pure wickedness.

"Saga," I smirk, "I'm gonna eat you up!"

She give a little squeak of embarrassment. My smirk turns into a wide wicked smile.

"And then," I add, "I'm gonna make you cum so hard, you're gonna spray, ... and I'm gonna suck in every drop, Saga, every drop."

Nothing like telling a girl what she's got cumming to her. The anticipation enhances the pleasure, I find.

Saga eeks again, and if we were on the bed, she would've had her head buried under the pillow, but all she can do now is turn that blushing face away, averting her demur eyes.

Saga, my wanton slut. Oh, yeah, she so wants this.

So, fair knightess that I am, I have to oblige a fair damsel's (unspoken) request.

So I lean in, and breathe her in, and sigh at the heady, salty aroma of Saga.

I kiss the top of her labia and whisper into her cunt, "I've missed you."

It's been, like, hours, since I've talked to her puss-puss, more like a whole day, if I think about it. A girl can get lonely, you know, going cunt-crazy locked up on a fourth floor flat with a Swedish goddess who teases you pouring over her books exposing her so fuckable backside to you hour after hour.

Saga jerks at my kiss, so I take that as permission, and dive right in.

Saga took a long time to build up before she met me, so she was more of the slow, patient type, often getting interrupted by a phone call from a niece.

Me, 'slow' and 'patient' are two foreign words, like most of the entire Swedish dictionary.

So I use international means of communication, mouth to 'mouth.'

I do speak in tongues, you know: my tongue is noted for its ... talents, the silver-tongued demoness that I am.

And with the bridge of my nose rubbing against her now interested clit? It makes me hum with pleasure, her wetness, her readiness, her panting, her rocking into my face buried into her snatch.

And so I hum, and I feel it tightening her up, just like monty's buzzing, my hum is going right to the core of her very being, and spreading out from her hips and thighs through her whole body out through her extremities, right out the tips of her fingers and toes, right out the top of her head.

"Nyyahh, Mel, ja, ja!" Saga sighs and grunts, then squeals: "Åh, älskling! Sluta inte, jag är så nära!"

Give it to me, Saga, I hum, and rub my face, and let her grab my head and rub me forcefully into her. Yes, Saga, cum for me, baby, I hum. Cum for me.

"Ahh!" She screams, "Precis där, åh, Gud jag kommer komma! Jag kommer, jag kommer!!"

My shy and demure Saga is quite the screamer as she cums. And cum she does, and my mouth is right there, sucking for all I'm worth, sucking in her saltiness, her tanginess, her earthiness, her tiredness, which I can taste in her cum. I suck it all in, and take it like it's the sweetest honey offered to little me, her Melissa, her sweet little honey bee, sucking nectar from the petals of her flower.

And I keep sucking, even as she comes down from her cum, and she remembers that she knows English, too. And I feel her hands relax on my head, no longer digging her nails into my scalp, no longer pushing my head into her sweet puss, and I feel her hips relax along with the rest of her body.

So I remove my face from her cunt, and look up from my handiwork and look up into her ruddy face.

Saga has a slack and exhausted 'I've just been fucked' look on her face that I love to see that I've put there. 'Inga from Sweden' may have 17+ million hits on youtube, but you put Saga when she's cumming while fucked, and she will blow all the competition out of the water.

She'd have a lot of repeat viewings from a certain little pervy raven-haired girl from 'Merka, I tell you what.

I snicker, and ask: "Was it good for you, too?"

Saga's not in the jokey mood, in her post-cotial slump, however, and I can see the worry over her fucking homework already worming into her worrier's little brain.

"C'mon, sweetie," I say and grab her wrist, "come with me," and propel her off to the bathroom, sitting her on the potty.

I wash my face and my denuded hands as she tinkles, and I can't help but look at my fucked-tired Saga with a naughty eye.

She notices. "You wanna ..." she hints, and spreads her legs as she pees.

God, that woman can turn me on with just a (bold and blatant) suggestion.

"Nah," I say nonchalantly, but whisper to myself, 'later.'

I have to save myself ... for something coming.

After she finishes peeing and washes up, she looks longingly toward the table, and I know it's not for more 'phfina fucky-sucky time.

"No, no, sweetie," I command, not even able to say the word 'no' properly in Swedish, "you're coming with me."

She looks at me quizzically, and I grab her wrist again, and guide her over to the fridge and get out a bottle of water (we've stocked up, for the imminent zombie outbreak), and ensure she drinks, then, bottle in hand, my Saga is guided to her bedroom.

"Mel, I have to ..." Saga begins.

"Saga," I glare, silencing her. "You have to git into that bed and snuggle with me, that's what you have to do."

"Are you always so bossy?" she teases, daringly for her.

"Yup," I quip, in the easy mood to accept teasing, as she reads so easily in me, then I add: "Deal," and drag her down into the bed with me.

"Aren't we going to change?" she asks under my bear hug.

"Nope," I say, "don't need to," and free her to strip as I take the lead in doing.

"Sleeping nekkid?" she asks.

"Yah, I know: so odd for us," is my sarcastic reply.

It does cut down considerably on the laundry, and body heat is the most effective way to stay warm.

I read that in some scientific study somewhere. You can fucking look it up if you don't believe me.

And in Sweden, you do need to be kept warm. I thought Connecticut was cold.

In Winter? Sweden is fucking cold.

Especially when you're on the top floor of an apartment building, hanging out there exposed on all sides to the elements.

"But," she persists, "don't you get horny when you're sleeping nekkid next to me?"

Saga loves the word 'nekkid.' It's a cute little word to her, taught to her by this cute little American girl she robbed the cradle of and seduced, luring poor little me into her den of iniquity.

"Yeah? So?" I demand, rewrapping her in my arms, pressing my kitty against her ass.

My very wet and wanton kitty, who so loves to rub against things.

Like Saga's ass.

Saga thinks she has a flat ass, and, okay, comparing, I have more of a bubble back there, little bean pole me, but if you just ...

hmm ... if you just position yourself just right, and you push her ass cheek right there ... just like that ...

Oh, fuck. I'm wet, but the friction from her ass pressed along and sliding along into my labia, ...

You know skin isn't perfectly smooth, right? So as my clitty, who knows what's coming, that naughty little pebble, rubs along her ass cheek...

Okay, I'm losing it for real now, and I'm like desperately rubbing my kitty on Saga's ass, humping her for all I'm worth, grunting gutturally as I fuck her ass.

Saga giggles. "I'd say it's like a switch with you, Mel-mel, but you don't seem to have an off position, do you?"

My reply isn't in English, unless you consider "Ah!" and "ofuck" to be English. When I cum, which I do now, I feel my throat tighten up as I grunt it out.

And after that, for a rather long while, it's hard to speak, or think ... breathing is about all I can manage.

And all the while, Saga coos to me her sweet cooings, telling me she loves me, and holding my arms holding her, her ass slick with my cum dribbling from me onto and into her. And she loves me, this panting, sweating mess of a girl, who cums as easily as the wind changes.

"God," I manage eventually, and kiss her shoulder.

"Did you like?" she giggles at silly me.

I can't lift my head from the pillow. All I can manage is another gasped "God!" which elicits another titter for Miss Pleased-with-herself Saga, making her toppy 'phfina cum with just a rub of her (super fuckable and cute) butt.

She, and that ass of hers, is so going to get it later.

But now all I can do is cleave to her, cling on, as I drift off to sleep.

"Sleep with me?" I beg.

Saga kisses my arm.

"I'm here, sweetheart, sleep now." She says motherly.

And I try to fight it, ... I mean, hmphf! I didn't even get mommy time! And I so know after I fall asleep, what'll happen, but I can't fight it, the drowsiness, the tiredness, and I feel the sand of morpheus cloud my head, and I sleep, Saga cooing and humming and caressing me.

And I sleep, Saga in my arms.

And later, I feel it, or I dream Saga very softly kissing me, extricating herself from my arms so desperately clinging to her, and I hear, or I dream, her padding off to the kitchen table with homework in hand.

And, in my sleep, I sigh. Well, at least she's more relaxed now, and that's a comforting thought to me as my slumber redeepens to dreamlessness.

At least I was a comfort to my Saga.

fin

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Study questions for Saga, since she's so bookvermish, I mean: 'book wormish'! Jeez!

1. The author(ress, excuse me, Mr. Question Asker, and why does my head automatically use this authoritarian and dispassionate male voice as the narrator of study questions following short stories?) uses descriptive images to convey her story; which image was the most vivid? Which image worked? Which didn't? Explain.

2. Does knowing biographical facts from the life of the author(ress, excuse me, Mr. Question Asker) help or hinder in the reading of this story?

3. The author(ress, GAH! This Mr. Question Asker is so gonna get it!) imparts verisimilitude in the choosing of details. What details did the author(ress, sigh) include ground the story in realism? Or did you find the story /sur/real? If so, explain.

4. Every reader brings their own story into the story they are reading, what moments in this story were /a/ffective for you, the reader? What moments from your life where brought into juxtaposition with those affective moments in the story?

5. Can I have your panties after the fifth rereading?

6. Wanna fuck?

7. When did the narrator of the questions leave the room to be replaced by the nymphomaniacal authoress?