Tasting Sarah

My wife reminded me again last night.

Nothing was said. Sarah simply leant forward, taking some of her weight on her arms. She raised herself from her squatting position on my groin, my spent erection slipping from between the lips of her smooth, exquisitely hairless pussy. Then she moved up my body, until her cunt was right above my open mouth, daring me to taste my own semen as it trickled from her.

I licked at her, probing her succulent depths with my tongue, tasting myself, as the bitter sweet memories flooded of the sexually precocious, ripe, luscious Lauren, on her hands and knees, of the other students who had stayed with us, and of the summer nights when the semen seeping from my wife's promiscuous cunt was not my own, but had come, spurting and spewing deep within, from thrusting, more youthful, foreign bodies.

My giving Sarah prolonged pleasure with my tongue has been a regular and highly enjoyable part of our love-making long before the temptation that was Lauren. Right from the first time that we went to bed together, I have been going down on Sarah.

That first time, to my surprise, her pubis was smooth and silky, as was every inch of my future wife's flawless, milk white flesh. The tumbling, jet black mane of hair that fell around and down her shoulders would have suggested thick curls covering her mons, but it too was pure milk white, and delightfully bare. There was not a single curl to find its way onto my tongue, not even a trace of stubble to graze its surface as I licked around her lips before delving in between them. Apart from that black mane, nowhere it seemed, on her lithe, full breasted body, was there a single follicle of living hair.

Her lips barely protruded, delicate pink, and when I parted them the inner flesh was so translucent that tiny veins of blue showed beneath the surface, itself gleaming wet, so wet that a trickle of watery fluid seeped from her to moisten the sheet on which she lay. I lapped at the gathering of liquid within. The taste of her cunt was wonderful. Not just the taste, but the sheer ease with which she exuded her vaginal nectar, slickening her cunt walls, so that penetration, even with the girth and length that I enjoy, was and always has been since, exquisite, unbridled pleasure.

Instead of mounting her immediately, I touched the exposed pearl of her clitoris with the tip of my tongue, wet from her own secretions. She shuddered. Her hand moved to my head, gently inviting me to continue what I had begun. I slowly licked, sucked, and lapped at her. I ran my tongue around the edges of her lips. I probed and explored between them. I savoured the fluids she secreted. I bit gently on her mons, wondering at its silky smoothness, how it was that there was no hint of hair ever having grown there. I teased her clitoris, my fingers opening her to expose it, protruding from its hood, as I licked above it and below, on either side, and tentatively, gently, on the nub itself.

Sarah moaned. She writhed beneath me. She squirmed and squealed and groaned. She shuddered and shivered. She arched her back, her hands pressing my head to her, then backed away, closing her legs, thighs against the sides of my head, then opening them again, as wide as they would go, inviting me to lick and lap and suck and savour her yet more.

When she came, it was serene. There was no crying out, no thrashing of arms or legs, no twisting or turning, nothing as physically climactic. Instead she whimpered, her release resembling not the crashing waves of sea on rocks, but the ripples on a pond when a stone is thrown, undulating softly through her body, her breasts shuddering. Only her eyes evidenced the intensity of her orgasm. For several long minutes they stared, fixed, wide, at the imagined sensual heaven that only she could see, or feel, or know. I waited, as her body trembled, long minutes, until finally she emerged from her private bliss, smiled, and invited me to come inside her now.

Soon into our relationship, long before we married, Sarah shared that she rarely manages to reach her orgasm from penetrative sex. She enjoys all of the sensations that fucking brings her, and loves to feel the hardness of a cock inside her. She relishes the knowledge that she is desired, that her body excites, and that her cunt, with its wet secretions and tight walls, can make a man lose all control, and thrust and slam at her until he finds his own release. She adores that moment when she senses that he is about to come, when he pauses momentarily, only to power his cock harder and deeper, and flood her with his semen, spewing it with each thrust, again and again, until he is fully sated. But however good or long or hard, or whatever size, width, or length, Sarah rarely achieves her own orgasm from all that frenzy. Yet just with a tongue, she can find her sexual heaven.

Sarah also shared, hesitantly, almost embarrassed to reveal it, that while lying, legs parted, offering herself to be licked and sucked is more than pleasurable, she much prefers to kneel, to lower herself onto an awaiting mouth, to have a man beneath her, paying homage to her cunt, making her feel that she is being worshipped.

For my part, nothing is more delicious than lying on my back, with her above me, lapping at her, tasting her, swallowing her sweet secretions as she shudders with pleasure, her slender hands caressing her own full, white breasts, pulling on her thick, pink teats, distending her palm width areoles, the light pink skin so delicate that the blue lines of veins show through the sheen of perspiration.

I love to fuck my wife, but first I worship at her smooth, hairless shrine, take her to her trembling release, and only then do I desecrate that shrine, violating it with the thickness of my cock head, stretching it wide, sinking my shaft deep within it, plunging and thrusting at it, defiling and despoiling it with my fucking, and using it as a depositary for my semen, spewing the thick creamy contents of my balls deep inside her sacred place.

And when I have come in her, not every time, but once in every while, as she did last night, Sarah will ask me to worship at her shrine again, knowing that I will taste myself, and relive all that has happened because of Lauren.

There is a secret behind my wife's smooth, hairless, pubic mound. Four things came together. She started university, with the new found freedom to do as she wished. She was given a credit card by her father. She had visited the National Gallery and seen paintings of the female nude, more voluptuous than modern female youth, not as full breasted as Sarah would have expected, or as she was herself, but significantly, where the pubis was not covered with a needless strip of cloth, there was just a slit, smooth and free of hair. Finally, another student mentioned that she had had laser therapy at a beautician's to remove unwanted hair forever from her legs.

Then, Sarah had had fine black hairs kept in trim by daily shaving on her legs,a finder growth that she had just accepted on her arms. After mulling it all over, she had come to a decision, and booked an appointment with a beautician for herself.

Armed with her father's credit card, expense had been no object.The appointment had been for arms, legs, underarms and pubis. Even then, she had had to tell the beautician that it was not just to her bikini line that she had wanted the treatment done, but all of it.

Later, in the privacy of her student bedroom, she looked each night and morning at her naked self,feeling a secret pride that she had been so daring, baring her slit for ever, rubenesque at eighteen, even if no one else yet knew.

Each time she returned for the follow up treatments to catch follicles that had been dormant, or still had some life remaining, she made the same request. Finally no more hair emerged.

It was a year, Sarah told me, before she finally gave access to her denuded mons. Not that there had been a shortage of guys wanting to explore those parts that she kept private. At the pubs and clubs that she and her student friends frequented, she was regularly chatted up by guys interested in getting between her legs. Quite why she waited, she was not sure, except that while she was proud of having dared to denude her pubis, she was not so confident about revealing it.

Yet no one that she had slept with since has ever complained about the absence of any pubic hair, or indeed of any hair, anywhere on her body, other than her long, thick, silky mane. Her only regret, she told me, was in wasting that year, turning away so many advances for fear of the reaction to her total nudity.

At times, I wonder if secretly, my wife is grateful to Lauren, and to me, for giving her the excuse to relive that missing year, a month at a time each summer.

Lauren, of course, should never have happened. An octogenarian in Edinburgh suffered a fatal heart attack and Lauren walked into our Brighton flat, her olive skin tanned by the Mediterranean sun, dressed more for her native Montpellier than for England, a bright yellow indian cotton shirt tied beneath full, braless breasts, baring a flat, slender stomach with its naval piercing below her perfectly defined rib-cage, and with denim shorts, scissor cut after they had been bought so high that at the sides her hips were bared almost to the two inch width of her matt black leather belt with its Playboy logo buckle, the under curves of her buttocks exposed as she walked past us and into our lounge, naked to the eye, hardly a thread's thickness of denim between her legs, her wheeled travel case pulled behind her by its extending handle, its zipped denim matching perfectly her shorts, another Playboy logo on its top right corner.

Three hours before those never ending nut-brown legs strolled through our hallway, Sarah had called my mobile, apologising, and asking if I minded if one of her students came to stay with us. Ten years after we had married, Sarah was running the summer school for foreign students, held by the college where we both work. Accommodation should have been in the homes of local families. That year, one of those families had withdrawn.

It is the butterfly effect. Wings flapping in South America cause winds to blow in England. The wife's father had died unexpectedly. The family were on their way to Scotland to help with all the arrangements that a death and funeral would require. The student who would have stayed with them had nowhere else to go. A stunning, sexually aware, nineteen year old French girl was about to test our marriage beyond its limits. Not knowing this, when Sarah asked if I would mind if a student without accommodation could stay with us, I agreed. A husband must support his wife.

Besides, Sarah had inherited a tried and tested programme from her predecessor. The college where she is still Head of Modern Languages, requires her to reverse her role each July. Instead of teaching French and German to English students, she manages a month long summer school teaching English to students from European countries under some kind of European Union grant arrangement, the students living with English families, spending weekday mornings in class learning English grammar, participate in sports for an hour each afternoon, and otherwise enjoy all that an English coastal town has to offer, subject to their being at their hosts for an evening meal, and a curfew of ten thirty every evening. Since Lauren, this European Union funding has facilitated a kind of union that those in Brussels would not approve of, whatever they might themselves do in their hotel rooms, away from wives and families.

Not that anything untoward had ever occurred with the summer school. Since eighteen is the minimum age for registration, all the students are legal adults, and the college need not concern itself too much about their care. A home-sick student will be counseled. The consumption of excess alcohol may lead to a warning if the host family expresses concern. Once, the remnants of a spliff was found in a student's bedroom, after the culprit had returned to their home country. Nothing could then be done about it. Hosting a student in our own flat would be no problem. We had a bedroom spare. It would be fine, or so I thought. That was without allowing for the sexual powder keg that sauntered through our door in the delicious but dangerous form of Lauren.

It was our first evening meal, and I almost choked on my pasta.

Lauren has been totally unfazed at being accommodated with the course director and her husband instead of the family she had expected. She had helped Sarah prepare the welcome meal that my wife had deliberately kept as simple as could be. The college's advice to host families was not to raise expectations with a lavish dinner, but to just provide whatever food the family would normally have. Lauren had sliced the tomatoes and cucumber for the accompanying salad while Sarah looked after the pasta and the carbonara sauce.

In the kitchen, and at the table, Lauren chatted animatedly about English and American music and films. She was still wearing the yellow shirt. The cotton, I had realised, was thin enough to let the outlines of her areoles show through, several shades darker than the surrounding tanned flesh. Although Lauren's areoles were not as wide at Sarah's, the thick nipple stubs that pushed out against the cotton more than compensated.

Uncorking the wine her parents had sent with her as a present for her hosts, I imagined it poured over those full, ripe breasts, and sucked from those exquisite, cherry sized teats.

The balcony of our apartment had caught Lauren's interest. She asked if it faced the sun, and if it was okay to sunbathe there. Sarah said that she was sure the neighbours would not mind. That was when Lauren said that her family was naturist, and asked if that was that a problem. I almost failed to swallow the fusilli that I had left unchewed, distracted from my eating, picturing Lauren sunbathing naked, those breasts bared, pointing to the sun.

Exerting maximum self control of my gagging reflex, I used some wine to help the fusilli slide down, leaving my wife to answer Lauren. Sarah glanced at me, then opted to show that we were open minded and not at all as uptight as the English reputation. Of course it would not be a problem.

Lauren's casual stroll through the lounge to get a glass of water from the kitchen after our meal, and after showering, told us that her question about nudity had not been just about the balcony. Her family must have been just as relaxed at home as on whatever beach they used. She walked between us and the television news without a towel, nightdress, or even a pair of knickers, nonchalantly naked, displaying those cherry tipped, full firm breasts, and more, apologetic only for the brief disruption to our viewing as she passed between us and the television screen.

Like Sarah, Lauren had thick black hair that right then hung wet against her back. Unlike Sarah, she had a copse of thick curls, shaved to the line of the bikini that she clearly never wore, her tan covering every inch of breast, buttock, and pubis, right to her dark, thickly protruding labia, exposed where her curls were trimmed, and visible even from behind as she went through to our kitchen, her slender thighs narrowing at their apex with those dark labia revealed between them.

Inevitably, Sarah noticed my distraction from the news. To my surprised relief, she just grinned with amusement. I turned my gaze back to the newscaster, wondering just what it would be like to have daily sightings of Lauren's heavenly body, her full, gravity defying breasts, her thick, nut brown nipples that just asked to be sucked and chewed upon, her delightful globes of buttocks that invited kneading or punishing or both, and her cock teasing nether lips, the same chocolate colouring as her areoles, delicious, hanging folds of flesh made to be parted, penetrated, and ploughed.

Sarah asked if I was fine.

I said I was.

One week later, Lauren was inviting me to fuck her with phraseology that she had not learned in English class. That first night, emerging from the kitchen indifferent to her tanned nakedness, glass of water in her hand, Lauren smiled sweetly at us both as she walked back through the lounge and said good night.

In retrospect, it may have been the similarities between Lauren and my wife that led my cock to rule my head. I have always preferred my women slender, but well endowed, and dark haired rather than the blonde of the traditional English rose.

To within a fraction of an inch, Sarah and Lauren were the same height as one another, both with their manes of jet black hair, both slender, yet both with full, generous breasts. Lauren, twelve years younger, was more toned, her breasts fractionally firmer. Yet Sarah's breasts remain two of the reasons that I enjoy lying on my back while she straddles me to let me tongue her.

Looking up, the view is awesome. Her white thighs are wide apart, her pink lips wet and open, her silky smooth pubic mound curves softly, her stomach is flat, her waist narrow, her ribs are defined beneath taut white skin, her full milk white breasts still defy gravity, forming perfect alabaster globes, her incredibly wide areoles, delicate pink with fine blue veins, have a sheen all their own, and the slightly darker nipple stubs protrude a full half inch proud of those globes of flesh, even before she pulls and twists on them as I lap at her. No panorama on earth could surpass that view, not before Lauren, not since, and none exudes the same bitter sweet taste of carnal pleasure.

Both my wife, and the much younger Lauren, have strong faces, full lips, high cheek bones, commanding noses, Sarah's nose is more Romanesque with a defined prominence mid-way down the bridge, compared to Lauren's more even curve. Undoubtedly, Sarah has the greater presence.

Lauren's dark olive complexion, with her chocolate areoles and nipples, her copse of black curls and her dark, protruding labia, of course was a tempting contrast with Sarah's hairless, pure white complexion, and the lipless slit that is her entrance.

Still, I should have left that tanned, inviting body well alone.

My own role at the college is Head of Physical Education. During term time I have a full time role, leading a team of ten staff in total. For the July foreign students' English course, I arrange the hour's sporting programme that takes place each afternoon, taking the basketball myself, three other staff running football, tennis and yoga sessions.

Apart from that hour, July was part of my vacation, while Sarah had to spend the full working day liaising with the other teachers of English as a Foreign Language, checking that both students, and families, were happy with their placements, undertaking her own teaching, and preparing for the weekly assessments that led to certification at the end of the four week course.

It was Sarah's need to be at the college, liaising with others, for the whole of each day, morning and afternoon, which led to Lauren and myself being in the flat alone, and as a Physical Education professional I could not ignore her request for help with lower back pain following a yoga session she had had with one of my female colleagues.

I should of course have covered Lauren with a towel when I found her waiting on her bed, lying on the white duvet cover, stark naked, but for the preceding week I had seen her naked around the flat every day, to and from the bathroom, or the kitchen, or lying on a sun lounger on our balcony. I simply asked her where it hurt, sat beside her, and massaged her soft, bare, dark olive complexioned flesh.

I should also have kept my hands to just her lower back, and not allowed them to massage her soft round buttocks, or responded when she moved her legs apart, offering me access to her protruding labia. I should not have slipped my right hand down between those soft, tanned thighs, my thumb finding her wet and welcoming between her labia, my fingers entwining themselves in the lush hair of her pubic bush.