As Long as It Takes

'I'll try, but you tell me if I'm not doing it right.' And after a little hesitation, nose close to my old black-and-white moggie, she tongued into my groove and skated onto my super-sensitive kernel.

'That's perfect,' I told her. 'A few more slurps...and, yes, here I come.'

It was more one of the cosy climaxes than the shattering ones, perhaps because I had come so often yesterday. But Lucinda rejoiced that she had induced it. She said, 'I don't have to do anything to make my husband...come. He just does, but I can see why you might like getting someone to come. How wonderful we can give each other such pleasure.'

'Exciting, isn't it?' I said. 'And I know there's more come to come for you. What wold you like? Let your imagination loose.'

'You know you said nipples can fit in places...?'

'Oh, yes, and yours are fit to fit a treat.' Without more ado I laid her down and straddled her upper body. 'Hold a breast still, and if I lower my labia, like this, we can pop one of those stalks into the vase. It's good and gloopy. How does that feel?'

'Strange, interesting. You know, I think I can - yes, I can. How amazing to have my nipple up your...vagina...and my tongue on your...clitoris, like this.' She suited the action to the suggestion and I rolled my bottom in small circles on her breast, and the sense of opening up a whole new world of sex for this beautiful woman speeded up my response. 'Coming again, Lucinda,' I said, 'Lovely lickylingus. Oh, so sweet.'

We lay in each other arms, caressing, kissing. She asked, 'Were you ever married?'

'No. There was really only one man I could possibly have lived with, though I doubt I would have been faithful - I'm addicted to womanbottom. So was he, and he wouldn't have been faithful.'

'What about this man?'

'Time for a post-coital story? Once upon a time, I was 25 and he was 44, which wasn't a problem, because he was super-fit and healthy, looked after himself. The kindest, most generous, selfless person I've ever known. Physically perfect, too: small, lean, smooth, tight-bottomed, craggy-faced, with intense blue eyes.'

'What did he do?'

'Well, that was part of his attraction. He was a clever businessman who lived two careers. In England he worked hard to make money, then he went to Africa, to remote, deprived areas and invested the money in local concerns, setting up co-operatives, particularly women's ones, digging wells, building clinics, roads and schools.'

'Sounds wonderful.'

'He was. He was a virtuoso tit and clit player. Not one-two-three, but one-one-one-two-one-two-two-one. Often I didn't wear knickers when we were together, so he could get straight to the point. He would sit beside me in the cinema, watching the screen, with his hand up my skirt, his fingers up my kuma and his thumb on my kisimi - Swahili. He was born and brought up in what was then Rhodesia. He spoke several African languages.'

'Didn't he want to...go inside?'

'Oh, yes, two or three times a day, but he loved to make women come. I could tell you so many stories that he told me, about his sex-safaris, as he called them, "through darkest Africa, with notebook, pen(is) and camera." He had an enormous archive of photos of bottoms, of all shapes, sizes and colours, with a tale to go with each. He would take as long as it took - some women needed an hour or more, and he loved every minute.'

'Wasn't it dangerous to go with him?'

'Oh, this was before the arrival of AIDS, and when he came home he checked into a private clinic in London and had a thorough health check.'

'What happened to him?'

'He was killed in the war in the Congo in 1998. But now it's time for coffee and then more kuma and kisimi.'