Camille Ch. 03

The first thing I saw when my eyes fluttered open was Arlene, big and blonde and brassy as usual.

"Go pee, Cammie," she said, smiling, "and then right back so Auntie Arlene can give you what you need."

I rolled out of bed, walked into the bathroom, and sat.

I was done crying. The urge satisfied, I was myself again.

And God help me, I was horny.

I wiped and then washed my hands carefully.

I looked in the mirror, deliberately seeing my face with a stranger's semen crusted on it. I did not wash it. I would wear the mess on my face like Hester Prynne's Scarlet Letter, to show my shame, to announce to the world how vile and despicable I am.

Arlene was holding her arms out as I walked into the bedroom and DAMN she looked good.

I'm not a lesbian, I swear I'm not.

Hell, I'm not even bisexual or pansexual or non-binary or whatever the fuck the phrase de jour is.

But what I have with Arlene is special.

And she looked so goddam sexy laying there like that, the sheet casually draped across those big hips, just a hint of that thick, curly, pale brown pubic hair of hers peeking out, those big boobs of hers, drops of her milk forming since she kept pumping so she would lactate - she said men liked them that way - and that "come here, Baby" smile on her face.

I put my best "poor little me" smile on my face, looked down at the floor, and started making little semicircles with my toes.

"And what would you have of me?" I asked in my best little girl voice.

"I would have you get that educated mouth where it belongs," she said, tossing the sheet aside and parting her legs.

I smiled.

"God, I love you," I said, "if I wasn't so damn happily married, I'd switch to the other team."

"Whoa there, Sluterella," she said, "what we have is special but that don't mean I'm about to give up dick."

She laughed, that wonderful belly laugh of hers, pulled her knees back until they touched her nipples, and said, "Now, gimme."

So, I gave her.

Arlene is one of those real blondes. Now, I won't vouch that genetics have prevented any hint of grey in that thick honey-blonde hair. Honestly, I kind of expect that Miss Clairol or, more likely, something much more expensive, was involved in that. But Arlene is the real deal, one of those blondes with a bazillion hair follicles per square inch and, more to the point, a very fine down pretty much everywhere. Her pubic hair is light brown, very thick, and very curly. One summer when we went natural, the hair in her armpits was the same, thick, curly, and light brown.

She's big, full-figured is the polite term and, in her case, it's accurate. Those ridiculous boobs of hers are a legitimate EE cup and she overflows those bras, and she has flaring hips and a muffin top. She's "Rubenesque" in the best sense of the word with a bubble butt even better than anything old Paul ever came up with.

She's never been pregnant and it shows between her legs.

Okay, I'm jealous, I'll admit it.

When our on-again, off-again relationship started as Freshman roommates, neither of us had been pregnant. But now, after I had delivered my 9-pound, 7-ounce son vaginally, whenever I looked in the mirror while getting dressed I couldn't stop the word "labiaplasty" from sneaking into my mind as I looked at my labia minora, the delicate pink inner lips, dangling loose between my upper thighs, hanging from my thigh gap.

Arlene, on the other hand, looked just like she had back when we were both in our 20s. Her labia was full and plump, that thick curly pubic hair framing it like a carefully coiffed afro, and the inner lips peeked out just a tiny bit, looking like, well, lips.

I bent, blew softly, and kissed them.

I sat back on my heels, smiled, and asked, "Did you bring it?"

She smiled and said, "You know I did. In my bag."

I climbed out of bed, opened her oversized Dooney and Bourke canvas messenger bag, and started rummaging through the womanjunk we all accumulate in our purses.

Down at the bottom, I found what I was looking for.

I smiled and said, "Hold that thought," and went into the bathroom.

In the sink, I carefully washed the "strapless strapon," giggling as I remembered the time we had visited the "Adult" store, you know the one, they're all over the place with the big square yellow signs with red letters proclaiming "Adult Entertainment," and had bought the thing. It was a dildo, of course, flesh-colored and big. Not ridiculously huge. We had looked at some of them but opted for this one, a quite convincing of a white male's erect penis done at about 125 percent scale. Behind the carefully sculpted eight inches of erection, a gently arched wedge, another three inches long, had two, two-inch long probes, each with a little bulb on the end.

I dried it then, paying particular attention to the two probes, and started putting it on. Well, putting it in I suppose is a better way to put it.

I squatted slightly and slipped the rearmost probe into my pussy, lubricating it with my natural love honey, and then inserted it into my anus. As it started stretching me I levered the strapon up a bit, taking the front probe vaginally. Then came the awkward part. I reached between my legs, far back, and began squeezing the little bulb built into the back end of the strapon. It felt much like when I would squeeze the Schnauzer's toy, making little squeaking sounds.

And the bulb in my rectal vault, past those strong sphincter muscles, started inflating, locking the strapless strapon into place.

When I was sure it was secure, and getting a bit of that deliciously full feeling rush that was so much of what I always enjoyed about anal sex, I started on the front pump.

There was that delightful pressure as the bulb expanded, pushing against my cervix and uterus. My vaginal muscles aren't as strong or as naturally contracted as my anal sphincter. Hell, no woman's is. But the bulb was expanding past them and helping stabilize the strapon.

Satisfied, I turned and looked at myself in the mirror.

As always happened when I wear that thing, I understood the concept of "penis envy." Part of it was the look, of course, but a good part of it was the physical sensation. The solid plastic, something soft but firm, had enough weight that I had to alter my posture just a little for balance. When I did that, the probe in my ass moved slightly as the dildo pivoted on the fulcrum of my pussy. The sensation sent little jolts of electricity from between my legs to my nipples.

Arlene was smiling as I walked back into the bedroom.

"How did it happen?" she asked, "that my big ass is so femme while tiny little you turns out to be the Butch in our couple."

I smiled as I took her foot in my hand and started kissing it.

"Are you complaining?" I asked, easing my tongue between each pair of her toes.

"Hell no," she said, laying back and relaxing.

There's something about being with my best friend, my lover, and my confidante, after the night that I satisfied my URGE that changes me far below the level of thinking. This is something that happens way down at the brainstem, you know, what biologists call the "lizard brain," that part of the brain that was fully formed when life was just getting to be mobile and the sole drives were eating and procreating. All that mattered right then was the coupling, the merging of two bodies to make a new one.

Oh, hell, I'm making a bad job of explaining it. Maybe there is no explaining it.

I kissed every square inch of her skin as I worked my way slowly up her body. I sucked each toe and held her foot tightly as I kissed the sole of her foot where I knew she was ticklish. I could feel her responding as I worked my way up her feet and ankles and then her shins. I lifted each leg separately and kissed her calves, remembering that "natural" summer and wishing she didn't shave her legs so I could feel that soft, almost downy hair.

I found that sensitive spot behind her knee and sucked hard enough to leave a hickey and make her squirm and giggle.

At the top of her thighs, I kissed that thick line of her adductor tendon, that big tendon at the top of her thighs that let her hold her legs together, and then left hickeys in the deep hollow formed by that tendon and her hipbone.

She was shiny and slick as I started blowing very softly on that thick, soft, curly pale brown pubic hair, and as I watched she overflowed, a very thick, very white cream starting to run down between those big soft cheeks.

I inhaled deeply, hissing in her womanscent like good marijuana, feeling the pheromones work through my blood, making my legs tingle and my nipples come so hard they hurt. With every movement, the dildo between my legs moved and each movement of the balloon deep in my vagina increased my own arousal.

I licked, tasting that oily, salty brew, fresh from her mucus membranes and deeper glands, and wondered if Arlene was unique or if other women would taste the same. Oh, I had tasted myself, of course, but that's not the same as being right there, the scents, not just the fresh scent of her love honey, but the lingering scent in her pubic hair, that perfume of a clean, but not freshly washed pussy.

But I supposed, as I used my fingertips to gently part her labia, exposing those very pink inner lips, shiny with her excitement, that I'd never know. I had never found another woman who attracted me and, well, Arlene fulfilled all of my needs for that particular kind of exploration.

My mind is a curious place, as you have probably realized Gentle Reader. As I looked at my best friend and sometimes lover laying back, her legs parted in invitation, looking particularly fetching with her nectar, that natural lubricant enhanced with the product of her Bartholin's and Skene's glands, adding volume and color and most importantly, the pheromones guaranteed to draw males from miles around, an episode of Sex in the City flashed through my mind.

Charlotte met an artist. If you don't watch that show, Charlotte is the perfect WASP who worked in an art gallery.

Charlotte met an artist whose specialty was paintings of women's vaginas. He called them the "essence" of women.

As I looked, that episode ran through my mind.

Because Arlene's pussy is truly gorgeous. From the inguinal groove, that sexy line that ran from the deep cup at her hipbone down to the cleft of her legs where her full, plump labia met her thigh, to that beautiful cap of curly hair covering her so perfectly. The slit of her vagina was just that, a deep slit with the barest hint of pink inner lips peeking out. That very light, downy body hair spread from the thick delta of her pubic hair made a soft halo.

I couldn't avoid the comparison between her beautiful display of female sex and my own. Where she was full, verging on plump I was skinny, bordering on dangerously skinny. My own pubic hair was very sparse and coarse, the same color as my mousy brown, go ahead and call it "dishwater blonde" if you're feeling kind, except for that ridiculous tuft almost to my taint that hung down, making me think of a goat. Where her labia minora peeked out shyly, mine hung, dangling, a gift from my 9-pound 7-ounce son and the fad of "natural childbirth" and Lamaze classes.

She was beautiful, though, and her nether lips beckoned.

I kissed her. This wasn't the URGE, this was sharing love, offering pleasure, and in my way, taking pleasure too as I kissed, inhaling her scent, taking it deep into my lungs through my nose, bathing my olfactory system in it.

I liked her soft moan as I kissed my way around that beautiful pussy. I started at the crease between labia and thigh, and licked my way slowly around the shape of her thick pubic thatch, then blew gently, smiling at the way the hair riffled, and used my fingertips to part her nether lips. I kept blowing softly as my lips moved closer until I was brushing her inner lips, tasting her nectar, and getting a little lightheaded from her perfume.

I used my thumbs then to lift her clitoral hood, exposing the center of her pleasure. I read once that a clitoris is a vestigial penis, and hers left no doubt that was true. It looked exactly like my husband's cock only about, I don't know, one twenty-fifth the size. The head looked just like my husband's glans with a corona around the rim and a slightly smaller stub of a shaft.

I sucked it gently, drawing a pleasant, "Oooooooooh" from her as her hips pushed forward.

She was flowing now, that thick white cream oozing from the bottom of her pussy, running slowly down the gluteal cleft to puddle into a white spreading cone on the sheet.

I licked her, hell, I lapped at her, drinking her salty grool until I felt the trembling of her body as her orgasm approached.

I pulled away then, quickly, and pushed myself back, off of the bed to stand.

"On your belly, bitch," I said, slapping her hip hard enough to sting and make her yelp.

"Honeyyyyyyyyyy," she whined.

"On your belly," I said again, "I'm just getting started."

Christ, everything Arlene does exudes sex. She stretched, a full-body stretch. I could hear little pops in her spine and in her shoulders. She even made rolling over a sexual exhibition.

On her belly, she propped up on her elbows, her back arched putting that big bubble butt on display even more than it usually was.

"God, I love you," she said, laying her cheek on the pillow.

"And I love you," I said, starting at her heels and kissing my way up the backs of her legs.

I licked the line of the gluteal sulcus, that line where ass meets thigh, nipping right at the roundness where she sat making her jump and yell a sharp, loud, "HEY!"

I leaned back, slapped both of her cheeks hard at the same time, and then spread her cheeks wide.

Arlene has a beautiful pussy, much better than mine. But she has an ugly asshole. Mine is much better and yes, I've looked. What's the use of having mirrors if you're afraid to use them?

Mine is a delicate starburst, centered in very pink and yes, very unstained skin. I know it's pink and unstained because I have it bleached monthly.

Arlene's is the precise, mathematical opposite. Her ass is big and round with enough padding that she's getting the first hints of cellulite dimples, something that could become full-on cottage cheese skin if she didn't watch her weight. The cleft between those big muscles isn't very deep and her anus is hidden in a darkly stained tunnel.

I used my fingertips to open that tunnel. My anus is a starburst, one of those common descriptions for an asshole. Hers is the opposite, a balloon knot. Deep in that tunnel, so deep, in fact, that my tongue could barely reach it. It was a puckered circle with a distinct bulge in the middle topped by a distinct skin tag, completing the knot image.

"Hips up, Baby," I said, my hands pulling.

She got her knees under her and that big ass up and I thought this was her most natural position.

I wanted her, so I took her. I moved forward, into position, thinking that those pads of fat at the tops of her thighs that made her pussy look like one long slit dripping grool were probably about the sexiest thing I'd ever seen.

I reached down to guide myself, the pressure deep in my vagina accompanied by fresh pressure deep in my rectum, giving me a rush, tempting me to play with it some more.

But I resisted, guided, and slipped into her in one smooth, easy thrust.

"That's right," she said, her voice thick now, "give Auntie Leen what we both want."

I set up an easy rhythm then, slowly out, slowly in, squeeze the soft pads at her hips.

Slowly out, slowly in, squeeze the soft pads at her hips.

After a half dozen thrusts like that I dug my fingers into her hair, twisting, pulling her head back, and making her moan.

"Say you like it," I said.

"I LOVE it," she said.

I sped my rhythm, driving into her hard and fast about fifteen times before she cried out her orgasm, her back arching and pushing back against me.

I didn't stop while she came and a second and third wave took her.

I stopped, suddenly, arching my back, pushing deep into her, grabbing the soft roll at her waist and digging my fingers in hard enough to make her cry out, imitating the movements my husband made when he climaxed.

I pulled out, reached down to guide myself, well, my strapon, and took her anally then.

She grunted a little at the instant of penetration but then pushed back against me, taking my full length, and came again.

Using the strapless strapon made it different for me. There was no clitoral play but the combination of the full rectum with the inflatable anchor filling me so completely, and the vaginal pressure as the inflatable deep inside, past my vaginal muscles, filled me in a new way there, allowed that wonderful pressure deep in my belly to build slowly even without my clitoris involved. It was different, and it was wonderful, the pressure, that amazing tingle/burn, was much deeper than when it was clitoral stimulation. My cervix and uterus felt the pressure from the anchor bulb deep inside, and that sensation of an approaching orgasm built more slowly than if it was my clitoris being played with.

I had a handful of Arlene's hipfat in each hand and was struggling now, tiring, as muscles I rarely used in this way reached their capacity.

"Come on," Arlene said, "you can make it."

But I couldn't.

Finally, exhausted, I pulled out and laid beside her.

"Finish me," I panted, trying to get my breathing under control.

She smiled, kissed me, and reached down to take the strapon in her hand.

"Ewwww," she said, giggling and showing me the brown streak along her palm.

But then she took it in her hand again and began stroking it, as I had done sometimes when my husband wanted a hand job.

"Relax, Cammie," she said, kissing me, "let Aunty Leen do the work."

Using her hand like that, the anchors deep inside me moved around, and, again, there was that slow climb up the hill of pleasure, seeking that peak.

She got me right to the edge, and it was different from the way it felt when David would masturbate me, playing his "edging" games with my clitoris. The sensation was much deeper in my belly. It felt like my uterus, my "womb," was contracting in my excitement.

"Tell me you like it," she said, mirroring what I had said.

"I LOVE it," I mirrored back.

"Tell me you love me," she said, kissing me.

"I love you," I replied, kissing her back.

And still, she didn't finish me.

"Please," I whispered.

But she didn't finish me.

"ARLENE!" I cried, "PLEASE!"

With five quick, hard strokes, she finished me and I came spectacularly. I remembered a story I heard once, you know, girl talk with a half dozen women sitting around, passing around a plate of limes, a shaker of salt, and a bottle of tequila. "When I came," Loretta said, one of the women in our neighborhood get-together, what we called the Lonely Wives Club, "all that was in contact with the bed was the back of my head and my heels."

That's how this felt.

It was like every muscle fiber in my body contracted. My back arched. I couldn't breathe.

And she kept doing it. Pulling on what was in her hand, not allowing me to relax.

Time stopped.

The room disappeared, hell the universe disappeared.

All that existed was the pure ecstasy radiating out from my belly to make my toes curl and my face scrunch up, my eyes closed, my mouth open.

I don't know how long she kept me like that. Surely no more than a minute, or I'd have passed out from lack of oxygen.

When she finally stopped I just collapsed.

"Relax, now, Cammie," she said in a very soft voice, "I need to clean up but I'll be right back."

I'm not sure I could have moved, but I had no desire to. I laid back, relaxing, still enjoying the light pressure where the strapless was anchored into my body.