Cunnilingus: A Short History

Her attention drawn by the sound of heavy breathing, Atthis gazed past her lover's bare mound, her faintly swelling belly, breasts rising and falling (she was pinching one nipple between thumb and forefinger) to where her head was flung back so Atthis could just make out her features: lips open, nostrils flared, eyes staring at nothing . . .

Her passion made Sappho a thousand times more beautiful. Yearning for more, Atthis kissed the deep inside of her with lips and tongue, starting down low with the overflowing pool, and then the dark opening, which contracted around her tongue; the tiny urethra, and a little way farther, the secretive clitoris, hidden under its hood. She closed her lips over this but did not touch it.

"Ah!" cried Sappho, terrified of her own sensitivity, of too great pleasure becoming pain. Atthis sensed the fear, felt the tension through her lips and fingertips, and understood all at once that what she was doing was as new to her friend as to herself. To reassure her, Atthis moved her tongue lower down.

Sappho's body relaxed, her breathing became deeper and more regular, and Atthis slowly, tenderly, drew wet circles around her clitoris, breathing through her mouth to warm her. Soon Sappho rested a hand on her head, and at the same moment, Atthis sensed movement. She placed her hands on Sappho's thighs to feel it - yes, a subtle undulation of her lover's pelvis, becoming more definite and stronger with every circle she made.

Sappho's breaths became sighs, sighs became moans, moans became a rhythmic, musical "Ah!" as she thrust against her lover's mouth almost roughly, more and more till she was on the verge of erupting . . .

With a wrenching act of will, Sappho made herself stop. With fingertips on her young lover's forehead she pushed her away: Atthis looked at her with a pained expression.

"I don't want . . ." she began.

"Lie on the couch," said Sappho, and guided her to lie on her back against the cushions. With her knees between Atthis's legs, breasts brushing breasts so lightly, she kissed her lips, an unhurried kiss that promised the whole night was theirs to spend together. Then she lingered over her neck, her breasts (how erect her nipples were!), her flat belly, and finally her bare mound, between which her pink inner labia protruded, already damp and swollen with desire.

But Sappho knew that Atthis longed for her nectar as much as she longed for Atthis's, and she couldn't deny her what she desired. Rather than lying between her legs, then, she turned and mounted her lover with her sex above Atthis's face and her own face above Atthis's sex.

For a brief moment Atthis was afraid, feeling trapped by Sappho's thighs and her sex - so close it was stifling. Sappho's anus, plainly visible just inches away, seemed threatening. But then she felt Sappho's hands on her thighs and her tongue enter her, and she flung her arms around Sappho's waist and, pulling her lover down to her, immersed her face between her open labia, at the same time thrilling to the sensation of Sappho's lips covering her, tongue exploring inside her.

Sappho lapped the nectar from between her lover's legs, as she did thanking Aphrodite for the gift of love - the rain that nourishes; the tempest that assaults the oak.

They came together, these lovers, and lay in the soft night, arms and legs entwined, whispering endearments till love stirred their bodies again.

17 BC: Payback

"Let's just suppose for a moment," he said, reclining on a couch, "and mind you, I'm not admitting it, that I had slept with your - " (he made a face) "your hairdresser. Surely it would be wrong for you, of all people, to complain."

"Why me?" Corinna glared at him, hands on hips.

"I suppose it's escaped your notice that you've been cheating on your husband."

"With you!"

"I don't see how it makes any difference who you're cheating with: it's hypocrisy either way."

"And you're cheating on your wife!"

"As to that - "

"I can't wait to hear this - you're always ready with a smooth answer!"

"I'm completely honest and consistent about it. My wife can trust me to cheat, just as you can trust me to be faithful."

"Oh, you're impossible!"

"My love for you has made me half mad."

He really was impossible, too, and always had been. He'd do something outrageous, lie about it, when caught lying retreat to contradictory stories, and finally shrug it all off, as if to say, "What did you expect? I'm Ovid!"

Yes, Ovid: young, handsome, and infamous throughout Rome for writing naughty poems that everyone read and no one admitted to reading. He was well bred, wealthy, and possessed of the kind of nonchalance that breeding and wealth confer. He was outrageously horny, and he didn't care who knew it. If he wanted you, he was so upfront about his lust that you couldn't help responding. He had a way of making you feel special, his one and only, even though you knew he fell for every pretty girl who crossed his path.

He reached out and plucked at Corinna's gown. "Come to bed, my love," he said, voice heavy with lust. "It's been ages - I've missed you so."

She brushed his hand away, not yet done with the discussion. "Cut it out, Ovid. It's been since yesterday, and this is serious."

He sighed wearily. "I can't argue with you now: I'm just not up to it. I feel weak, and words desert me when I'm so close to your perfect body - your arms, your shoulders. How I long to squeeze your breasts, run my hands over your flat belly, your swelling hips, your youthful thighs . . ."

That kind of talk had gotten her into this mess, and she still fell for it every fucking time. She felt herself melting, as if his hands really were running over her body. The darkened room, shutters half closed against the noonday sun, disappeared around her, and she scarcely noticed that her thin gown was lying on the floor, and her long hair, flowing about her neck, was too short to cover her nakedness.

Naked too, he embraced her, smooth skin so warm, penis pressing against her belly, lips soft and so alive, breath so sweet, moist tongue probing her. She ran her hands over his muscular back, down to his waist, his firm buttocks.

He maneuvered her onto the couch, kissed her long and lovingly, and began a slow exploration of her body: touching, kissing, stimulating her till she was feverish with arousal.

"How beautiful you are," he murmured when he'd licked his way back up to her neck. "Skin so white, hair so black and silky . . ."

Hair. Yes. She'd almost forgotten. "Mmm," she whispered in reply. "Cypassis takes good care of my hair."

She felt his body tense a little, but for once he said nothing.

"Just as she takes care of your prick."

"No, Corinna, I swear . . ."

She pushed him off her: he rolled onto his back and she propped herself up on an elbow. "I found your letter to her. The girl was careless, leaving it out in the open - though not as careless as you, blackmailing her in writing." She quoted from memory: "'Sleep with me again, or I'll tell your mistress everything - where, what, how often!' You're a vicious, faithless excuse for a lover!"

"What are you going to do with her?" His face showed real concern.

"Have her whipped, of course."

"No! Her skin . . ."

"So smooth and white, like mine?"

"Um, so brown and weathered. Do what you want with her. What do I care about a slave?"

"Is this the kind of loyalty you show all your lovers? It's bad luck to fall for you!"

"No, it's very good luck! It's . . ."

She laid a finger on his lips. "No more words, poet. Save your honeyed speeches for your next slave girl."

"But I . . ."

She grabbed his jaw and squeezed, so his mouth made an O. "I said quiet." She climbed onto him and sat on his stomach. "You've said your last word of the day."

He stared up at her, at a loss.

"I'm going to teach you to do something new with your tongue - besides tell fibs, I mean."

With her hands on his chest, she crawled up his body till her knees were on either side of his head. She paused for effect, just two beats, and sat down on his mouth.

Ah, yes, this was good. For manual stimulation, Corinna liked a man with a heavy hand. Her husband and Ovid both practically chafed her raw every time they fucked, and she'd come again and again till she was exhausted but happy. She'd told this to the meretrix she paid to advise her on sexual practices, and she'd said, "If you like a bit of pressure on the clit, dearie, you want to try facesitting." She must have looked shocked, because the whore added, "Don't be afraid, just sit right down on his mouth and let Nature do the rest."

The feeling of his soft flesh pressing on her sex was wonderful, the revenge-taking sweet. She squirmed to stimulate herself, wondering how much she should bear down.

Ovid said "Mmmph."

She lifted herself just high enough so she could give his cheek a solid slap. "I said quiet," she scolded.

She grabbed a handful of his hair and sat back down on him, heavier this time, and lectured as she rode him: "Day after day you're all 'I can't live without you, Corinna - suck my cock. I love you more than myself, Corinna - have you lubricated your ass for a butt-fuck? I'd do anything for you, Corinna - swallow my cum. You're my whole world - don't fuck around on me like I do on you.' I've played the game your way since the day we met: now you're going to play it my way. Eat me, babe."

Would he take this kind of treatment? He could easily fling her off him and either take her by force or storm out of her life. Or maybe . . .

"Now put your tongue out, Ovvie baby," she cooed, "an' give my li'l cunnie a lick. Be Corinna's good widdle lover-boy."

God, but she needed this! Her cunt was so incredibly hot and wet! She rocked a little, and - yes! Felt his warm tongue slide into her slit - tentatively at first, but she gasped and twitched to encourage him. "Oh that's so fucking fine," she moaned, and let her pelvis move the way it wanted to, undulating, as if she were riding his cock instead of his face, and she slid back and forth, up and down, over his nose and eyes, over his mouth and chin, sitting down heavier, sliding farther, her ride lubricated by her own moisture and his saliva.

Sudden inspiration struck her, and she climbed off him, turned around (catching a quick glimpse of his startled face), and sat again. She fucked his face as she'd done before, now feeling his hot breath in her crack as he licked her - and she could see his cock, too, all hard and leaking that male nectar. She took him in her hand as she humped him and jerked him off, fast and rough, like pounding his belly with a hammer.

"Yah, eat me, poet," she snarled, and scrubbed her cunt on his face furiously, so hard he couldn't lick her, couldn't do anything but endure it, but she could still feel the arousal mounting in him, knew he couldn't help himself . . .

Till his body spasmed, and he fountained viscous gobs of cum that fell back on his belly and her hand.

Corinna knew his desire would vanish in an instant - her cunt would disgust him now - and his cock would be so sensitive he'd cry out and twitch at the merest touch. She jerked him off faster, hand oiled with his cum, and rode his face harder, feeling the warm juice run out of her.

"Uh! Uh!" he said, and struggled feebly under her, but his orgasm had blown his mind and he couldn't organize his resistance but just twitched. Oh fuck it was great to ride a cheating poet's face, to torment him, drowning him in her love juice . . .

And she came with an orgasm that had everything in it - her love, her fury, her lust, her jealousy, her kindness, her cruelty. It left her exhausted and drained the emotion out of her. It was an effort to climb off him and summon up enough anger to say, "That's what you get for being a cheat and a liar, Publius Ovidius Naso."

Ovid was red in the face and dazed, as if he'd been flogged: his mouth and cheeks were wet. His body sagged, and his cock was limp. Corinna almost pitied him - but not quite. "What do you have to say for yourself, poet?" she demanded.

"Well - " He paused for a long time, gathering his strength and his wits. Finally he said, "If that's my punishment for cheating and lying, you can be sure I'll never play straight or tell the truth again."

AD 1785: The actresses

"It's been such a great pleasure to play Viola to your Olivia," said Dorothea.

"The pleasure has been entirely mine," said Elizabeth. "I've never before seen Viola played so well - with such liveliness."

"And I have never seen Olivia played so beautifully, and with such conviction. Why, I almost believed you were in love with me!"

The two actresses laughed at this and sipped their tea in Dorothea's bright and comfortable drawing room.

"Twelfth Night is fun to play," Elizabeth continued, "but I've never believed that Shakespeare treated his ladies fairly. To marry poor Maria to Sir Toby Belch - really! Olivia marries Sebastian, whom she hardly knows, and Viola marries Orsino, towards whom she's not once shown the slightest partiality . . ."

"How should it come out, then?" asked Dorothea.

"Why, I believe Antonio would be a fine match for Maria," said Elizabeth, if he had a bigger part. "But as for Viola and Olivia, isn't it obvious that they're in love?"

"Do you mean they love each other?" said Dorothea.

"Surely this has not escaped your attention."

"But Olivia thinks Viola is a man!" protested Dorothea.

"So? She has fallen in love with the person, not the sex. Olivia loves Viola, and it's evident to me that, were it not for her loyalty to Orsino, Viola would feel free to love Olivia."

"You surprise me, Elizabeth," Dorothea smiled. "Are you suggesting that Shakespeare should have married two women to each other?"

Elizabeth sighed. "I suppose it was impossible, even on the stage. But that's how the play would have ended, had not Shakespeare been constrained by the proprieties of his time."

"Not to mention our time," said Dorothea. "What I object to," she continued, "is Viola's costume. She's supposedly disguised as Cesario, but every time I've seen her performed, her masculine raiment has had so many feminine touches . . ."

"A big red headdress!" Elizabeth laughed. "You're right: it's perfectly absurd. We must put on our own Twelfth Night - a production for free-thinking ladies. I'll dress as a modern gentleman, and you as a modern lady . . ."

"And the play will be ever so much more . . . stimulating."

"Indecent!" Elizabeth giggled.

"I know what!" Dorothea exclaimed. "I have men's clothing in my wardrobe . . ."

"Dorothea! How did you come to have that?"

"Oh . . . I have some things that belonged to my younger brother. I kept the ones that fit me when he grew out of them. Actresses and costumes, you know. Come! You must be my lady's maid and help me dress. Then we'll play some scenes."

Dorothea led her friend upstairs to a bedchamber in which stood a large wardrobe.

"What will it be?" asked Dorothea. "Fine colors and gold embroidery for the court, or sober black for church?"

"The black, I think," said Elizabeth. "I love the embroidery, but black is more masculine."

"Unfasten me," said Dorothea.

"I hope you won't be offended," Elizabeth said as she unlaced the bodice, "if I say I've observed in the dressing room that, when you're taken out of your elaborate costume, you have a lovely, slender figure."

"Boyish?" said Dorothea. "I've been told it's boyish."

"Your body is too graceful to be described as boyish," said Elizabeth. "No, the correct word is . . . perhaps lithe. You are beautiful, Dorothea."

"Not as beautiful as you. In my view, sinuous curves are preferable to straight lines in a woman."

"Sinuous curves! There's a charitable way to describe me."

"I'm perfectly sincere; and I know very well you're a great favorite among the gentlemen."

Both of them were. In the eighteenth century, actresses were morally suspect; and in fact, many of them, even successful ones like Dorothea and Elizabeth, worked as high-end prostitutes on the side. This was a way both to earn extra money and to acquire the patronage one needed to build and maintain a successful career on the stage.

"Here, step into these breeches," said Elizabeth. "Have you a cravat?"

"There - in that drawer," said Dorothea, fiddling with the wrist of her shirt.

"And stockings?"

"Everything is here somewhere," Dorothea replied, waving towards the wardrobe. "Shall I have a wig?"

"I think not - you're too young," said Elizabeth. "But this cocked hat . . ."

When the outfitting was complete, Elizabeth stepped back for a look. "Venus and Adonis blended together," she said with a smile. "I am delirious with love. That costume . . "

Dorothea smiled archly. "If your theories about Viola and Olivia are correct, you cannot love a costume, but only a person - you must truly be in love with me."

Elizabeth laughed. "We must be married, Dorothea. Will you be Mrs. Farren, or shall I be Mrs. Jordan?"

"I certainly am enjoying being the object of your lust," said Dorothea. "But let us perform our scenes!"

"All ready!" said Elizabeth.

"Shall we follow your advice and allow Olivia have her Cesario?" said Dorothea.

"To be sure. For our production we'll rewrite the Bard to suit our own radical purposes. Where shall we begin?"

"Olivia's declaration of love," said Dorothea. "Act Three, Scene One."

"Excellent. Let's see." Elizabeth paused to find the place in her capacious memory, then turned to Dorothea and put on a devoted look. "By maidenhood, honor, truth, and everything, I love thee so that, maugre all thy pride, nor wit nor reason can my passion hide."

Dorothea said, "By innocence I swear, and by my youth, I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth, and that no woman has; nor never none shall mistress of it be, save . . . save thou alone. Now I must come up with a new couplet, since in the one that follows she leaves in a fright."

"Prose will do for now," said Elizabeth. "We'll attend to rhythm and rhyme another day."

"Very good, then. Instead of 'And so adieu, good madam,' it must be 'Come kiss me, good madam. I am yours.'"

"Very good!" Elizabeth exclaimed. "Delivered with such passion, such earnestness!"

"Don't step out of character, Elizabeth," said Dorothea. "Play the scene. Come kiss me, good madam. I am yours."

Elizabeth, smiling, advanced gracefully towards her friend and rested her hands on her shoulders. "Oh, Cesario," she sighed. "How I've longed for this moment."

Dorothea took her in her arms and kissed her - a long and ardent kiss that the most skeptical audience would have found persuasive.

"Oh," Elizabeth breathed. "Oh my, you know how to kiss. How does the scene go on?"

"I don't know," said Dorothea, also breathless.

They stood awkwardly for a minute. Then Elizabeth said, "I know! How I've longed for this moment, Cesario. Thou art so strong, so manly." She sighed and let her hand trail from Dorothea's shoulder down the front of her waistcoat. "What ho, Cesario! What is this?"

"Nothing, my lady. I just have an unusual build."

"It's a breast! I'm sure of it! Come - hast thou another?" Elizabeth pulled at Dorothea's cravat, saying "Off, vile rags! Thou art a woman!" She tore at Dorothea's shirt.

Dorothea attempted to pull her coat over her naked breasts. "I must return to my master," she said, turning away. Getting away would have been difficult, though, since a four-poster bed was behind her and Elizabeth was in front, blocking her escape.

"Don't go, love," Elizabeth pleaded, tugging at the coat. "Thinkest thou I give my heart so easily that it can be changed merely by thy being possessed of two breasts? Nay! My love is deeper and truer than that." She pushed Dorothea's waistcoat off her shoulders.