Pussy-Licker: The Man Who Loved Vaginas

The Yorkshire village of Hornsthwaitedale straddles the lazy curve of the river around the old stone bridge where the oak tree bends low beneath the lush weight of its own greenery, and willows ripple shadows up from the shingle riverbank across the cemetery towards the tall spire of the Norman church. Several narrow ginnels and snickets radiate between clustered houses around the square with the Celtic Cross and Village Notice Board, facing the 'Cross Keys', its white timbered face crawling with ivy, and 'Meg's Tearoom' a little way along the road that is signposted towards the next village, Kirkbridge and beyond. Not a great deal ever happens here. Except for the coming of the artist. He has hooded falcon eyes, sensuous lips and unruly curls, clearly the bastard love-child of William Morris and a Bellini angel. He arrives with bulky cases on the steam locomotive at the little Railway Station, and he takes up rooms above the public house, paying in advance for a month. Although secretive, and seldom seen, he instantly becomes the hub of local curiosity.

The barmaid, Florence, laughs the way some women do, with a full-blooded flirty edge. She's popular with the village regulars, and especially late Saturday nights when it's common knowledge she earns a little extra income from local men in the yard behind the 'Cross Keys', where she's known as the 'sword-swallower'. Thomas Tyler the blacksmith, Sykes the butcher, Mr Martin the bank manager, various farm-workers from the nearby countryside, and groundskeepers from Squire Trelawney's walled estate.

It's unusual for Florence - 'Flossie', to be invited to the ladies morning in the tearoom where they sit in Meg's conservatory overlooking the river weir, to eat dainty slices of Victoria sponge, scones thick with creamy butter and strawberry jam, or Eccles cakes frosted with sugar. There is usually polite gossip, but seldom a washing of dirty linen in public. But today is different.

'So glad you could join us, Dear' says Mrs Betty Martin, gritting the words through a forced smile.

'An honour' flounces Flossie, with only a hint of sarcasm. Joining the circle, sitting across the table from self-appointed host Mrs Martin. 'Although I'm sure there's a special reason you invited me today.'

'Don't be like that' intercedes seamstress Eleanor Bishop tactfully, pouring tea into a china cup and passing it across to her. 'Although, we do have a natural curiosity about what goes on in the village.'

'And you wish me to confide secrets?' with a mock-shocked expression. She'd secretly called these women the 'Four Witches', the village moral busy-bodies.

'Only if you feel inclined to indulge us' snaps back Mrs Martin, offering her the cake-tray as a conciliatory form of inducement. The radio in the background plays polite Palm Court Orchestra strings as Mrs Martin fights the image of her husband staggering home drunk late midnight, with this trollop's tarty lipstick smeared all over his todger. The widowed schoolmistress Mrs Harriet Linthwaite and Mrs Enid Barraclough, the vicar's wife, lean in closer so as to miss nothing.

'You're going to ask me about Alastair? Alastair Swinbourne?' Their assenting nods are so amusingly rapid she can't help but smile. She pauses, deliberately keeping them in anticipation.

'We have noticed this artist gentleman... Mr Swinbourne, is it?' admits Mrs Martin, as though taking mental notes. 'We can't help but notice him wearing that flamboyant hat with a peacock feather, carrying his easel up the steep stony path beside the valley waterfall towards the Moors. And yet he seems the kind of man who keeps himself to himself.'

'To you, perhaps, he seems that way' smiles Flossie, enjoying her moment of power. 'Not to me. We have talked... and more.' The Witches lean in closer. 'He studied art at Cambridge, but dropped out due to the nature of what he terms 'his special appetites'. He likes what he calls the decadent surrealism he encountered while travelling the cultural centres of Europe. But he prefers to follow his own unique inclinations.'

'And you have knowledge of these 'special appetites' of his?'

'Deliciously so.' She glances around as though to check for eavesdroppers. 'An artist must need a model. It is something that art requires. And when he made his nervous request to me, I was only too happy to accept his fee.'

'Not that you're unused to accepting fees from men for your services' snipes Mrs Martin.

'When they can't get what they need at home, they must seek elsewhere' she laughs, with a full-blooded flirty edge.

'Please, Betty' says Eleanor Bishop, 'allow the girl to tell her story.'

Mrs Martin sits back with a disapproving expression on her face. 'Pray continue, Flossie.'

'You were nude for this artistic modelling?' urges the widow Linthwaite over-eagerly.

'I believe that is the usual convention for the art world, purely for artistic purposes' admits Flossie, with a show of false modesty. 'But he was so gently considerate, and very persuasive. He has converted the front room above the 'Cross Keys' into his studio, with the faint aroma of linseed oil and turpentine, and sheets of sketches tossed haphazardly. Some of them landscapes. Others, more intimate than landscapes. Alastair invites me inside and offers me a relaxing glass of wine before we begin. He talks softly, but very insistently, and I feel entirely safe undressing for him. He makes a number of preliminary sketches, all the while talking in a reassuring way about the sacred beauty of the female form. He wants me to lounge back, with my legs splayed wide while he crouches, using flourishes of his pen to meticulously detail every intimate part of my... erm, my lady garden. Very attentive and complimentary. Then he bent down and kissed me on the lips...'

'On the lips?'

'The lips of my fanny. He penetrates me, not with his penis or finger, but with his tongue... and when I say it just melts me, you know exactly what I mean. I can't describe what delight it was to feel his probing tongue flicking up and down, in little circles and zigzags - oh God, it feels so incredibly good. I merely luxuriate in his intimate ministrations. I thought that he'd expect a reciprocation, you know, like other men do? But once he'd brought me to climax he was satisfied. This oral loving is to his taste, his joy, his special appetite...'

'I've heard of that practice' says the schoolmistress. 'During the Great War my late Mr Linthwaite's unit passed through Paris where he came into possession of a set of dirty playing-cards, one of which shows a photograph of two strumpets doing that to each other.'

'That kind of thing may well happen in Paris' says Betty Martin sternly. 'But not in Yorkshire. Not in Hornsthwaitedale...!'

Flossie enjoys the shocked reaction she's caused. She takes a slice of Victoria sponge from the tray, and licks the oozing jam deliberately slowly. 'But have you seen, ladies? Alastair has already pinned a card to the Village Notice Board in the square, asking for new models to pose for him?'

Friday was Market Day in the Village Square with colourful stalls offering a variety of produce and handcrafted items. Barefoot children paddle in the river shallows, then lick at ice-cream cones purchased from the van pulled in beside the bridge in the oak-tree shade. Alastair Swinbourne, wearing his flamboyant hat with a peacock feather, sits beside the ancient stone Celtic Cross, at his easel sketching in rapid but confident strokes. He seems absorbed in his work, but returns the smiles and greetings that come his way. As well as the occasional whispered confidences.

Later, it was busy in the 'Cross Keys', and Flossie was busy pulling pints for thirsty drinkers in the main taproom when she happens to glance behind her to where, through the low arch, beyond the barrels of beer, the creaky wooden stairs climb their way to the rooms upstairs, and she catches sight of Charlotte Trelawney, the Squire's daughter, about to ascend. She wears a headscarf pulled in tight, as if attempting to be inconspicuous, but just for a moment their eyes meet. Charlotte is tall and slender where Flossie is what the men call 'buxom', but they like their barmaids comfortably rounded in that way. Her hair is long and dark, aloof with mystery, while Flossie's is an open mass of blonde curls. Charlotte seems to colour, averts her eyes, and hurries upstairs. Flossie smiles knowingly. She realises exactly what the girl is there to do. That is something they share. During the week, as days pass, she sees other women. Climbing the stairs with expressions of nervous anticipation. Meeting a woman coming down, who wears a rich smile of secret satisfaction.

On Wednesday she has occasion to go upstairs herself, to change the bed linen and to dust. Alastair Swinbourne sits beside the window wearing a dressing gown, he's looking out over the square while sipping from a glass of dark emerald liqueur - absinthe?, but he's watching her. She moves a large pad of drawings from the bed, folding the book-cover back in order to see, overcome by curiosity, and each page consists of the single lavish image of a vagina drawn in loving detail. Black-line illustrations in baroque flourishes like the opening petals of some exotic blossom, with the crinkle of each hair, and every squiggly wrinkle fold of intricate flesh finely delineated. 'Some ignorant men say they all look alike in the dark' he muses softly, by way of explanation. 'I disagree. In daylight, each one assumes her own personality of delight. There's nothing quite so perfect as the moist glisten of a freshly-licked cunt. The sweet little nub that is the pearl of pleasure. The aroma of arousal is a joy to me, the pussy-wine a nectar on my tongue.'

'I've never heard a man speak that way' she ventured. She felt light-headed. The strangest of warm sensations seeping its way up through her body. Wondering, which vagina was hers? It must be here, but she couldn't even identify herself. There was even one here, turning a page, bald of pubic hair, an older woman, but who?

'There are wealthy gentleman who appreciate visual representations of the vulva' he says. 'I have an agent in London who published small private editions of my art for the delectation of connoisseurs of the intimate female form. It furnishes me with a comfortable income. All I need do is take my observations from life. Which is my greatest joy.'

'Your art is a thing of great beauty' she says. Her own sincerity surprises her, turning the page eagerly to see the next unfolding delight. She wonders momentarily if he will want more of her. But she completes her work in the room, which is his studio, and when she enquires 'will there be anything else you require, sir?,' he bids her a polite thanks, but 'no'. She's unsure, as she descends the creaking stairs, if there is disappointment in each step.

As days pass, and turn into weeks, is it her imagination? Or are local women walking with a new sense of insolent freedom. A defiant pride? While there's grumbling in the Taproom between men complaining of their womenfolk making 'unnatural' demands on them. She's in the perfect position to overhear such conversations as she collects drained glasses and returns them to the bar. Which is how she was first alerted. She heard from the groundskeepers about Squire Trelawney's outrage over his daughters debauching. She never knew how he'd discovered about what occurred with Charlotte in Swinbourne's studio, but Hornsthwaitedale is a small village, gossip travels fast, particularly when it's propelled by the 'Four Witches' of 'Meg's Tearoom'. But Trelawney had a hunting rifle, and he was prepared to use it. Flossie was alarmed.

Alastair Swinbourne's month's lease was almost up. He'd be leaving soon. But maybe not quite soon enough to avoid Trelawney's wrath. The noonday drinkers were dispersing into the square. She took her opportunity, hung the towel over the beer-pumps, wiped her hands, and went through the low arch, beyond the barrels of beer, and up the creaky wooden stairs towards the rooms upstairs. Of course, she should have knocked. But she could hear angry voices coming from the square. There was a certain urgency as she wrenched the door open and burst into the studio.

What she saw stopped her open-mouthed. She could hear the bedsprings creaking, hear the wet rasping sounds of moaning sex and gasped heavy breathing. Alastair Swinbourne was lying on his back on the bed, wearing only his dressing gown. The woman was naked from the waist down, and she was vigorously riding his face, straddling him, his head trapped between her writhing thighs, her hips grinding backwards and forward down into him, she was fucking herself on his mouth. His legs were kicking and scissoring, so that the gown was gaping. As she was groaning in hard sharp fast animal noises, he was gurgling in moist squelching strangulated sounds. The woman was so caught up in the throes of her orgasm that she was scarcely aware of the interruption, but it was unmistakably Mrs Betty Martin, self-appointed moral guardian of Hornsthwaitedale!

As the woman's heaving convulsions subside her whole body droops forward. Intrigued, Flossie could not resist the mischievous urge to reach out and flip the dressing gown aside, exposing his thighs. The penis. Childishly small. Barely... she estimates two inches. An undeveloped little boy's cock. But erect in its stubby pulsing way, and dribbling several milky tears of sperm that ooze down onto his hairless skin. There's a ludicrous urge to snigger - but also to pity. Behind all great art, there must surely be secret pain. And a unique need to motivate every special appetite. There's no way he could debauch any maiden using such a miniature tool. When she thinks of the raging bulls her mouth has tamed in the yard behind the 'Cross Keys'.

There's a commotion of raised voices coming from the bar below, angry shouting which alerts her. 'Hurry, you must get away before they come for you.'

Betty Martin disentangles herself, with a curious expression on her normally stern face, half blissful, half self-consciously bashful. While Alastair quickly rises to cover himself, his face framed in unruly curls, his sensuous lips glistening with saliva and vaginal secretions. 'The Squire Trelawney and his men are on their way to punish you' Flossie quickly explains. She crosses the room as the artist hastily struggles into his clothes, and flings opens the rear windows. There's an easy step out from there onto the flat roof of the Landlord's scullery, and from there onto a pile of old crates and so down into the yard. He's tucking his shirt-tails into his trousers, and pulling his jacket on even as he takes two strides towards the open window where the lace curtains blow in the slight breeze and strands of ivy dangle.

Flossie picks up the art-pad which is open at his latest fully-detailed explicit vagina illustration - which must be of Betty Martin. She smiles. 'Don't forget this, Mr Swinbourne. Take it with you to the Railway Station. Contact us later from your next address, and we will send the rest of your luggage on to you.'

'Thank you all for your kindness' he says, pulling his flamboyant hat with a peacock feather onto his head, and climbing lithely out through the window onto the flat roof. Flossie hastily slams the window shut after him as Mrs Martin smoothes her severe skirt back into place, returning to her normal austere respectability. There are voices and clattering on the stair...

The next day, it's ladies morning in the tearoom of Meg's conservatory overlooking the river weir, where the Four Witches are again joined by Flossie. 'Sit down Florence, Dear' says Betty Martin with a new familiarity. And they begin to talk with delighted laughter of the outraged faces of the men who burst into the studio room above the 'Cross Keys' to find only the two women there, while the artist made good his escape. It was a tale that would be told and retold in weeks and months to come. For when the artist came to town, it changed everything... life in the Yorkshire village of Hornsthwaitedale would never be quite the same ever again.

BY TRISTAN TROTSKY