The Flop at Hopp Inn

Joyce turned me on the first time we met: a tall and sleek brown-eyed blonde who modeled part-time, she was a lot of fun to be with and a great dancer. She had two roommates and I lived in a little trailer with my Dad, so most of our making-out had been kind of furtive (is one of Joyce's roomies coming? Does Dad hear . . .?). But maybe because of the fear of getting caught and the sheer excitement of Joyce I came good and fast and too loudly, usually by humping with both of us still in our jeans--though we often unzipped each other for a finger's dip.

Finally, I suggested we rent a motel room and really get it on in a slow luxurious way. She agreed and we split the amount for a room at Hopp Inn.

We undressed each other, both of us giggling like little girls as we smooched. She lay back on the virgin white of the bed sheets, a lazy smile on her delicate-featured face and a dreamy look in those lusty brown eyes of hers. She opened her legs so I could do what I'd been fantasizing about for so long.

I put my face on her pussy, licking the soft, mulled red lips. Suddenly I noticed a funny feeling on my tongue. Trying not to break the mood, I said "How do you like it?" as I put a finger in my own mouth.

"I like it, Ann," she said, her breathy voice rich with pleasure. She began rocking her hips just slightly.

My finger showed a tiny line of rolled up white . . . toilet paper. I flicked it off and resumed eating Joyce. Again I licked along her lips, into the hole itself, up towards the hood of her clit and again . . . the annoying substance left on my tongue. I peeled it off.

"Joyce?" I thought: could I suggest washing her pussy . . . tell her I got turned on by washing pussy? Maybe tell her we ought to take a shower together?

"Yeah?" Joyce asked, sounding concerned, "Is something wrong?"

"N-no, nothing at all," I stammered.

"I thought you said you've done this before?"

"I have, Joyce."

"Does mine smell worse than that other woman's?"

"No, no, your pussy smells just fine." Naked, I was sitting on the side of the bed now, looking at her wide hurt eyes. "It's not you, Joyce, it's me, just me. See . . . I . . . um . . . y'know, I hurt." I put my hand on my knee and grimaced.

"Hurt?"

"I told you about the problem I have, I don't know when it's going to start acting up."

"Your knee, Ann? What's wrong with your knee."

"Joyce, I told you about it."

"No, you didn't."

"Just every now and then it starts . . . oh! . . . acting up."

"Ann, how long have you had it?"

"Oh, since the accident--y'know." I had told Joyce--truthfully--that Mom and me had been in a wreck which had left me hospitalized. "It's not that bad," I said, hopping on it as I put my panties and jeans on.

Joyce got dressed. "Do you think I should drive?" she offered, holding me by the arm.

I handed her the keys and she took me home.

Dad said, "Hi, Joyce." Then he saw that I was grabbing my knee. "Oh, is it your knee, Ann?" he said, sympathy wrinkling the brow on his plump pink face.

"Yeah."

"I'll get the compress for you." He assured Joyce that there was nothing more she could do.

When we were alone, I told Dad, "I'm glad you remembered the knee thing."

He smiled. We had come up with the knee excuse together--he said headaches are too cliché and I knew everyone would think I was pregnant if I said a stomachache.

I shook my head to indicate I didn't want to talk about it.

Are you wondering if that was the end of me and Joyce? Not at all. We kept going together and had a lot of fun and some hot sex and bad fights and broke up because Joyce started hitting me. She's gone but not forgotten. I'm reminded of her lovely face every time I look in the mirror and see my own misshapen nose, permanently irregular because she broke it.

Because of the experience at Hopp Inn, I always clean and examine myself quite assiduously in a mirror before I let anyone go down on me. But I've never been able to think of a tactful way to tell a lady that she's left bits of toilet paper on her pussy.