tagLesbian SexVanilla Essence

Vanilla Essence

byMarie Marshall©

I let myself into her flat with my own key. No doubt she heard me, but nevertheless I crept into the spare bedroom, unslung my rucksack, and began to get undressed. This room is never as well-heated as the rest of the flat, and it was a chilly duty to stand there naked, laying my costume and accoutrements out on the bed. Not only were my nipples standing out, and zinging each time I accidentally brushed them, but the skin of my arms and legs were covered with goose-pimples. I did a few exercises, flinging my arms wide and by breasts forward, just to get a little warmer, and rubbed my palms vigorously where the goose-pimples were thickest. By the time I put my fur jacket on I was glowing a little. Next a high-fastening suspender belt, it's long supports making a viaduct through the arches of which my valley could be seen, holding tense a pair of sheer stockings; then boots, jackboots but for the heel, made for strutting, not goose-stepping – all made my legs seem as long as the spars of a barquentine. There was a mirror – I checked out the effect – just as it should be! Then I picked up my two important properties: firstly a chain, with a leather loop at one end and a lanyard-clip at the other – I put my wrist through the loop and wound the rest of the chain around my palm and fingers, suggesting a knuckle-duster or a weird, mail gauntlet; secondly, a riding crop. One last look in the mirror...a strange sight, for the spare room of a flat...

I turned and walked out of the room. My tread down the corridor was measured now, stalking, deliberate enough to make my heel-falls audible in the lounge. My jacket I had left unbuttoned, open to the waist; my breasts were free and my nipples maintained a buzzy friction with the silk lining. I strode towards the door and reached out for the doorknob. Little-she would be waiting for me.

Some months previously she had simply been my latest girlfriend. Then one evening, as we walked back from our favourite bar, where we had had perhaps one glass of wine too many, she said she had a suggestion to spice-up our sex life. I hadn't realised it needed spicing up; hadn't it been tasty enough so far? I had been intrigued, I have to admit, to know what she had in mind, but for the rest of the walk home she was more reticent, and told me later that she had wondered whether she had put me off. When we arrived back at her flat, out came a present she had been saving for me, and when I saw that it was merely a pair of shoes I remember thinking, "What an anti-climax!" But what I actually said was, "Darling, they're lovely, but I simply couldn't walk down the street in heels that high!" She said that they weren't for street wear, and it began to dawn on me where her suggestion was about to take us.

She said she wanted me to tower over her, as she sat on a low chair, or on the floor. She said she wanted me to put my hands on my hips and speak sternly to her. She wanted me to be her "Big She". Well, why not? Gradually the spicing-up grew towards a final, full flavour, and I indeed became her tall mistress, stalking down her corridor, flinging open the door of her lounge, and...

I recall that once I arrived on a wrong day. She had guests. It had been necessary to slam the door and run as fast as my boots would allow, back to the spare room. Fortunately, most of them had had their backs to the door.

On this occasion little-she was waiting for me alone. I stood in the doorway, tapping the end of my riding crop against the palm of my left hand. She was kneeling by the opposite wall, naked except for a leather collar round her neck, almost cowering, looking up at me like a puppy that does not know whether to expect a kick or a caress. With my whip I pointed to the floor, and little-she lowered her head, occasionally daring to glance up at my face. Her lips were slightly apart, and she was panting a little.

"Look who's here!" I said.

"My Venus!" she whispered.

"Pauvre petite Séverine," I said. "Viens ici – viens à ta maîtresse!"

Her face lit up; now her puppy eyes were full of joy – a ball, or a bone, or a biscuit had just been thrown to her, and on all fours she bounded over to me. When she was about to jump up, a sharp "Ah, ah, ah!" from me, and a raised finger, brought her to a halt. She sat back on her haunches and raised a hand in a half-hearted, paw-like dab, the fear of rejection once more in those eyes. I turned and walked over to a high-backed, faux-gothic chair, placed myself – almost enthroned myself – upon it, straightened my back, and crossed my legs. I unwound the chain from my hand, and dangled it, rattled it. She crawled over to me, and crouched patiently while I fastened the lanyard clip to a ring in her collar. Giving it a couple of gentle tugs, to make sure it was fast, I stood up.

"On se promène. Avance, chienne! Allez-hop!"

I stalked around the room, whilst little-she scrambled awkwardly along at my side, still on all-fours. If she got ahead of me or lagged behind, a sharp tug of the chain would bring her to heel From time to time she glanced up at me, just to see if she was being a good girl. She tired before I did – of course she did – it would never do for little-she to tire her mistress! I sat again on my gothic cathedra, and she squatted at my feet panting, glowing.

"Good girl," I said, and her eyes misted with simple happiness.

For a while we just sat there, little-she and Big-She back from a pleasant promenade. From time to time I ran the end of my riding-crop along her back or, placing it under her chin, obliged her to raise her head and look at me, to see if she would dare to try and out-stare me (no, she never did!). A touch of the crop to her naked flank now and then brought a flicker of fear to her eyes, but only a flicker, for she knew that her mistress, her Venus, was pleased with her today, and might allow her a little treat...

She put one hand on my knee, and looked imploringly at me.

"What?" I said, pretending not to understand. She began to sniff the air, and to nuzzle at my legs and knees, as if she could smell something there. I touched my crop to her cheek.

"No!" I said, sharply. She sat back, disappointed, but soon that hand was on my knee again, those eyes were looking at me imploringly, and the snuffling and nuzzling started again. Then, for the first time since she had acknowledged me as I entered the room, she spoke, in a little, timorous voice.

"Please, mistress!"

"Who gave you permission..." I began, my voice rising, and one eyebrow too. But then I relented. Mistress Big-She would be generous to her pauvre petite Séverine , who had after all been very good today. Holding her at bay with my riding crop, I perched on the edge of my chair and slowly spread my legs wide. Her gaze was drawn to the place that mattered, to her treat, to the center of her worship, to my vallon de Vénus. Gradually I relaxed the pressure of my riding-crop, gradually I twisted the chain around my hand again, reeling her in closer and closer. Then she was right there, and she began to lick and lap like a mongrel drinking from a tin bowl, "Hlop...hlop...hlop" between rasping breaths. At first she was over-enthusiastic, slobbering randomly anywhere from my fondement to my curls; but with judicious use of crop and chain, I centred her, putting her to work exactly where it worked for me.

"Salope! Putain!" I spat. "Ah oui – fais comme ça. Fais juste comme ça!"

Then I began to laugh. I had plumbed the depths of my schoolgirl French. Here I was in an old fur coat of my mother's, cut off at the waist, my suspender-belt and stockings from a sale at Ann Summers, my boots rescued from Oxfam for two quid, my leash and little-she's collar bought from the local pet shop, my crop pinched from an old school-friend who had just given up riding to hounds – to be honest I suddenly felt bloody ridiculous. I hid my laughter behind noises of passion. The latter were not totally counterfeit, I must admit, because she was bringing me off. She did bring me off. And yes, it was good. I like coming.

Regaining my composure, I bent down and unfastened the chain from her collar.

"Good girl!" I said, and honestly if she had had a tail she would have wagged it. I walked to the door, with as much aplomb as I could muster. With my hand on the doorknob, I turned and looked over to where she still crouched on the floor. With my crop I pointed over to where she had been kneeling when I had come in. There was a blanket ruckled on the floor.

"Beddy-byes!" I commanded, and she crawled over there to lie prone, face against hands, looking up at me. That was the scene I left behind as I walked back down to the spare room. It was still colder in there, and now that I had nothing more to prepare for, I threw off my costume and got back into my jeans and sweater as quickly as I could. I stuffed the other gear into my rucksack and left. Walking down the street I did not look up to see whether she was watching me from her window – not only did I not want to break the spell she had woven for herself, I did not want to catch her eye at that moment. When I turned the corner at the bottom of her street I leant against a wall, and purged from my system the fit of giggles which had been building up. I got a few funny looks from passers-by, and a couple of queries of "Are you all right, love?" But eventually it wore off, and I got it out of my system. I felt a little ashamed laughing at my girlfriend behind her back, and so I walked home just a little bit deflated.

Her name is not really little-she of course, or even Séverine. It's Alison, which is a nice enough name. She's a nice enough woman. Actually, I have to say I love her – do you imagine I could go through this Venus-in-Furs rigmarole for just anyone? I really must tell her that this business doesn't do it for me the way it does it for her. Lately she has been hinting at the possibility of our getting to know other people who play these kind of games. No, that will not do at all. I can think of one bloke at my office ("We are..." proclaims a notice on the wall of our atrium,"...an Equal Opportunities Employer.") who is into Ess-Emm, Dom-Sub, whatever-floats-your-boat. One can hear the rustle of his plastic panties underneath his suit. He is unprepossessing, which he can't help, and he smells, which he probably can. OK so he's a bloke and I'm a lesbian, but... Oh I don't know what the hell I'm talking about.

Let me try and explain.

Back at my own flat there is a treat waiting for me. I know I have been able to sit back and let my girlfriend lick me, but strictly speaking (and she likes me speaking strictly) that was her treat. When I have spent an evening or an afternoon in Alison's fantasy world, which I can take because I love her, but which I don't find in the slightest liberating or exciting myself, I pamper myself when I get home. How? By what is waiting in the fridge. A tub of soft-scoop vanilla ice-cream.

It doesn't have to be a helping from the soft-scoop tub. In summer, I often follow my ears to a Mr Whippy van, and buy a cone. When I was a little girl, I would hold such a treat aloft and pretend to be the Statue of Liberty, until some of it melted and trickled in rivulets down my fingers. Then I would lick the melt off, feeling my tongue rasping against the clefts between my fingers, and wondering even then what it would be like to lick a different cleft. The scent of vanilla – faint in the case of Mr Whippy, which is mostly air – would stay on my fingers, and I would sniff it for hours afterwards until it faded, or until Mum made me wash my sticky hands. These days a Mr Whippy cone is a fine treat; I run great licks of it over my tongue and around the roof of my mouth, luxuriating in the absolute smoothness of it.

With a hard block of ice-cream straight from the freezer, the experience is different. I can score a furrow with a spoon, leaving a little, hard knob at the end, and I can lick up this cold furrow and flick the little knob with my tongue, to see if I can lick it free before the hardness begins to deteriorate. If I am feeling like a challenge, then I forget the spoon and delve with my tongue until it is raw!

The soft-scoop tub I have at home right now is a Cornish. I know that it will be creamy, and as I explore each mouthful, I will find little, sharp shards of flavoured ice. And these are just three minor sensations I associate with vanilla ice cream.

I confess that I have another love in my life, apart from Alison. I mean that my mistress is none other than vanilla fragrans, Did you know that that remarkable little pod was brought back to Europe by stout Cortes the Conquistador, and is recorded in the writings of Bernal Diaz and Father Bernadino de Sagahun about the conquest of New Spain in the sixteenth century? It is a magical flavouring, doing miracles not only to our foods and beverages, but calming and healing the mind and the body also. The ancient people of Totonacapan called it xanat, and to them it was a holy tree, which sprang from the blood of two young lovers, Tzacopontziza and Zkatan-Oxga; they held it sacred to their fertility goddess Tonoacayohua. How we insensitive westerners denigrate this divine thing by referring so often to its flavour as "plain"!

Do you love the tang of oranges and other sharp fruit, but avoid them because they give you heartburn? Adding a few drops of vanilla essence to their juice can neutralize the acid and make them palatable for you. For other, blander foods it can enhance their flavour, or make them taste sweeter. It can settle a nervous stomach, and is potent in aromatherapy.

Aromatherapy – oh yes, the scent! That alone is a pure aphrodisiac. When I want to make a lover weak for me, I put some behind my ears and on my wrists. I get my lobes nuzzled and my hand kissed so often! The people of Totonacapan wore pods in their hats, to keep the aroma around them all day – they knew what the effect was! Sexy yet innocent, strong yet subtle, shaded with nuances, vanilla is the queen of flavours, the goddess! The ultimate spice.

Here's what finally does it for me. The word itself, is the diminutive of the Spanish word vaina which means a sheath. Vanilla means...little vagina! And so I come back to Alison. What I love about her is not contained in her submission to me, when we play our little rigmarole. There are in fact a thousand-and-one things about her which endear her to me. When she was cowering on her blanket I stopped for a moment and wondered about the spattering of freckles on her shoulders, mirrored on her cheeks, like raindrops on a dry pavement. The way her nose turns up slightly; the white ghost of where a bikini was last summer; the pinkness of her nipples; these and a myriad of other minutiae are the secret of her allure. Not forgetting her beautiful vainilla, the little sheath at the base of her belly, with its subtle, feminine scent and taste. Each one of these many things is as simple as a round crystal bowl with a scoop of vanilla ice-cream.

To hell with the in-your-face blatancy of sundae-bloody-sundae!

Dear Alison, perhaps you're reading this – I may decide that leaving this somewhere for you to find is the best way to tell you. Believe me, I do love you. But I fear that you are lost to the extremes of sensation, which have drowned out the subtleties and nuances to be found in what might, at first, appear to be ordinariness, but which is made extraordinary by the presence of a loved-one. Ordinary does not mean boring; it can be shot through with romance, from the very fact of sharing it with someone loved. You and me, Alison. You for me, Alison. You're all I need. No extras, no add-ons, no ifs, buts, or ands. If you want me to dictate, then let me dictate this:

Come round to my place, and we can share a bowl of vanilla ice-cream.

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byMarie Marshall© 4 comments/ 34826 views/ 2 favorites

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