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He had heard of these. Under so many pieces of clothing, they were the ones which contradictorily had a slit that would bare her to him so easily. His need would have driven him to ruck all those useless things up and reach for her femininity with avid intent. But he dared not, the moment held a high chance of growing memorable and he wanted to miss not a second of it.
Suddenly, there were no more cloths as he reached the top of her stockings. His palms touched the strip of thighs, smooth and warm, like nothing he had ever touched in his entire existence. She helped him by bunching the skirts around her waist at the same second her knees gave and flapped to the sides.
Fucking blasting hell!
Through the slit, a triangle of pale hair came into view together with an aroma so enticing it called for him to lower his nostrils and inhale it in all its potent scent. His hands splayed over the thighs in a subterfuge to feel more of it.
His eyes were incapable of ungluing from the spot. “May I…?” he asked not looking at her.
“Yes,” she breathed.
It was all the permission he needed. Masculine thumbs parted the slit on the fabric, only to find another one, hers. Rosy and glistening with a sort of moisture. One index traced the outer layer, encountering silky hair, damp skin, until it came across a soft place at the base. Lightly pressing, it gave and his finger dove inside, it was hot, wet and it seemed as if it swallowed a whole phalange.
“Sorry,” he blurted, about to leave it be.
“It’s where you fit,” she informed in a whisper.
His brain halted for several seconds. Then it grasped her meaning.
Fit?
How was he supposed to survive this in one piece?
If he was to fit in there, he would never leave. Ever.
One more phalange slid in, he allowed it to be sucked, imagining all kinds of paradises it suggested.
Curiosity got the best of him though, there were a whole lot of elements to explore here. Exiting, he used his thumbs to open the inner lips, one and the other, to find a nub peaking from a sort of hood.
In utter amazement, the botanist in him kicked in. The lips resembled petals, his middle finger glided over the whole extension and rested on the firm centre so similar to the stigma, the very core of a flower. He rounded it, opening the spot for his observation. And smiled as if before a new discovery.
"You have petals that open to a perfumed centre with a pistil and a bud.” An enlightened expression lit his face. “Harriet, you are a flower!” a eureka moment that received no reply.
Round spectacles snapped to the woman sprawled on the settee. Her head was thrown back, fast breathing, spine arched, her teeth clamping on her lower lip.
“What is it, Harriet?” worry coated his question.
"You're reducing me to a mass of pleasure, that's what." She barely clipped out before moaning, for his hand continued to move over her dewed flesh.
“Does it hurt?”
Her head shook in denial. "If you stop, I swear I'll die!"
So he did not.
Not in a million years did he want her to die.
“Put your finger back where it was,” she murmured.
The only way of doing it was to use his index where he ‘fit’, and his thumb to do the rest of the job. Her long moan said it had been a wise solution.
Sam watched her closely, enthralled, when her fist flew to her mouth, her entire body tensed, her nub became harder. A muffled scream echoed in the drawing room at the same time her flesh gripped his index, and everything in her flower pulsed.
A mediaeval book he once read in the Bodleian Library, the biggest and oldest in Oxford, mentioned the female ejaculation. This must be it, he contemplated as he soothed her with his caresses until she seemed calmer.
When her breathing normalised, she opened her eyes and looked at him with a sated expression on them. “I never dreamed this could happen,” the surprise clear in her tone.
“Neither did I,” he said, taking in her flushed cheeks and dishevelled hair.
