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I was by her side in a moment. “Let me see.”
Suddenly, I was up-close-and-personal with he
r right nipple. I stared at the landscape of puckered flesh, engorged purple-green veins with the hint of red arteries beside them running across her chest, making the breast throb, lift less than a foot from my face…and mouth. I heard nothing but my heart thudding, pussy weeping, as I pressed shaking fingertips around the mini-craters created by Thor. No blood was evident, but from Uma’s reaction, I’d expected some.
“Would you rub some of that ointment on that area where he bit me?” Uma said, voice low and, in my mind, seductive.
I should have straightened up, left her to tend to her own injury, sat my ass back on the couch and returned to the Land of Boredom. Instead, I watched as my arm extended itself, hands grabbed the tube of triple antibiotic and squeezed an inch or two of the thick ointment onto my index finger. Tentatively, oh so tentatively, I dabbed at the offended nipple. Uma moaned a bit in the back of her throat. I rubbed around and around the unfamiliar skin, memorizing each bump, ridge, smooth expanse beneath my fingers.
Our eyes met. Uma’s were glazed but the message was direct: suck, now. She lifted the unsucked globe, held it outward, egging me on. I took a deep, ragged breath as the denizen from Hell cut the string holding my willpower intact, and moved my opened mouth forward. Milk spurted as I sucked inward—nectar from the gods.
All bets were off! My hands cupped, held the poundage, mouth unhinged as I tried to stuff as much of her tit as possible into my mouth. My head rotated, teeth nipped lightly on the nipple as the watery manna warmed my stomach. I was further energized when Uma squeezed, caused the milk to spray the back of my throat.
“Wait.” Uma pushed me backward, grabbed my hand and pulled me behind her. We entered her bedroom. “Thor might walk in on us in the kitchen.” She turned back to me, shed her shirt from her body; allowed me the opportunity to appraise her entire chest unclothed. I left my tube top on since I felt I had nothing in comparison to offer.
She sat on the bed, breasts bouncing, legs splayed wide. Her hand covered mine and tugged downward. I seated myself between those healthy thighs, wasted no time melding my lips to her dripping nipples. In the privacy, I allowed my other hand to fondle, squirt milk from the unattended breast. Uma pressed on the back of my head, urging me on. I felt my pussy release a load of juice, which slowly crawled from the side of my wet panties and trailed down my inner thighs.
A hand slid between us, fingers pinched my alert nipples. I leaned into it, allowed the feelings to wash over me as I undulated my hot pussy in the air. The tube top was pulled over my head. Uma stood and I stood with her, hands wrapping around her back, keeping my lips fused to her nipple, as I was not yet ready to stop this secret tryst.
Hands tugged at my panties. I assisted, shimmying the cotton scrap down my legs and stepping out of them. Uma kissed me then. Her tongue, sweeter than confectionary sugar, stabbed and intertwined with mine. I clasped her cheeks, met her swirl for swirl, twist for twist. I’d never felt this hot, this fevered in my entire sexual life. My skin flushed with excitement, nerves hummed in joy, endorphins swished through arteries.
My body heated further as her lips left my mouth, trailed past my neck and pulled my bud between her lips. I couldn’t stop my pelvis from rotating as her tongue lapped, teeth nipped the sensitized berries. My head lolled backward, giving her more room to pleasure me.
Her tongue trailed lower still; I knew the destination. My body, unused to cunnilingus but a willing participant nevertheless, rocked in anticipation. When her lips arrived, it was sweet indeed. Fingers parted my manicured bush, exposing my clit. I felt cool air before a hot mouth covered my stiff clit and sucked. I moaned deep as Uma’s tongue whirled and spun up and down between my labial lips.
She lifted, positioned one of my legs up on the bed before opening me slowly. Her head dipped, licked the trail of juice all the way back up from my knees to my pussy. I panted as her tongue eased inside me. My hands twisted in her hair, holding her in place. I slid up and down that luxurious tongue as Uma inserted her fingers; pumped as she lapped. Arms wrapped around my thighs, head rotated and bobbed as she feasted on my pussy.
I pushed her backward onto the bed. I turned, straddled her face. She eased me down slowly to her waiting tongue. I leaned forward, lifted the titty to my mouth. I couldn’t understand the words she spoke around my pussy as I sucked her deep into my mouth and honestly, I didn’t care. All I knew was she didn’t push me off her so it was all good.
I ventured further into pristine sexual territory when I allowed my fingers to slide into her snatch, pinch her clit. Uma ignited! She stabbed my pussy, bucked against my fingers as I diddled her clit. The staccato of her tongue slung me over the edge. I felt the sizzle radiating from my feet, past my knees and explode at my clit. We both cried out as the orgasm shook between us, made us complicit co-conspirators in this illicit affair, created intangible soul ties that would be difficult to unravel…dammit, I was in lust!
Poor Darryl. I informed him that I’d done some “research,” found that some children nursed until they were five, so we could let Thor breast feed as long as he thought necessary.
Darryl gave me a smug smile, secure in the knowledge that once again he’d have his way and said, “Good girl. Like I told you, titty milk ain’t hurt nobody.”
I couldn’t agree with him more.
Sydney Molaré is one of the latest crop of Southern authors to watch. Her novels’ messages cross genres, ethnicities and locales. Her goal is to always have “little messages for everyone.” Her books are garnering her awards from book clubs and reviewers across the country. Sydney was recently named, “Mississippi Hometown Hero, Most Likely to Succeed” and the 2006 Mississippi’s BEST Author. Her novels include—Somewhere In America; Small Packages; Changing Faces, Changing Places; Grandmama’s Mojo Still Working; and Devil’s Orchestra. Her website is: www.sydneymolare.com.
Miss Julidene’s Sexy Items
Joy Bringas
M ost people loathe their job but I love mine. After graduating college, I envisioned myself working at an office until I realized that in Atherton, the town where I lived, there were no sex stores.
There was a preconceived notion in Atherton that sex stores were bad. When I started my business, I wanted to prove that my sex store, Miss Julidene’s Sexy Items, would defy the stereotypes. After having my store open for over a year, I was able to encourage the people of Atherton to embrace their sexual desires.
“Should I get the seven-inch dildo or the eight-inch dildo?” Mrs. Thompson asked.
At seventy years old, Mrs. Thompson was a widow who still loved to get her freak on. She was a frequent customer of mine who enjoyed buying toys for herself.
“Mrs. Thompson, take this nine-inch dildo,” I said.
“Are you sure it won’t be too big?” she questioned.
“Have I ever been wrong about my recommendations for you?” I asked.
“Never.”
