it as if it were sheer nectar.
'I'm… I'm flabbergasted,' he finally said. 'A virgin? And you're giving your cherry to an old crock like me. Why?'
'Because you're nice and because I feel like it. Don't keep me waiting, dear.'
But he had. He was so nervous at the sight of the magnificent naked young girl with the slant eyes, the luxurious bush with its pink labia like a pretty rose-hued canal slicing through a deep dark forest, by the look of her superb thighs and breasts, that he could not get his penis hard enough to enter her. First he tried to arouse himself further by continuing to suck her vagina and her lovely round globes of breasts. Then he had turned her over and ran his tongue lovingly over the beautiful hillocks of her tawny buttocks. Finally sucking at her buttocks made him hard enough to mount her but he came almost at once.
Still, she had enjoyed it, psychologically more than physically maybe, because it had been her first heterosexual lovemaking and for weeks it sustained her. She had tried two other men but then stopped because she really did not enjoy their rough love play too much. Not until she had met Mike in Los Angeles had she met a man who could thrill her. Yes, Mike was special, she thought, as she prepared to ring Ruth's bell, but he had not stopped her from being curious about making love to women. If he had, her crotch would not be soaking wet now, would it?
But perhaps it was just wet because she had fantasized that it would as exciting to be made love to by Ruth Peter as it had been during those guilt-filled afternoons in Burma when Wendy had lapped at her breasts, tongued her crotch and run her expert fingers over her flesh. Ruth Blake was a stick compared to Wendy. She looked, in her classical bun, mannish suit and dark bone frame glasses, like a ridiculous owl. It would probably be awful.
She would have to lie back on the bed with her eyes dosed, fortified by several drinks, logy with the food, and accept the tiresome woman's assaults. Maybe as the nitwit went down on her she could pretend it was Wendy back in Rangoon.
She snickered inwardly as she waited for a response to her ring. 'I'll imagine I'm on the noon balloon to Rangoon and that Wendy is eating my pussy and pretending it's a savory she is having for dinner.' She felt a little lightheaded as she recalled Wendy saying that once in her delightful British drawl. 'Dearest Mara, I do so fancy eating your lovely clitoris. It's like having a savory at Churchill's in London after a fine dinner… '
Her thoughts were jolted by the sudden opening of the heavy oaken door and what she saw framed in the doorway stunned her. It was a beautiful woman in her thirties. Ruth Peter had let her long brown hair down and it tumbled about her shoulders. She wore a blouse that showed a generous cleavage. A pair of blue satiny shorts hugged her hips tightly, revealing magnificent long thighs and curvaceous hips. As she followed Ruth into the spacious living room, Mara was aghast. Ruth's legs were lovelier than she had imagined, long tapering stems that reminded her of the showgirls she had seen high kicking at New York nightclubs.
Her excitement continued as she saw Ruth bend over to pick up a plate of delicious hors d'oeuvres. Mara caught a tantalizing glimpse of full, round breasts with large brown nipples. Her bush felt wetter than ever and she felt her own nipples hardening.
'I-I'm a little surprised,' Mara said slowly, unable to tear her eyes away. 'You looked so formal in the office and now-'
'And now I'm a lot sexier?' Ruth smiled. Her hand reached out and cupped Mara's breast lovingly. 'I'm going to surprise you a lot more later dear.'
Chapter 2
Mara followed Ruth into the other rooms of the splendid house. Ruth had inherited it from her father, a wealthy physician, and had decorated it lavishly. Each room had its own decor, its own personality, But what intrigued the young Eurasian girl most was the erotic flavor of the decorations, the paintings, even the scents. It was as if Ruth had made her home a rich palace for a sensualist. A sensualist for whom men did not exist. Men had no place in this home except for a large picture of her mother and father in a small TV-viewing room far in the rear.
All of the front rooms had portraits of women. There were beautiful nudes by well-known American artists, a fine copy of Renoir's bathing woman, statues of beautiful female goddesses and nymphs. But the biggest surprise was in Ruth's largest bedroom. Above her bed was a large canvas of a woman by a well-known woman painter of erotica. It depicted a beautiful, statuesque woman with magnificent, ballooning breasts lying down on a bed with her superb thighs outspread. Her large pink labia had been detailed with great care. They were not only very real looking, they were obviously ready for love because they were moist. The insides of the woman's thighs were wet. On her face was a look of desire, of great expectancy.
At the foot of the bed stood a pretty young girl, also nude, her eyes filled with a passionate longing for the older, very lovely woman on the bed. It was clear that the two women were lovers. Indeed they seemed ready to have another go at each other. Their lust was unmistakable to the viewer.
'How do you like it?' Ruth asked casually. 'It cost me a fortune. It's by Renee d'Antoine, the French painter who lives in Tangiers. Her portraits of women are the rage in every top art gallery. Most of them are just of women in ordinary situations but she does a few erotic oils for special customers.'
Mara gazed fixedly at the picture. 'It's exquisite. It's so real you want to-to reach out and touch… to… to… ' She flushed deeply as she cut herself short. The words would have been too embarrassing for her. But Ruth finished her sentence for her.
'Real enough to eat those magnificent breasts, to lick that superb vulva. Isn't that what you wanted to say, dear?'
Mara blushed but remained silent.
'Don't be shy about such things, my dear. That's why its hanging there. To arouse my friends. Somehow lovemaking between women gains, I think, by little helps like that picture, don't you? Men are different. I was told by one of my gay men friends that with them it's a more routine thing. They meet a boy they like and almost at once they're in bed together. I can't do things like that, can you? I feel that there must be something leading up to the sex part.'
She looked questioningly at Mara, who gulped and nodded. She was still not sure of what was going to happen, still not sure she wanted it to happen. And yet Ruth Peter suddenly seemed so attractive now that she felt a tremor when the woman looked into her face. Despite her cautiousness, she could barely suppress a feeling of excitement. She was drawn to Ruth. There was no sense in denying it. The physical pull was strong.
'You haven t answered my question, darling.' Ruth whispered. 'Can you just hop into bed with a woman you've just met unless-?'
'No,' Mara said hoarsely. Oh God, she thought, what am I doing here? I don't really want to get involved with a woman again. 'I agree with you,' Mara said finally.
'Yes, I rather thought you would,' Ruth said. 'Let's have an aperitif and then dinner. It's nearly ready to eat.' She put her arm affectionately around Mara's waist as she led her into the living room. As they moved, Ruth's finger slid slowly over the outside of Mara's shapely buttocks.
'You know,' she said as she served the Eurasian girl a glass of chilled French vermouth spiked with cassis, a strawberry flavoring from the south of France, 'I had a daydream about you.
'I dreamt you and I were swimming nude on some white beach in the Fiji Islands-I love that place-and that you had laid down to nap and that I had the oddest desire to go down on you. And in fact I did. I licked your lovely little pussy. You don't mind my telling you this? Using frank Anglo-Saxon sex words?'
Mara shook her head. Ruth's candor made her a little dizzy.
'Good,' Ruth cried, 'because I am going to tell you a little secret about myself. I arouse myself that way. I love to talk that way to people I really want. Do you know what I mean?'
Mara nodded nervously. She was afraid to say any thing. There was a strange quality in Ruth Peter's eyes, a kind of wildness that seemed barely under control. It was as if the Dr. Jekyll she had seen in the school office had turned into a Miss Hyde. Except that Miss Hyde was infinitely more attractive sexually than the prim schoolteacher with glasses and hair done in a bun.
