Lips clung in soft suction. The tip of her tongue grazed my inflamed clit, sending me into an arch again, pitching and tossing so frantically this time that her head was dislodged. But she was back an instant later, and I managed to maintain a semblance of decorum even in the face of my onrushing orgasm. Oh sure, I wailed a little and spewed out a few elegantly dirty words, but no cuntlapper was ever made more welcome. I just loved that tongue of hers, the way it hit the high spots with a kind of practiced ease, an expertise recognizable even to an amateur like me. And after a while I sank into a semi-swoon and just let the erotic bliss billow over my body, deliciously unbearable…
That night was like a revelation. To both of us, as it turned out – and our embrace was repeated often during the ensuing weeks. Despite a certain allegiance to the boss-lady, Fleur was ingenious at finding the time and the place. She seemed to get a peculiar kick out of being furtive about it, sneaking me off to the side for a feverishly quick session almost on impulse. It wasn't so very difficult really, since she was familiar with every nook and cranny of the house and surrounding grounds. As she soon became familiar with every nook and cranny of me. Even when there were guests around, she seldom failed to think of a likely spot where we might indulge in our little pastime.
Now and then it was impossible to go all the way. But her fingers were nearly as clever as her mouth, and even with other people close by she could bring me to a peak. Sometimes such daring actually heightened the sensation. It did for her, I was sure, and she took advantage of every opportunity. Once, in the haze of twilight, she backed me against a tree – just outside the screened porch where Amanda was entertaining; what a lark! – and I had to bite my lips to keep from betraying our presence. That small but slyly prodigious hand of hers had a magic touch.
But it was her tongue that I craved most, not her fingers, and we were both happiest in those moments of utmost intimacy when she could crouch and nuzzle into my cunt. Oh, there was no end to her ingenuity! And no end to my willingness to go along with her schemes, even the most rash and impulsive ones. Especially since they always led to satisfaction for me. That was important. Regardless of the circumstances, the pattern of our lovemaking didn't vary much. Fleur thirsted for my flesh and I gave it to her. And although I was aware that her body must have yearned for a reciprocal caress, she made no such demands on me. I liked that. It helped balance the other thing, my humility, the almost servile submissiveness that I manifested toward Amanda when my Eloi mood took over. I could even feel something akin to a Morlock frame of mind now; after all, it was pretty exhilarating to be the object of such zealous attention. And from such a beautiful little creature, too – what a thrill! – there were times when I actually felt loved…
Well, perhaps that was an exaggeration. But certainly there was more than just friendliness in this intense and apparently inviolate relationship. The secrecy, the subterfuge, the clandestine nature of our liaison made it more than mere dalliance. Between us an invisible current had sprung up, a current charged with sex; we could sense it in a wink, a gesture, a signal across a crowded room, even an all but innocent glance. No matter how innocent on the surface though, it was always an illicit kind of sex, dark and mysterious and rife with unknown possibilities.
Sex, then, not love. Fleur was a sophisticated lesbian sexpot, making me feel wanted but also wanton – so shamelessly wanton, what fun! – and that was inducement enough to sanction her advances under any label. To accept her, to welcome her with open arms. Or spread legs. Or whatever. And why not? Wasn't it in the cards for us, a cute little cunt and a cute little cuntlapper? Besides, the sheer physical sensation was breathtaking. Even when she had my bare ass backed up against a tree! And in the aftermath of each explosive episode came a soothing contentment that made life among the idle rich even more luxurious. Truly, I had fallen into the lap of luxury – not bad for a runaway roadside waif who had reached the peninsula like an illegal alien, smuggled in under a cunty skirt.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Maybe it happened because she was so good to me. Fleur. Tipping me off about the old biddies, for instance, telling me which ones to avoid. Not that I cared to get chummy with any of them, not even the younger set – admittedly some interesting types, still able to wear a bikini without looking ludicrous. Oh no, I had enough to keep me busy right here in the house, enough to satisfy my sex urges. For that matter, my one girlfriend would have been plenty, my little lover with the green eyes and short dark hair. And the pretty lips, the ever-moist mouth, red as a ripening pomegranate…
Damn! I hadn't figured on anything like this. How could I let myself get serious about someone like Fleur Halevy? Well, not serious exactly, but still an emotional problem to be reckoned with. And not even a problem really, except that it kept growing bigger, this feeling I had for her. The glow of her electric personality made my day brighter. I looked forward to seeing her, counting the hours from one rendezvous to the next. And when she wasn't around I began to experience a kind of emptiness, all hollow inside. No, nothing serious, just a grist for a psychoanalyst's mill. A shrink with a nice soft couch, preferably.
Oh shit, it wasn't all that bad. Just puzzling. Even my near-worshipful regard for Amanda had faded somewhat, shunted aside at least temporarily. I felt attracted only to Fleur. And having already discounted love as a possibility, I didn't even know what to call it. A schoolgirl crush, perhaps? Surely I had outgrown such adolescent nonsense. And anyway, despite an obvious difference in worldly experience, the gap between our ages wasn't wide enough to simulate the pupil-teacher relationship.
Gap or not, though, such a relationship did come about, quite apart from any possible romantic attachment. Quite apart from our own doing, in fact – a painfully touchy innovation, considering how close we were. It was thrust upon us. Just like that, out of the blue, a suggestion from the boss-lady: with time on our hands, why not broaden my education? Good lovers are made, not born; wouldn't I like to take a few lessons from an expert? Not that I was a dumb bunny in bed, mind you, but with a little training, well…
In view of the source, any such suggestion was heard as a request and remembered as a command. I found it pretty humiliating, almost an insult – a stain on my escutcheon! – having seen myself as a natural born lesbian with an innate talent for lesbian love. Luckily the shock went to my stomach instead of my head, and I tasted bile but managed to keep my trap shut, swallowing my pride along with everything else. Which was a smart move, using a little discretion and preserving a lot of dignity – and saving further embarrassment, no doubt – or so I found out later from my teacher. And what a shock that was! Had I been wrong all this time? Was performance in bed really dependent on technique rather than talent? How would a good violinist, say, react to such a statement?
"Who cares? Fuck the violin! Now, if you want to learn how to fiddle around with a cunt…" Fleur was obviously amused by the analogy; then, a bit wistful, "Forget it, honey. The whole deal, I mean – you didn't come here to go to school. Just fake it next time, she won't know the difference."
"No. Wait. It's not for Amanda, it's for me. I'd really like to learn. Won't you help me?"
"Well, sure. Since you put it that way. Okay, let's have a crack at it. What do you want to know?"
"Everything. But that's up to you, isn't it? You're the teacher, you're the one to decide what comes first."