Leah Lays London

What Jean heard December 19, 2010

I went out Friday night wearing a little black dress. I felt like enjoying another woman, so I visited a gay bar that a friend in the orchestra had recommended. I picked up Imogen there. She was two or three years younger and looked cute in a frilly red top and tight blue jeans. She was short, 5’1″ or 5’2″ in her flats, with a tiny chest. Tresses of blonde hair fell to the middle of her back in plaits. She worked in the technical side of theater. We couldn’t go back to her place, so despite the company sleeping on my sofa, we returned to mine.

Jean noticed us when we arrived. Through the closed door of the bedroom and the flimsy walls, this is what he heard.

Kissing: I couldn’t get enough of Imogen’s lips. They were soft to touch and delicious to taste. I traced the line of her shoulders and combed my fingers through the shiny, silky hair. Her tongue flicked at mine just inside my mouth. I caught it with my teeth and gently nipped. Pushing her flat on her back, I straddled her hips. Hands slipping under my dress, she squeezed my buttocks during the infinity of kisses which followed. I splayed my fingers on the sides of her face. I cupped her head and drank deep, thirsty draughts from those red, red lips.

Mouth covering her throat, tongue licking stripes over the blood vessels etched in relief under skin and muscle, I squeezed her small tits. Imogen had unzipped the back of my dress during the evolution of our kisses. Breaking contact just long enough to lift the dress from my shoulders, I threw it to the ground and fell on top of her clad only in a black bra and thong panties.

Undressing: Imogen sat up. At once my fingers shucked the shirt up over the tits. She hadn’t worn a bra. She didn’t need to. The nipples were tiny pebbles. I kissed each of them, sucked hard against the nubs, thick and swollen with the rush of blood. With my tongue spinning around the areolae and teeth scraping over the sensitive nerve endings, she held my head to her chest. The grip demanded a stronger touch, and I complied.

She nursed at my breasts as well. Wetting the nipples through the fabric of the bra, her lips tightened and released over one breast while her hand did the same over the other. She made deft work of the clasp in back. Deceptively powerful hands compressed and kneaded the flesh. She was a woman. She knew how rough she could be with a pair of tits. I loved that she mauled them, pinching and twisting the nipples. She bit down on me while she made eye contact. I adored the depths of those brilliant blue eyes.

When I had her top off, she leaned her back against my shoulder. I pulled the scrunchie from her head and loosened the plaits so that her hair fell free, the color of the gold the miller’s daughter had spun. The scent of flowers hit me and the softness of the memory of long summer afternoons running barefoot in the dewy grass.

Pulling away from me, Imogen broke this reverie. She stood on the mattress and peeled off her jeans. Her panties were next and mine followed.

“Stay just where you are,” I said. “Don’t move.”

I sprinted the two meters to the dresser and withdrew a slender vibrator from the toy drawer.

Fucking: Kneeling on the bed between her legs, I proceeded to feast. My hands smoothed over her thighs.

I sucked on the plastic vibrator to lubricate it and set it to purring against the pussy lips, which were also tiny. From her standing position, Imogen bent her right leg at the knee and kicked her foot off the wall. I squeezed the vibrator inside and fucked it in and out. Imogen was an uninhibited screamer. She made noises of ecstasy. I pounded her pussy with the toy and attacked the clitoris with my lips.

Her cunt had flavor. It tasted like sushi, like sangria, like fruit one day past the point of maximal ripeness. It had the salt scent of the ocean, sand castles on the beach, a sunset over water.

Squatting on my knees, I faced the far wall just as she did, and I tilted my head up. We clasped hands. Holding the rounded base of the vibrator in my mouth, I fucked her this way, using my face to stab the false cock into her cunt. Then I abandoned the toy altogether and pressed my mouth directly to her pussy.

She lifted her leg by the ankle to wing herself open for me and sloped her body against the wall. I stretched my arms up to cup and caress her tits.

My tongue slipped between the folds and became wedged there. I brought it up hard against her clit and repeated the movement. She moaned, grunted, and shrieked and pushed her weight down, smothering my face with her wet pussy. I kept licking, becoming frustrated when she wouldn’t come.

“How do you orgasm?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve never had one,” Imogen stated.

I pulled her down to the bed and kissed her to forget my sorrow.

Foreplay (continued): Imogen laid on top of me. She mouthed my breasts. Her lips pecked at the curves. She kissed my belly. The way her tongue licked at my navel presaged what followed. The tip spiraled around the edge and stretched gingerly into the depression. Taking me by surprise, she sucked hard as she grasped the tits above. I gathered her hair in my hands while her lips covered my nipples. She looked at me while she sucked. I took her into my embrace to kiss her some more. My tongue followed the patterns of her tattoos.

Rolling on the bed, we felt each other’s pussies out. I liked the sensation of being inside a new cunt. I enjoyed the warmth within, how fluid her membranes were. I delighted in how the muscles gripped me, and the squishy wet noises I made as I drove the fingers in and out.

Whereas I explored her interior, Imogen played with my cunt without penetrating. First, she used her pointy fingernails to separate the pussy lips. The heel of her hand then rubbed against my pubis. She tugged and pulled and torqued the lips beneath. The pad of a finger brushed repeatedly over the slit. The sticky wetness poured from me in a thick syrup. It covered her hand, and she brought it to her lips to smell and taste. I slipped my tongue past the bars of the fingers and had the flavor of myself from the side of her mouth.

Eventually, my legs separated. The press of hands sent her down.

Being eaten: She tongued over my newly waxed pubis. Positioning my legs vertically in the air, she stooped to conquer. Her tongue flicked at the folds. She spit over the meaty and thick labia. Using her fingers for paintbrushes, she smeared her saliva over me, mixing new colors with the wetness that had seeped from the pores and spilled from my cunt.

Imogen blew over my clit and used her nails to tease the hood down. The tip of the digit slathered the wetness over the rigid bundle of nerves. Her index finger blurred as she licked. It was exquisite, how she lapped and touched. I panted expressively. Moaning, groaning, whispering obscenities to the girl, beseeching her for more, I pushed myself in the direction of orgasm.

My hand twisted through her long hair. I wound it around my palm and seized the reins to pull her to me. She licked diligently. Five minutes passed, or possibly ten. The nerves she activated rejoiced in the contact of lips and fingers. I constricted about the two digits that probed me and squirmed at how she took the clitoris between her teeth and tapped on its roof with a dexterous tongue. I clutched the purple sheets on my bed. She forced the orgasm from my folds.

Fingering: Once I had come, I felt a profound sense of debt. I buried the sensation of pity at her inability to orgasm with the impetus to pay her back with what pleasure I could. This was the only currency I possessed, the only exchange of any value.

I positioned her on all fours and rubbed my hand over labia, perineum, and asshole. The heels of my fingers dragged over the folds. I used the wetness from my own cunt to layer moisture over her pussy. My touch rolled over her in circles. The middle finger cleaved past her lips. I dipped it inside, curling up against the G-spot, pressing at the nerves there. I spun the tip as though I wanted to leave my prints over her walls. My mouth lapped at the sensitive expanse of skin between her two openings. I nosed at the anus, biting the flesh of the buttocks to either side. I needed to excite her in every way I knew.

Two fingers squeezed into the cunt. I fucked them in and out, twisting at the wrist. With my free hand, I rubbed the outside of my pussy, just as she had done before. With a finger on either side of my clitoris, I used the friction and pressure to excite myself. Both of us were moaning, she more so than me.

Imogen peered at me from between her legs and blew me a kiss. Bringing herself upright, she rocked on her hands and knees and pushed back at me while I fucked her. She groaned and hissed. Her pussy made wet suction noises.

My hand moved harder. I kept a constant tempo but penetrated deeper inside her cunt. I spanked her buttocks and kissed the red imprint my palm had left on her skin. Teeth sunk into the flesh of the ass. I caught the foot Imogen curled at me and bent to swipe my tongue over the sole. Working my way up the back of her leg, I determined to eat her again.

Eating: I started from behind, insinuating my face into the gap of her thighs. Lips covered the slit and kissed. I also lapped Imogen’s asshole — over, around, and through the taut ring of muscle — while my thumb worked the gate of the vagina.

Imogen fell over on her side and lifted one leg up in the air. A trimmed thatch of dark hair covered the pubis. The patch provided a soft cushion for my nose. It had as well absorbed her smells. I took deep sniffs of her musky scent.

She held the sides of my head while I tongued and smooched at the opening. With lips clamped upon her labia, I twisted my face. My tongue fluttered against the entrance. I rolled it into a cylinder and poked it within. I fastened my mouth to Imogen’s pussy and jawed at her with the lower mandible. My head turned to keep the points of contact in movement as I sucked the juices from her cunt. Lifting a hand to reach for a tit, I flattened her chest.

The sounds of her gasps filled the room. Her hand brushed through my hair. She gripped the scalp to keep my face permanently affixed to her cunt. She needn’t have bothered. I was not going anywhere. It simply wasn’t an option. I loved her taste. I loved having my face buried at the joining of her legs. The fifteen minutes I spent devouring her this way, even if the cunt stubbornly refused to come, was the climax of my evening.

69: Imogen had me sit on her face. Her arms wrapped my thighs. The hands held the buttocks. I rubbed my pussy over the bony chin and shifted it backward to her mouth. I smothered her in my heat.

Tipping myself over, I lowered between her legs. My head hung down. I used my fingers to pull at the two sides of her cunt and make the skin taut. My tongue licked at the folds. Little globules of spit trailed down the sides of her slit. It was a mental struggle to concentrate on licking pussy because the pleasure she provided to me was so overwhelming. The tension in my loins left me without speech. The musculature corded up in my back and in my thighs. I shook my feet to keep them from cramping and drifted forward and backward on elbows and knees like a rocking horse. I fucked her face.

The vise-like grip she had on my thighs tightened. Somehow, Imogen managed not to suffocate under the weight on top of her head. Her tonguetip dashed against my clit. Lifting my chest up from her belly, I spun my hips over her head. I used three fingers to fuck her pussy while her tongue threaded the lips of my cunt. I liked how sticky she was inside. The thickness of the waters that layered the walls of the vagina lubricated the rapid movements.

Both of us gasped incoherently. Imogen’s moans were muffled by pussy.

Whisky: After my multiple orgasms, which I felt guilty about because she had none of her own, we sat on the bed and kissed. Our fingers worked each other’s pussies, and we brought them to our lover’s lips to taste. Departing the bed just long enough to grab the nearly empty bottle of Dalwhinnie from the shelf, I took a swig and passed it over to her. The touch of whisky contrasted on the palate with the richer flavors of cunt.

I tipped the bottle to the side and poured whisky on her breasts. The alcohol was cool on the skin; it made her giggle. The flow of liquid left a path along her sternum and down the abdomen. I splashed drops over her nipples and also her pussy. My tongue followed the stream from source to delta. The admixture of whisky and sweat and pussy juice tasted like the ambrosial nectar of the gods.

Imogen tilted the dregs of the bottle over my mouth. She licked the Dalwhinnie where it had fallen, around my lips and down my throat. I had it from her tongue, the breath of a dragon.

We rubbed each other’s cunts and kissed endlessly.

Tribbing: The kisses ended with Imogen flat on the bed, except for her legs, which peaked as mountains. I sat between them, as though on a saddle, and scissored one of my legs to either side of one of hers. Lips kissing, the pussies pressed together. I rolled my hips and danced my cunt above while my fingers seized her nipples and pulled. Imogen raised her lower body from the mattress to drive her pubis against mine. We continued like this until I came. The juices flooded from my vagina into hers.

Afterwards, we laid on the bed, one of our heads at either end. I had a foot on top of her left breast and hugged her right calf to my cleavage. Each of us extended the free leg fully, stretching along the flank of the other’s body. With this geometry, we rubbed pussies, rutting at each other through the moans, desperate to touch everywhere, to improve the contact, the drag, the thrust, the movement, and the pressure, to feel it just a bit differently, from a slightly better angle.

After one more orgasm, I laid kisses on her shin while I recovered.

We sat up and kissed and toppled over again and kissed some more. The last I remember of the night is huddling my body next to hers under the quilt. Her arms reached around me and grasped my breasts.

I was woken in the morning by languorous kisses. She nursed at my nipples and reached a hand between my legs. We rutted, one on top of the other for a final time.

I have Imogen’s number. I gave her mine. I hope to look her up when I return to London in January.