100 Women Volume One Page 3

  I started with just my thumb. With my index and middle fingers inserted deep in her hole, my thumb was positioned right over her urethra. I rubbed the thumb back and forth against that little pisser and then up to the base of her clit, where each touch induced a quiver and an excited moan. I kept that up until I felt her just beginning to rock in rhythm again. This is where I urged her on to the next plateau.

  "I'd really like to suck your nipples," I said.

  "I want you to suck them, Troy," was her throaty reply. Without waiting for me to ask formal permission, she stripped off her shirt, tossing it haphazardly in whatever direction it flew, and pulled down her bra to reveal a nice pair of breasts, pert, firm, and sporting two already hard nipples.

  I leaned over, pressed my mouth to the nearest nipple, and began to suck. Immediately, I noticed an increased flow of lubricant in her slit, and I worked that lubricant around the entirety of her pussy. With her bra still attached and right below her boob, my chin ended up resting on what I guessed to be an under wire. I tried to tug it away with my free hand, but it kept riding up into my chin. A few seconds later the bra slid away, removed completely by the hard-breathing Annie. She tossed the bra aside as though it were a nasty brute that had angered her with its undisciplined behavior about my chin. When it sailed from her fingers, she was free of it. Free of her bra. Free of her panties. Free of every stitch of clothing she had come in with. Free of all the inhibitions that she wore with them. Our little Annie. The one who was so timid. So conservative. The girl who asked if she'd have to take her clothes off. Now look at her. She's stark naked. Spread eagle. Letting her tits hang loose and showing off her horny, wide open cunt while she helps me suck her big ol' boobie and finger her wet snatch.

  I switched my mouth to her other tit and started sucking furiously on it. I felt her hand cradle my head and hold it firmly as an inducement to keep sucking. Then she reached up with her other hand and grabbed onto the boob I had just finished with. She clutched her breast hard as I heard the rhythmic, guttural grunts begin anew. Annie came hard again. Maybe even harder than the first time.

  "Oh, god!" she moaned, as she squeezed her boob and repeated her flopping-fish routine.

  I disengaged my mouth from her nipple. Then I took my hand away from her vagina and leaned back to survey the situation.

  Annie looked like the picture of contentment. Naked, post-orgasmic contentment—which is the best kind, I think. Except for the heaving of her chest, she was absolutely still. Her energy was spent. And I'd guess, based on her smile, she'd have to agree she couldn't have spent it on anything more worthwhile.

  As I watched her breasts bob up and down with her panting, I thought about how different she was from the fantasies I had previously concocted about her. Annie wasn't a whacko. She was just a girl with a sexual appetite and the normal desire to feel sexual pleasure. She was obviously no virgin; but probably not a sex machine, either. Maybe she had sex only occasionally. Perhaps not as often as she'd like. Perhaps not as kinky in reality as she, herself, dared fantasize when no one else was around. What's more, if she's like a lot of women, she may have carried with her all the usual guilt that sometimes stigmatizes a woman who enjoys an orgasm that isn't necessarily produced by a penis. Polite society typically thinks a penis is the only way to go. Even her own fingers are somewhat taboo. But here, in a somewhat clinical environment, the rules changed. Once she entered the apartment, she could shed all the responsibility and just follow the doctor's—or, in this case, my—orders. The orgasms weren't any of her doing. She was just participating in a study. If she enjoyed it...well, that's just something that was beyond her control. She was just there to advance science.

  It was still early, and Annie was welcome to stay and go another round or two, or more, if she was up to it. I had no other appointments. There were still other masturbation techniques I was anxious to try. She was there. And, well, after all, she was already naked. That was at least half the battle.

  However, the promise that came with the project was that the volunteer subjects would always be in control. Annie would say what would happen next. Only she could decide, and I would abide by her decision. Would she get dressed and leave? Or would she spread her legs again and yell, "Everyone into the pool"?

  I sat quietly and waited for her to catch her breath. She could tell me exactly what she wanted.

  "Well?" I asked, when I thought she seemed reasonably recovered.

  Annie looked at me, took a deep breath, fanned her face with three quick waves of both hands, and said, "Could I have another juice before we go again?"

  2. Belinda

  Everything Annie was, Belinda was the opposite—at least, from a personality standpoint.

  Belinda was early to her appointment. But arrival times can be as much about traffic or mass transportation glitches as anything pertaining to a character trait. So that wasn't my first clue about Belinda. No, the first real clue was at the bottom of her survey sheet where, under the "other" option, she put a big checkmark in the like box and wrote the words: "To be naked."

  Here, as with Annie's question about whether she'd have to take her clothes off, I'd have thought the necessity of disrobing for this exercise would pretty much go without saying. However, what I didn't realize when I initially scanned her survey answers was that, for Belinda, being naked wasn't just about stripping off her clothing. If all she wanted was to be fully undressed while masturbating, she could do that at home without involving me. For the kind of being naked she desired, at least one other person being present was essential.

  "Do I get undressed now?" she asked as soon as she handed me her survey sheet.

  "Anytime you're ready," I responded, trying to maintain a professional manner in my tone while also being careful not to sound too blasé. (Hey, no woman wants to feel like her nude body has absolutely no effect on a man. Am I right, ladies?) Truth be told, I was anxious to see this girl get out of her clothes. Her body had the kind of shape that can make a man's hands start to twitch. Ample bosom. Shapely hips. Not chunky around the middle, either. I wanted to feel those curves.

  Belinda needed no further encouragement. When I looked up from my brief perusal of her survey answers, she had already undone every button on her blouse and had it whipped off her torso. She flicked it onto the back of one of the dining room chairs.

  "Are you doing this?" she continued, as she undid her bra and ripped it off her breasts in a single, quick motion. "Or will it be someone else?"

  "I'll be doing it."

  I remember wondering at that moment just what she would have done had I said I wasn't the one who would be masturbating her. I mean, here she was, already topless and in the process of sliding her miniskirt down her thighs before she even knew if I was supposed to be in the room for the main event. It would sort of be like spreading your legs for a pap smear only to find out that the person to whom you're flashing the beaver isn't your doctor but, rather, the guy who fixes the copy machine.

  "Anyone else coming?" she further inquired.

  "No. Just you and me."

  "Okay." Belinda took it all in stride. Without the slightest hesitation, she hooked her thumbs inside the waistband of her panties and, with a definitive tug, pulled them down to her ankles. Then, straightening herself upright, she stepped one foot out of the panties and, with the other foot, kicked the flimsy undergarment up into the air. She meant to kick it up to her hand, but her aim was bad. Her lunge for the panties was futile—except that it caused her boobs to bounce like a couple of bobble heads, which, at the very least, was something I could appreciate for its aesthetic as well as prurient qualities—and the panties dropped to the floor. She pounced on them swiftly, lifted them with both hands, and, stretching the elastic like a slingshot, fired them in the direction of the chair that held all of the rest of her clothing. The panties landed atop her skirt, which was folded over the back of the chair, and they clung there like a rock climber on a sheer cliff. Belinda had jettisoned every s
titch in what I would later come to appreciate as record time.

  She now turned to face me directly in all her nude splendor. Her nipples stood at attention. Her pussy was hairless around the lips with a neat triangle of curly hair above the slit. The way she was standing, I could almost swear she was angling her hips so as to give me a better view of her crotch. My focus was drawn to the delicate lips that peeked out from below her fair pubes.

  She must have noticed my gaze. She cupped a hand over her crotch, making no attempt to conceal anything else.

  "You're staring at my pussy. Aren't you?" she whispered.

  I diverted my gaze upward. Belinda moved her other hand up so that her palm cupped the front of one breast while her forearm loosely covered the other.

  "Now you're looking at my tits," she said, turning her head away as though she were overcome with a sudden bout of modesty.

  "You have a beautiful body," was all I could come up with on the spur of the moment.

  "You're one of those men who likes to look at naked girls."

  Is there any other type of man?—assuming the man is heterosexual, that is.

  She stood there, motionless, with only her strategically placed hands to cover up the extra special goodies, her head cocked to the side as though she couldn't bear to look me in the eye under such circumstances. The scene was a mixture of embarrassment and exhibitionism. She was the perfect picture of both modesty and immodesty all at once.

  "Would you rather I didn't look?" I asked, uncertainly.

  "I can't cover up everything," she purred. "Women have too much to cover. And my bare ass is hanging out for you to see. All you'd have to do is walk around me, and I couldn't stop you from seeing."

  Unless I had hallucinated, the entire stripping sequence, a mere minute ago, I had already seen everything she had to show. But I sensed she wanted me to play along. So I took the few steps it required for me to get a direct view of her bare backside.

  "Yep," I said. "There's your bare ass on display."

  "You're looking at my bare ass," she reiterated, I presume, mostly for the purpose of giving herself the extra thrill of saying it out loud while it was happening.

  "Some people have a rule," I said, "that you're allowed to touch anything that's not covered up."

  "I couldn't stop you from touching my ass."

  "Would you like me to?"

  "I couldn't stop you," was her breathy, non-assertive reply.

  I took that as a "yes" and placed my hand gently on first one nude cheek then the other. Then I let my fingers massage both cheeks. Belinda stood her ground.

  "I'll bet you're one of those men who likes to look at pussy," she challenged, turning her head to look me directly in the eye, all the while keeping her hand cupped over the orifice in question. Her tone and facial expression conveyed an underlying playfulness in all this. She was neither disturbed nor angry. She held the object of male desire, and she teased me with it for her own titillation. "You're hoping I'll show it to you. Aren't you?"

  "I can't force you," I said, moving around to her front and angling my head so that she would know unmistakably that I was staring directly at the hand on her crotch.

  Belinda breathed deeply. It was all too apparent this is what she wanted. This is what turned her on. She was an exhibitionist who wanted to excite a man with her body. To lure his penetrating stare and know that she could make him hard just by allowing him a peek.

  "What if I show you my tits, instead? Would you leave my poor, little pussy alone if I let you see my tits?"

  "Show me your tits, and I'll let you know."

  "Here," she said, moving her hand down and cupping a breast from the underside as if she were serving it up to me. "You can look at my tits. You can even touch them, if you have to. Just leave my pussy alone."

  She lifted the breast in her hand in the fashion of making an offering. The nipple protruded like a large caliber bullet. I placed a finger on the tip of that nipple. I heard Belinda inhale sharply. Her arm slid down to her side now where she began stroking her thigh. Her breasts were now on their own. I cupped them both in my hands and fondled them playfully, as if sizing them up for juggling purposes. Belinda looked down at her chest. She seemed to genuinely enjoy watching me manhandle her tits.

  Her other hand was still on her crotch. But now that hand was no longer stationary.

  "You're playing with yourself," I whispered in her ear.

  "I can't help it," she whispered back.

  "What's worse? To let a man see your pussy? Or to let a man see you playing with your pussy?"

  "Don't watch," she said, without breaking her hand's rhythm.

  Ordinarily, standing by my own rules, I'd have immediately backed off the moment a woman said, "don't." However, simultaneously, while Belinda spoke the forbidding word, she reached out with her free hand and hooked it round by neck. With a firm grip, she pulled my head down toward the level of her crotch. Despite her words, she was deliberately positioning me for the best possible view of her snatch. "Don't" was just part of her game. It wasn't meant to be taken literally.

  "I'm watching you play with yourself," I said, sliding down to my knees in order to get a comfortable view of the show.

  "Don't watch," she repeated, tilting her crotch toward my face and increasing the stroking action of her hand. "Don't watch. Don't watch." She began to bounce her whole body up and down on the balls of her feet, causing her tits hanging above me to jiggle almost violently.

  "Oh, you're waaaaaaatchiiiiiiiiiiiing!" she quivered in waves of involuntary ecstasy. Standing there, Belinda had made herself come right in front of my face.

  "Now show me that pretty, little pussy," I coaxed. "Spread those lips and show me your pussy, inside and out."

  Still tingling with the afterglow of her orgasm, Belinda obediently reached in with both hands and spread her now fully engorged, fully lubricated pussy lips wide open. It's amazing how thick those lips can get when a girl's really turned on. Two times, three times as large as they were before she got horny. When they're like that, pussy lips make excellent playthings. Soft, springy, and moldable like Play-Doh.

  "May I touch it?" I asked.

  "I couldn't stop you."

  I delighted in the feeling of those soggy lips slipping between my fingers and slopping juicily into the palm of my hand. There is just nothing in this world that's a greater thrill to me than to be holding a girl by the swelling, pliable, softness of her womanhood.

  "Such a nice pussy to play with," I murmured.

  She sighed contentedly. Her moist, pink hole beckoned to me, and I delicately slid my index and middle fingers into the parted gap. Without removing my fingers from her hole, I stood up and began a more vigorous massage of her cunt. After a few strokes, she took hold of my arm and began to guide it in a circular motion both around her clit as well as in and out of her hole. Her face contorted. She leaned her head forward, parking her forehead square against my chest as her breathing grew more pronounced.

  "You're going to make me come in your hand," she hyperventilated. "You're going to make me come right in your hand."

  Belinda was true to her word. A few seconds later she was again coming, only this time from the touch of my fingers fondling her meaty twat.

  Following the second orgasm, Belinda announced she needed to sit down. Her legs had become wobbly. She was sweating, and she fanned her face briskly with both hands. I helped her to the couch and held her shoulders as I directed her to the seat. She leaned back and started to fan her chest. Her energy, at least for the moment, was spent.

  "Can I have a glass of water?" she asked.

  "Sure."

  I trotted off to the kitchen where I took out a clean glass from a cabinet and a container of bottled spring water from the refrigerator. I poured the bottle into the glass, called out to inquire whether Belinda wanted ice (she didn't), and headed back to the living room. What I saw when I returned was Belinda, still seated in the same place on the couch, but wit
h one foot planted on the cushion in order to raise that leg and more completely expose her crotch as she now fanned her pussy with both hands.

  "It gets hot down there," she smirked.

  "I'll bet it does."

  "You've got no idea."

  She kept fanning with one hand and used the index and middle fingers of the other to spread open her pussy lips, thereby giving the inner reaches of her labia a more thorough airing.

  "I thought the place would smell more like pussy," she mused as she continued to air out her genitalia. "I mean, considering what you do here. My gynecologist's office always smells like pussy. Well, whaddaya expect, right?"

  Belinda snickered at her own joke.

  The fact is, this was still pretty early in the course of this experiment I'd set up, and, although the responses to the ad were just beginning to pick up, there hadn't been all that much pussy in the apartment as yet. Belinda was one of the early ones. But her comment gave me cause to stop and think. What if the place starts to smell like one big pussy? Is that a turn-off for women—I mean the smell of another woman's sex wafting through the air? Would that send some of them running? Or would it be a kind of turn-on for those who, like Belinda, were looking for a naughty experience and wanted to be someplace that reeked of naughtiness. There's a question I wasn't prepared to answer, and, frankly, I wasn't sure I wanted to risk putting it to any kind of test.

  I was contemplating whether the stores sell aerosols designed specifically to cover up the smell of wet pussy, and just what stores might stock such a product, and how one would go about asking for it, when Belinda chirped, "Ready to go again?"

  She was up on her feet, turned sideways, and had her arms crossed over her breasts.

  "You can sit if you like," I offered.

  "I'd rather stand."

  "Okay. Want me to come over there?"

  "Why?" she said almost with a little girl's voice, doubling up as though she had been accidentally walked in on while she was taking a shower. "So you can take advantage of me in my state of undress? I can see you're no gentlemen…staring at my naked body."