New Smut: Part 1 (a pussy story)

The window displayed every kind of delicacy, but all he could see were vaginas. He saw them wherever he went. He saw them in the obvious places - the tight swirl of young rose petals - but also in the sheen of some women's shoes, the frothy cream atop children's hot drinks, and, when he narrowed his eyes, he could see turgid clitorises in the craggy mountain tops of his town.

His sense of smell was maddeningly sensitive. Though as a young man he refused to believe his nose - which told him that this woman had just orgasmed or that woman had just been ejaculated into - now, at 50 years old, he knew that he could pick out phases of ovulation the way that perfumiers could tell gardenia from frangipane.

He loved nothing more than to have his face engulfed, up to the nose, between a woman's thighs. When he hired a woman, he loved to do this very thing. When she arrived, he'd begin with soft-spoken questions. What did her vagina look like? Was it a shell, a filled coin purse, a tiny fringed mouth? What did her vagina feel like? How old was she when she first grew hair on her vagina? Had she masturbated as a child? Did she languish for long hours on her bed putting 1 and then 2 and then 3 fingers into her vagina? Or was she a flurried, fast clitoris rubber? And he would repeat words like vagina, clitoris, masturbation with a crescendoing relish. Each word acted as the click of a projector, bringing to mind a new image that accompanied the word. And he preferred the precise, medical terms for there was a word for every part of a woman in medicine.

He preferred one above others. She was a giggling, chubby girl, and though he knew what her vagina looked like - indeed, he knew the exact taste and texture of her cervix - he loved the way that her dimple would appear as she slumped down in her chair, pulled up her skirt, opened her legs, and asked, "What does it look like to you?" His pulse would rise slowly; blood would begin to pump so loudly he could hear it in the silences between words.

He'd ask her to stand up and he'd make his way onto the floor. On all fours, he would crawl to her feet and then lie on his back and ask her to open her legs. She would and once she'd taken a step forward he would see her hose, her garters scrunched just above the knee, and the soft skin. Then, he would begin to stare at the shell or purse or mouth.

Hers was an overstuffed purse, chubby as her naughtily angelic face. Though she was sun-kissed, her thighs were pale. And the sparse, dark hairs on her inner thighs stood out like small, shiny wires. He continued his gaze up to her mons, the plumpest part. And he traced a line in his mind's eye along the border of hair that separated her soft stomach from her most private and delectable parts. He breathed in deeply. Below her skirt, he was as in another world. A world that smelled like her, and her alone. Almost unbeknownst to him, he had grabbed hold of her ankles in a fit of desperate arousal. He asked her to spread her legs further. And as she did, he felt himself stiffen uncomfortably, her pink insides exposed just barely. The sight of the color filled his mouth with saliva. It ignited his sense of smell. His eyes dilated with lust as he fought to focus them on her.