100 Women Volume One (4 page)

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?"

"
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 stitch 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 with 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
."

We were back to the play
acting. This was Belinda's way of getting herself off—with a little
help from me. Nude humiliation excited her. That's probably why she
preferred to be standing rather than sitting while she was
masturbated.
Standing
has more of the feel of having been caught in an unplanned
situation than does the feel of reclining or sitting at ease, the
more usual positions when one is engaged in consensual sex. Really,
how often do people have sex standing up? And, even if it starts
that way, chances are the sex partners are headed for a place to
lie down soon enough. That's typical.

Belinda wanted her
masturbation to be anything but
typical
. She wanted it to be
embarrassing
.
Humiliating
.
Taboo sex with a man with whom she wouldn't
willingly lie down and have natural sex
.
If I hadn't been there, I suspect she would have acted out these
scenes of pretend embarrassment with an imaginary peeper or
attacker. And it's likely she did that fairly regularly on her
own—beating herself off while pretending those fingers belonged to
a man who burst in on her, grabbed her right where he found her,
and went to town on her snatch without the slightest concern about
her comfort. We tend to repeat favorite fantasies over and over.
They're favorites for a reason, and they're likely to cause us to
come extra hard when we beat off to them. So you can't blame a girl
for doing what works for her. I assume doing it with an actual
leering participant made it even more exciting for Belinda. So, if
she was going to get the full satisfaction of this fantasy, she
needed to have someone who could take on the job of playing the
naughty man who unabashedly ogles and handles the poor, nude girl
left vulnerable, embarrassed, and trembling.

"Oh, my god! You're
looking at me!" chortled the girl as her own fingers fondled her
swelling left boob.

Well, as the saying
goes…it's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it. "Show me that
pussy," I said in a deep, masculine voice.

Belinda bent her knees,
parted her thighs, and thrust her crotch toward me.

"I can't stop you," she
groaned with pleasure.

No matter how many times
we did it—and I did lose count at some point she never tried to
stop me. Why would she? She was having too much fun.

Coming Soon