She was lying on her side, facing me, propped up on one arm holding her glass in her other hand. She carefully set it down. Then she drew her legs up and wrapped her arms around her knees and turned to look out over the water. It was a classic defensive posture.She started in. It was like she was reciting a story, “Charlie and I grew up together in Wavell Heights. It’s a suburb of Brisbane proper. We went all the way from infant school to college as a couple. It was just understood that we would marry.” I was familiar enough with the Australian education system to know that what they call “college” are the junior and senior years of high school. So they were high school sweethearts. She grimaced and said, “Except Charlie was into Rugby not academics. So while I went on to university and got my Doctorate he joined the RAN.”A distinct shadow came over her face. She said, “We were apart a lot after that but I didn’t care. I loved him.”Then she paused, and looked at me. The pain was. And as I gained confidence with her, I would study and savour her opening for longer and longer each time we did it - touching it, measuring it, licking it, pushing her thickening inner lips apart with my nose, using the bridge of my nose to get her clitoris swollen.It was wonderful to savour the changing smell of her pussy. From the slightly salty taste of sweat and pussy juice mixed together as her knickers were first removed, to that milder smell and taste as her fresh juices started to flow in expectation of a cock entering her. And then back again once we'd been fucking for several minutes, and I would go down on her again to lick at her to prepare her for her first orgasm. Her secretions now thicker - like whipped cream.I was slowly learning, thanks to Sally, how to get that wet patch on the sheets to the size of a dinner plate. The kind of wet patch I'd always envied. The kind I'd seen in Sally's bed during the Christmas vacation, and the kind I'd seen as a student when.
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