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Sheila Discusses Her Pussy
© 2002 by Jill



There's a whole lot to be considered about what to call the most female part of a woman's body; and that is, clinically speaking, the vagina.  I am not really crazy about that word, although my gynecologist-doctor-lover, Colin, has to use it all the time in his daily work.  The first time I went to him, I could tell it was not really the word he was favorable toward, either.  So, it must be very difficult for him to use such a professional-sounding term.  When a woman has her legs all spread open and he has to tell her to scoot down a little bit (which was always the part that I hated, because when you're laying there with a damned cold sheet covering all but your private parts and a 300-watt lamp shining on it, and he wants it open even wider, it just seems demeaning and not the least bit sexual) it can't be very comfortable for either party, in my opinion.  But he has to call it something.  I would guess that a lot of women don't like to have their pussies called a vagina any more than I do, because it just depersonalizes the whole thing.  I asked him one time if he'd ever slipped up and called it something else.  But he said he never has, and I believe him.  It is, after all, just a body part to most doctors when they're in the office.  And in his office, Colin has to be professional, and he ain't nothin' if he ain't professional.

I have had the privilege of having quite a few lovers in my time, and I have never had one call my sweet thing a "vagina." I mean, can you imagine? Well, I take that back.  I slept with a college boy one time who I know was a virgin and I guess he was a little bit intimidated about being with a woman of the world who had been with men before.  But he was 21, swear to God he was, because he was a fifth-year senior.  And he was a cute boy, but a little bit on the shy side, and we met at a party his class was having at a club here in Montgomeryville.  He said the word "vagina" and I wanted to laugh but I don't think that would have been real kind to him.  So I asked him if he wanted my pussy, and I swear his heart rate went up about twenty percent.  It's amazing what the right kind of talk will do to a man, any man, and by the time I got through with him, not only would he never say "vagina" again, he knew a good pussy intimately and I imagine he would never have any doubt about exactly how to treat one.

I read a lot of very explicit (a word my hairstylist friend Maureen uses a lot because she is very well-read for someone her age, and really is trying to add some sophistication to her life) reading material, and I have seen some words that truly do not gel when one is talking about sex.  Okay, about fucking. (I admit that what I read may sometimes be a little past the romance novel type of literature.) I have seen the word "slit" used sometimes, and that to me is a real turn-off.  I think of a slit as something kind of contrived and manufactured, if you know what I mean.  It's just a hole in something, as far as I am concerned.  If a man said to me, "Sheila, I just love your slit," I can't feel in my body that instant wetness and turned-on feeling that I get when he uses other words.  It just is not a hot word.  And maybe it's because that "sl" on the front of it is not a soft sound.  It sort of slithers out, don't it?

One man called it my "box." Well, to me a box is more like a shape, something you pack things in, mail things in, and it's usually square and hard and probably cardboard, and I can't see a man in this world wanting to stick his cock in a box.  Needless to say, that man and I did not gel, either.  When he said he liked my box, I was real tempted to tell him I thought his mailing tube was way too small.

There are other words like "twat," which is full of hard sounds and has no relation to any other word that I know of; and "snatch," which to me means to grab something away from someone.  That, to me, does not sound especially comforting or sexy, and more than a little bit rude.

I must admit that I do not object to the word "cunt." I have to say, it's a little more nasty and risqué than box or slit, and that "c" on the front end is, after all, a softer letter, even if it does clunk a little bit when you say it.  I don't mind at all when my big-dicked lover Justin says he loves my cunt, because he is kind of a naughty guy, anyway.  And Justin does like the dirty talk.  When he's rocking me back and forth on that thick nine inches, I don't care what he calls it, and when he says fucking my cunt is like going to heaven and being brought back a hundred times, I can deal with it.  At that point he could call it chicken soup and make me come.  Justin is a master of sexy conversation, and I can't count to you the times he has called me and told me all the things he would love to do to my hot, wet, sweet cunt.  No, I can't really argue with that one.  Even if that "nt" on the end is a little on the harsh side.

But my favorite word for my favorite part of my own body is "pussy." It's soft on the front end and soft on the back end, which, to my mind, is just what a pussy should be.  Soft, soft, soft.  Pussy, pussy, pussy.  Just kind of settles on your tongue, don't it? Which is exactly the right place for a pussy.

I don't know where the term really came from as regards the nice little spot between my legs.  But I always think of that plant, the pussy willow.  Just look at a picture of it sometime.  It's soft and fuzzy and you can imagine it tickling your nose or your lips in a pleasant little way.  Soft and pink.  Maybe that's why the pussy willow got called a pussy - or vice versa.  I can't say that I know, though if I asked Maureen, I imagine she would find a way to look it up.  And I don't know what a pussy willow smells like or if it has any scent at all, but whatever it is should be soft and enjoyable.

I guess you could also consider a pussy cat.  I know most men can't stand the sight of a cat, but they are also very soft and they like to rub up against you.  They don't like to be treated rough, but if you treat one just right, it purrs and stretches up to meet you.  I mean, think about it.  You stroke one the right way, and it can't help but roll over and purr and show its warm, soft side to you.  Stroke one the wrong way and you are gonna get claws all over you, and possibly be bitten and slapped in a most unpleasant way.

And when you think about it, a pussy is a most amazing thing.  Look at the way it responds when you treat it right.  It gets all hot and slippery and juicy and wet.  Exactly what you would want.  And when Colin whispers in my ear that my pussy is perfect, I know exactly what he's talking about.  Not only that, it responds by purring and arching up to meet him.  Like it's got a mind of its own.  Know what I mean?

So one afternoon when his little high-maintenance wife was at her Arizona health spa soaking up the mineral baths and sipping Perrier out of a crystal goblet, Colin took the afternoon off early (when you're a gynecologist in Montgomeryville you can do that, because there are still women who go to their general practitioner unless they have a real vagina problem) and came over to my place.  He is always real careful to be nonchalant (which is a word that I learned from my friend Maureen, who doesn't like crude words concerning the female body) about it, and since I live way out in the country, he doesn't worry about it much, anyway.

Colin had called me that day because he knew I was off work from the shop at noon, and it was a perfect opportunity for us to get together.  I told him when he called, "Baby, my sweet little pussy really needs you." I had the feeling his tongue woulda slid eight miles through that telephone receiver if it had been humanly possible, because Colin loves the word, "pussy." I guess because he doesn't use it in his work even though it is the whole basis for his work, and because his wife puts the skids on when he talks that way to her, it just turns him on something fierce.

Now, I have always kept my pussy trimmed and well-maintained because I know a tongue slips in and out a whole lot easier if you do that.  But what Colin didn't know that afternoon is that I had taken advantage of Maureen's shop's (Sissy's on West Main) newest service: waxing.  Maureen had gone to a spa show in Atlanta where they were demonstrating it, and she decided to have hers done while she was there.  When she got back and told all the girls at Sissy's that it was something really new and exciting, they all wanted to send Tami there to learn it.  I went in there one afternoon right after work and had my pussy waxed clean as a baby's ass.  Well, I did have them leave one little strip of fluff at the top (they call it a landing strip) so I wasn't completely naked down there.  Let me tell you, I wanted to cuss Tami up and down when she first ripped that hair off my lips, but afterwards I loved how it felt.  I bet I played with my pussy for three hours that night because it was so soft and so touchable.  I absolutely could not wait for Colin to lick it.  Because, his wife won't get hers done when she goes to the spa out in Arizona, and he has always wished she would at least trim her hedge just a little. (Colin's wife is very dark and her hair on her head is really thick so I would imagine it goes all the way down, if you know what I mean.)

So that afternoon, when he came over, I had him a Scotch on the rocks ready and I was wearing my slinkiest, sexiest long nightie.  Dark, dark green, which makes my eyes look even greener than they are already, and clings to my nipples so that they stand out. (Actually, it's one that my lawyer-lover Roy gave to me, but Colin neither knows nor cares.)

Anyway, I sat Colin down on the couch and I kissed him and leaned over him.  I put my legs on either side of him, with my gown just over my knees.  I kissed him again and started to undress him, which is what Colin really loves, all the attention.  I kissed his neck and his ears and ran my fingernails so light across his chest he shivered.  He still had his drink in his hand and I didn't care whether he turned it over or not.

I licked his lips and sucked on his tongue and held his face in my hands.  I did this for a long time, and I could feel how hard his cock was through his pants.  I wanted to ride it so bad I thought I would die for need of it.  So when he reached to slide his hand inside my gown and pinch my nipple, I moaned and whispered in his ear, "Baby, my sweet little pussy needs you." And I took his hand and put it between my legs because I knew I was already dripping wet.

Oh, my Lord.  Colin was like a kid with a brand new toy.  He gasped and groaned and moaned like he'd already come.  He stroked and played and toyed with it.  I could feel how wet his fingers were because he was spreading my juices all over my thighs and my lips and my hot little hot button.  And I came before he could even put his tongue to me.

Right there in my living room, we rolled over and changed places and he spread my legs like a doctor would, but instead of a cold white sheet I had my dark green gown draped across my legs, and he pulled me to the edge of the couch in a whole different way from when I do it because I have to.  With my legs draped across his shoulders, I grabbed his salt-and-pepper hair in my hands and drove him face-first into that wet, warm, dripping, woman-come drenched pussy.

His tongue licked and stroked and explored like even Colin's tongue had never done, and I rode it wave after wave while he tasted and savored and went back for seconds.  And I came and came and came.

And when he finally pushed his hard cock into me, with my legs around his waist and me still on the edge of the couch, he kissed me hard with my taste on his lips and he said, "Sheila, baby, oh, baby.  I do love your sweet pussy." And he came like a skyrocket, hard and hot and for a long time, and there wasn't a damned thing clinical about it.

See, a word like "vagina" wouldn't work there, no matter how much you might try to force it.  And I can't even imagine it happening that way with a slit or a twat or a snatch, or even possibly with a cunt.

And with his mouth tracing the hard outlines of my nipples and his hands holding on to my shaking ass, and his heart pounding a mile a minute while we took everything we could out of that moment, I couldn't think of any word that fit but "pussy."

And honey, let me tell you, it's a damn sight better than any box.

© 2002 by Jill.  All rights reserved. No reprints or retransmissions without my permission, please.



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