Dropping the Hint Part One — Jeremy Edwards

My wife has one or two eccentric habits.

I should explain, first, that Dora keeps early hours at the chemistry lab, where she and two other graduate students arrive at 6 a.m. daily; eat lunch at 10; and lock up at 3. Personally, I don’t see why the inorganic molecules that Dora studies should force her out of bed at 5 a.m.—that would seem more fitting in a field like botany or zoology, where everyone’s up with the sun. But my understanding of chemistry, like my understanding of most things outside the world of finance, is limited, and perhaps the experts have determined that nitrogen and helium are at their friskiest at breakfast time.

And so Dora gets home before me, five days a week, and has ample opportunity to shed her work clothes, shower, and slip into the special lab coat that she uses as a dressing gown. It’s a sort of minidress-length garment in an absurdly bright shade of white, which boasts scientifically credible long sleeves and yet forces her panties to peek out beneath the hem. I have no idea where she obtained it (campus supply or fetish boutique?), but she says it’s very comfortable.

I clatter through the door a few hours later, an impeccable accountant who is hopelessly disorganized and indecisive outside his office. I rumble in precariously like a badly-packed luggage cart, ready as I’ll ever be to enter the slightly baffling world of private life after another proud day of fiscal magic.

Each time I cross the threshold, I feel a wave of gratitude for the fact that Dora runs our life. My guiding principle is that if a matter can’t be settled by recourse to a printing calculator, then I don’t want to be the one in charge.

Dora, as I said, has one or two eccentric habits, and she often greets me at the door with a laboratory-grade eyedropper behind her back.

You see, she likes to drop me hints, in liquid form. So she’s taught me a variety of signals, instructing me in the semaphore that she operates via small samples of fluid. When she smiles and says “tongue”—where many a spouse might say “hello”— I close my eyes and render the aforementioned organ accessible to her. I must look quite a spectacle, sticking my tongue out like a brat in a custom-tailored suit; but it’s for Dora.

Sometimes I taste a drop of olive oil, meaning that it’s my turn to cook. A flash of red wine from the eyedropper, and I know we’re dining out. Worcestershire sauce indicates that my mother has phoned and is expecting me to call back. Lemonade translates into movie night.

But tonight is even more special than movie night. I know this because after I walk in the door—and am duly prompted to extend my tongue—I taste a drop of something that doesn’t come out of any bottle in our well-appointed kitchen.

I taste a drop of Dora, of Dora’s pussy juice. In a glorious moment of sensation, I experience that complex collaboration of something that tastes a little bit like lime and something that tastes a little bit like mulled wine . . . and an assortment of other feminine elements that taste like—well, like I’m about to cream myself.

The sample is fresh as hell; and I know that while she listened to my car in the driveway, she was bending over, flipping her lab coat hem up with her left hand, and using her right hand both to edge her knickers out of the way and to suck her fluid into the dropper. She doesn’t need to be in that position to get the sample, of course; but she showed me once how she does it, and it’s just as I’ve described. Dora is dramatic, even when she’s alone in the house. Moreover, the position itself makes her wet. She explained this to me that first time, as she pumped the little black bulb and gave up her essence in a beautiful travesty of science.

You may have surmised, more or less, what a drop of Dora on my tongue signifies in our house. That it doesn’t have anything to do with calling my mother, for instance.

And tonight, I don’t get merely the one drop. Just when I’m about to open my eyes, I feel a second drop, then a third; and each tastes more essential than the previous one. The flavor of Dora’s femininity awakens taste buds I’m otherwise unaware of possessing. More and more of my tongue tingles with each drop. It’s now a long enough series of drops that I’ve lost count, despite my proficiency with numbers, and my mouth—my entire head—is so full of her that it’s almost too much delight to contain. I feel an impossible, animal impulse for an instant, like I want to shove my cock into my own mouth and fuck the hell out of my nectar-infused tongue. But as her juice soaks into me, I calm down just enough to proceed rationally. I finally open my eyes.

She smiles, then leaves me standing there with her taste in my mouth.

I still have my briefcase in my hand, and as I hold it idly at waist level I feel my cock pressing against it, tingling through my trousers against the attaché’s resistance.

The briefcase gets put where it belongs—the stool by the microwave—but my cock will need to bide its time. Because those drops of Dora in my mouth lead my mouth straight back to Dora. Meaning that other parts of my anatomy just have to get in line.

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Watch for Part Two of this sexy tale to be posted one week from today.

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Jeremy Edwards is the author of the erotocomedic novel Rock My Socks Off and the erotic story collection Spark My Moment (both published by Xcite Books). His libidinous short stories have been widely published online, as well as in over forty anthologies. His work was selected for The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, vols. 7, 8, and 9, and he has read at New York’s In the Flesh and Philadelphia’s Erotic Literary Salon. Jeremy’s greatest goal in life is to be sexy and witty at the same moment—ideally in lighting that flatters his profile. Find Jeremy here: http://www.jeremyedwardserotica.com.