Dropping the Hint Part Two — Jeremy Edwards

Did you miss the first chapter of Dropping the Hint? Read it here.

She’s still in her lab coat when I reach the bedroom, but her pink panties are gone. She’s facedown and squirming a bit. I know that on drop-of-Dora nights, she’s already worked up by the time I get home, and she can barely stand to wait. In fact, I think she sometimes sneaks in a quick warm-up round without me.

Yes, Dora runs our life, and I’m never disappointed in the results. She has everything figured out, and when she serves up her cunt, I know it’s because my mouth upon her wetness is what she wants more than anything in the world—more than food, more than sleep, and a lot more than a movie.

Her ass looks birthday-cake sweet beneath the kinky laboratory housecoat. I see it for just a moment until, sensing my presence, she rolls onto her back and spreads her legs.

I’m still dressed in a suit, and I’m practically hobbling due to my hard-on. I quickly undress, and when I sit down on the bed, at Dora’s feet, I see that she’s still clutching the eyedropper. It was in her right hand before; now it’s in her left, which makes me think that she was using her dominant hand, during the moments she awaited me here, for something more skill-specific, something between her thighs.

She sits up, and she hands me the dropper. Her legs remain generously apart, and it’s easy for me to procure what’s needed. I bring the dropper, now full, to her mouth, and she drinks of herself greedily while I finger the bulb for her. Then she takes the dropper from my hand and sets it aside. She reclines again, and her legs swing open even further. She is closer to one side of the bed than the other, and her left ankle dangles over the edge.

As I lift what little bit of her garment is obstructing complete, devoted access to her pussy, I am overwhelmed by the beauty of this: the beauty of believing that I have no doubt what Dora desires. She has communicated it to me, after all, in a socially idiosyncratic but chemically accurate manner. I don’t even have to think, to worry for a second about whether I’m giving her what she needs.

I grasp her thighs and plunge my face into her female folds. I can still feel the blessing of the eyedropper, nurturing me like a nipple, guiding me unambiguously with Dora’s flavor. And as I deliver the first genital kiss I am staunchly confident, as is the stiff cock which I’m carrying like unchecked baggage.

Her cunt lips quiver a mixture of luscious relief and heightened tension, as the contact with my mouth both gratifies and escalates her need. I make a full tour of her pussy’s perimeter with my kisses, knowing that she wants to feel my warm, heavy lips at all points on the edge of her passion before my tongue works its shrinking circles toward her center. I visit her beautifully engorged clit, and the nub reminds me of the eyedropper bulb. I suck it softly, and the increased flow of liquor from Dora’s gap plays to my concept that I’m bringing forth her wetness by squeezing her little bulb. Then I release it so that I can take another lap around the course.

My cock pulses crazily as her liquid accosts my chin with a desperate lewdness. I take the briefest instant to savor the sight of her wet vulva, to glow with the incomparable buzz of knowing—of seeing, smelling, and tasting—that Dora wants me, that Dora needs me, that every bit of Dora’s pussy is writhing in a moisture-saturated anticipation of the moment that my tongue will lick itself into her. It makes me feel like I actually know what I’m doing.

As I start to lick into her, I note that the taste of Dora on Dora is even fresher than what the eyedropper had bestowed on me. When my tongue tastes her fluid straight from the walls of her cunt, it’s as if I’m drinking it right from the innermost depths of her sexual self—like I have a direct line to the churning reservoir of lust, which bubbles beneath the outer Dora day after day, until the day it seeps to the surface and suffuses us both with the potent chemistry of desire. The day—such as today—that she greets me with it at the door, her arousal on tap and samples on the house.

I lick inward and around, with enough pressure that I’m soaking up her juice like a paper towel. But there is, miraculously, an endless supply of juice. Fortunately, my tongue is infinitely absorbent—a claim not shared by even the most aggressively-marketed paper towel. And, unlike the typical kitchen spill-jockey, I am not eager to mop up and move on. On the contrary, I feel like I could lick Dora’s cunt, in luxurious slow motion, all night long.

But this is no infinite plateau; it’s not what a chemist would call a “steady state.” Slowly but surely, her moaned responses evolve from passionate to urgent. Her body’s demands implore me from all sides—the puffed pussy lips that need my kisses, harder kisses this time; the clit that sizzles for the precise flick of an accountant’s tongue tip; the seething cunt walls, which bathe themselves in a liquid graffiti that begs me to return soon.

I do my best to accommodate all of this. Insofar as it is possible, my lips are everywhere and my tongue is a blur of motion, like an electron in orbit. And this is how it should be; for Dora is my nucleus and, at the moment, Dora’s pussy is the nucleus of the nucleus, the all-important center of my immediate universe. The delicious core of the world, giving me sweet sustenance, so generously that my face has become sticky with her essence of life. “I love you! I love you!” Dora screams, a woman who didn’t even say hello at the door . . . “I love you,” she wails, as her delicate flesh spasms and weeps. Pussy juice pools where the hem of her lab coat touches the bed, and her clit seems to embody yet another heartfelt “I love you” as it strains against my tongue.

My cock is rigid to the point of near-paralysis, and yet I’d almost forgotten about it. But Dora hasn’t forgotten. And as she puts me where I need to be now, I feel her washing me with wet shudders. At below-the-waist level, I wallow inside her, twitching and building to paradise; but my consciousness is really in my mouth, which now rests against the base of her neck. I relish the lingering flavor of her sauce, hoarding her inside me even as I nibble gently at the skin of her shoulder and my hips buck uncontrollably down below. Our groins seem as far away as another county, though the echo of my orgasm, when it arrives, rattles distinctly in my head.

At the office the next day, I find the eyedropper in the pocket of my jacket. I’m sure I didn’t put it there—I’m disorganized, but I’m not absentminded. I don’t have to bring it to my face to know that it hasn’t been washed or even rinsed. Its irresistible tang tickles my nostrils as I cradle it in the palm of my hand.

I can’t concentrate on forms and figures this morning, and I spend hours wondering what Dora will want me to do when I get home. She’s never left me in charge of the dropper for more than a minute, and my stomach flutters as if I’ve been awarded an exciting but slightly intimidating promotion. But she obviously thinks I can handle it, and this reassures me. I remember the luxury in her smile yesterday, right after I’d tongued and tasted her into her ecstasy.

I’m hard again, and a drop of precum crowns my throbbing nostalgia for drop-of-Dora night. I am a happy man at a desk, sucking on a dry eyedropper while the building empties around me into lunchtime bliss.

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Did you miss the first chapter of Dropping the Hint? Read it here.

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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. You may find Jeremy here: http://www.jeremyedwardserotica.com.