Sex and the Stranger 2: A Mischief Erotica Collection. Justine Elyot

I worried.

      How could I have forgotten!

      I should know, really, I should know. Didn’t I share a bunkroom with six female Americans just behind the organic garden shed?

      Hadn’t I learned how they were striving to be as hairless as possible? (Except on the head – very long hair like mine could be seen floating on the waters of the hot tubs in all colours achievable by human ingenuity and sometimes also nature.) Hadn’t I seen them, again and again, come out after a long session in our minuscule old bathroom, bleeding nicks and cuts on their baby legs?

      Had I not witnessed them agonising about the various bikini-line solutions – just ‘trimming’ ‘so that it looks tidy,’ ‘landing strip’ or the dreaded, super-painful ‘full Brazilian’ that their boyfriends seemed to expect?

      I had partly given in and now shed my weekly blood in the shower like they did, a kind of penance for being female. But I refused to go higher.

      So when Simon softly drew the red velvet curtain aside, of course he saw my pubic locks in all their glory. Member of our secret tribe or not, how could I forget that he, too, was American?

      What did the silence mean? Was Simon trying to overcome his revulsion? Was he going to run screaming from the room? Had he actually settled the bill yet?

      He leaned back a little and I could see his face.

      He had simply stopped to give himself time to look.

      Look intensely. As if he had discovered a new and entirely absorbing phenomenon that deserved his full attention.

      I said nothing. I stood strong. I had a lot of practice in those heels.

      I looked down on Simon’s body, wiry, supple and alert. (And still fully dressed.) For him, there was no worry. He didn’t know what drama had just taken place.

       Venus in Shocking Red

      Inspection over, he touched the outside of my vulva.

      No. That wasn’t quite correct.

      He touched – I had to search the online dictionary in my head to find the correct term. No, no. Delete! The previous phrase was incorrect. He hadn’t touched even my outer lips. ‘Maybe later.’ I hoped so.

      Simon held the palm of his hand over the area above my vulva lips and just beneath my lower belly. Almost, but not quite, touching me. With great care and concentration, as if I was a precious but fragile object that could easily be broken by a clumsy man. I don’t know why, but tears came to my eyes. I blinked them away.

      My Venus mount. Yes, I remembered now, from some textbook I had consulted long ago when I longed to know so much more about sex than I had access to in reality. That’s what it was called.

      Simon would probably know and be able to give a detailed explanation of the provenance and meaning of this slightly pompous name. Luckily I didn’t have to say it, quiet or loud.

      Under his palm, I could feel what an elegant shape that mount of Venus was. And it started to respond. Surprising me no end.

      What was this?

      Just under the almost-touch of Simon’s hand I could feel the skin warm up, and as he started to place his fingers, delicately, like spider’s legs, to circumscribe its luscious curve, I could feel the whole area flush with heat and expand.

      Had it always done that when I was making love? How could I know so little about my own body? After all this time?

      Simon leaned forward and bestowed a deep, sucking kiss on my Venus dome (and my generous blonde curls). A little stronger than the kiss he had given my thigh. A little longer, too.

      Then, still holding up the generous folds of fabric with his right hand – the silk brushing my thighs, rousing goosebumps whenever he moved – he started to trace the outline of my pubic hair with one finger.

      Simon had very slim, elegant fingers – it made me wonder if he really could have been a roadie, for whatever kind of band, unless he maybe was one of the guys who did the finer work of setting up decorations, adjusting wires, sliding the volume fader up and down.

      I don’t think anyone had ever paid as much attention to this part of my intimate anatomy before. None of my former lovers. Not even I myself. But it must be important. ‘Venus Mount’ – the hill of the goddess of love. Further investigation was indicated.

      Fortunately, Simon was dedicated to the cause. Maybe I should read the New Yorker, like he did, instead of silently mocking it. Right now, he explored my Venus-like skin as if his fingertips were recording a secret map that needed to be memorised for all eternity.

      Simon repeated his subtle but insistent motion, lingering over some points (were they some esoteric pressure points? Maybe the female shaman would know.), then moving towards the top, accompanied by just a slight, playful caress of my lower belly with his thumb. I started to feel a resonance deeper inside my body.

      Completely unexpected. On some level I guess I had still thought I was being nice, indulging Simon’s artistic temperament and perhaps his penchant for the unconventional, but now I wondered. Who was indulging whom?

      As I was thinking that, my vagina responded with a deep, long tug on the sleeping muscles around her.

      This was no gentle pre-foreplay. This was pretty much a systemwide call to mobilise.

      I looked at Simon with new eyes – what I could see of him, since he was looking down, utterly devoted to his art.

      Playing tunes on my body with his fingers.

      Maybe I had heard wrong. Maybe Simon was not the roadie, maybe he was the musician. Maybe he was a famous musician in disguise, selecting profiles from women on our home site, women like me who were less likely to recognise him. Maybe he would have turned on his heels and fled Nepenthe if I had, falling down the stairways to heaven in his rush to remain incognito.

      My legs started to tremble. I hadn’t known that my four-inch heels would have to give quite such a lengthy performance.

      But I decided to stand up as long as I could. His fingers never stopped moving.

      I didn’t know it then, but that was sort of Simon’s trademark: whatever he did, he performed with relentless subtlety. That was how he pleased himself.

      Maybe he could feel the awakening tremors underneath his fingertips – or maybe he just enjoyed looking at me, blonde curls, pale white skin, slowly opening pink vulva.

      I loved it. Warmth spread out over my skin. My breath accelerated. I had to put my hands behind my back and join my fingers to stop myself joining in.

      Simon’s fingers lingered just above the top of my vulva lips. I could feel welcome pressure as he traced their luscious opening.

      The entrance of my vagina started to contract. I wanted to widen my stance, to open my legs, but I couldn’t. Not on those heels and not without falling over.

      So I held my position, like a good little soldier girl in the field of love.

      My vagina contracted more strongly. My spine tingled all the way to my head.

      My vulva lips opened further, inviting him in.

      But Simon moved his fingers back up the mount. A little faster now, a little more urgently. Next time, I thought, I would like him to cover his fingertips in paint, so that I could see all the intricate tracks. Maybe in gold. Gold? My pubic mound ornamented in golden intaglios like the wardrobe of the Yellow Emperor? Where had that thought come from?

      Never mind. The sensations inside my pelvis became too intense for much linked-up thinking. Every little blood vessel opened wide. Every little cell was getting drunk on happy-hour cocktails.

      I tried to breathe steadily but when I took a deep gulp of air it came out as