Seven Deadly Quims

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This is a love story, of remembrance. Most of us, unless we are hermits or die-hard, unreconstructed auto-eroticists, have had at least one lover, someone who taught us the dance of erotic delights, introduced us to intimacy, shared in excitements and discoveries, and produced pleasures of searing intensity. Life is quite capable of providing more than one love interest, so there may be a parade, long or short, lively or complicated, but inevitably entirely worthy of reflection.

These are my memories of the Seven Quims who informed and enriched my romantic and erotic life. To each I owe a debt, and thus my recollections shall be partial, quite inadequate, repayment for our intertwined histories. Names are altered, the events authentic.

Marla was not my first love, but close. A brief, intense high-school fling had spun me around and tossed me into a ditch, but a few months later, just as I turned eighteen, I met Marla at a beach town on the coast of New England.

My recollections of Marla are relayed in greater detail in the story First Lick, which describes my enraptured entry into the world of oral sex. There I also relate how Marla’s distaste for the word “cunt” led me to refer to her nether regions as her “quim,” a Victorian word that I continue to employ — a more dignified and sonorous term for a woman’s exquisite palace of pleasure.

Subsequent lovers have not have found reason to spurn it as a term of endearment so I have continued its use — an elegant, mellifluous word. I loved the quims I have befriended over the years, worshipping them, devoting my attentions to their pleasures and well-being.

Marla was a year older than I, two inches taller, slender, with soft, dark eyes and thick, long hair often braided down her back.

Our explorations, once we discovered the pleasures that mouths and tongues could offer to sensitive bodily organs constructed specifically to encourage the spread of the species, were intense, lively, endlessly entertaining. Her religious upbringing prohibited copulation before marriage, so we found ways to do just about everything else.

Her quim, my first truly intimate one, although I had slipped a hand down a few pairs of shorts before, was well-furred, with lovely full lips that easily grew swollen and slippery. Her taste and smell was earthy, intoxicating. I would dally for long periods between her thighs, licking, teasing, leading her to the edge of orgasm and keeping her there, until hip thrashings and overheated breathing took her over the precipice, while her quim clamped down on my tongue, her ass squeezed in pleasure, and afterward it became my turn.

Marla’s mouth was the first to engulf my erection, the first tongue to glide along my cock-head, ease my sperm forth. I shall never forget those early times, which felt like claiming a new continent, uncorking a fine wine, stumbling onto the perfect, out-of-the-way vacation spot.

Best of all for us was discovering the “sixty-nine” position, her on top, while I licked her to orgasm and she kept my cock in her mouth. The violence of her pelvis pushing into my face when she climaxed was intoxicating, soaking my face with her juices. Aroused by her own pleasure, I usually erupted immediately after her.

Our relationship, while relatively long-lived for a college couple, had its ups and downs, and we broke up and got back together several times, luckily for me with intervening partners.

Here are the rest of my Seven Deadly Quims.

Rachel was one of my oddest pairings, not a one-night stand, it was no more than five or six times that we slept together. We were introduced by mutual friends in our college dining hall. Her family was old-money Virginia, her voice lilting with charm and grace.

She found ways to stop by my room late at night, ostensibly on the way home from visiting other friends down the hall. One night we talked late over a bottle of wine. She appeared reluctant to return to her own room. I was incapable of avoiding temptation.

We were awkward removing clothes and settling in together. I wish I had known then what later was revealed to me by a confiding friend of hers — that I strongly resembled in both appearance (small, tight-knit body) and demeanor (attentive, thoughtful) her high-school sweetie, still an ongoing although long-distance relationship for her. She did not want to “cheat” on him but found me irresistible. This knowledge would have explained all manner of behaviors, and my actions and thoughts would have played out quite differently had I possessed that intelligence.

So it was not erotic attraction that drew her to me, but a desire to simulate affection with her “real” lover, generate warmth, an easy romantic connection — and yet I was a substitute. Instead I interpreted her interest as sexual, which I clumsily attempted to exploit.

Her body is one of the most extraordinary I have ever encountered. She was taller than me by an inch or two, with glorious. silky shoulder-length brown hair and an aristocratic kartal escort face with full lips and wide eyes. Her body’s skin was impossibly taut to the touch. Not muscular but firm all over. Her breasts were far larger than would be guessed by the clothes she favored — long skirts and loose elegant blouses.

Even that softest part of anyone’s anatomy, the ass-cheeks, on her were taut, firm, almost rubbery in their resistance to touch, like well-kneaded bread dough that pushes back against the impression of a finger. Firm, solid, supple, her warm enthusiastic body would inevitably satisfy some charmed man somewhere along the line, just not me, not now.

We thrashed. She defended my assaults yet remained affectionate. She was kind but firm in her refusals. I had learned long before with others the fine line that separates assertive from aggressive, and if the goal was pleasure, it was unwise to press too hard. Friendship — and sex — need to be mutual. We kissed and groped, no more than that on that first night.

We talked at dinner a few weeks later, the attraction still strong. A long walk together along the forest trails ringing the campus, hand-in-hand, sharing confidences, and then back to her room this time. I could not figure out what was going on, the signals were all over the map.

Again we were intimate but with unfathomable boundaries. Her skin was so elegant, her kisses so tender, the embraces so warm, that it all was fine.

In the morning, chatting in bed, I could not take my eyes off her chest. Her curving supple breasts had a firmness that defied all my earlier experiences. And I had been given freedom to see them, feel them, if not other unreachable parts of her.

Our last night was at her place. Another exciting but ultimately unsatisfying night. We slept with arms around each other. I woke with my erection in an impossible state. I was determined. I nestled down between her thighs and began a tongue exploration.

Her lips were thin, elastic, her groin hair sparse but silky. Her smell was faint, distant. I was unable to get her aroused. She was tense, uncomfortable. I had crossed some boundary, my attention unwelcome. I did not try for long.

It was clear intimacies would progress no further. I could not bring myself to tarry in bed but left abruptly, furiously aroused, back to my room and an energetic if only faintly compensatory wank, at last spilling my urgent denied sperm all over my hands.

She avoided me afterward. Uninformed and quite clueless, I had squandered an opportunity. I wonder what ever happened to her?

I had spotted Elizabeth early in my junior year at my rural college, well before she knew I existed. I studied her as she crossed campus, aloof, independent, a glide to her step, strangely alluring. We had no mutual friends so no easy introduction offered itself. Tall, exceedingly slender, with long, straight, light-brown hair, she wore an enigmatic expression I never quite learned to decipher. I longed for her from afar.

Our paths were thrown together in the midst of a mid-year housing crisis. My on-campus apartment was prematurely breaking up, hers had lost a tenant and needed a replacement. Even in those student days, with no more possessions than could be fitted into a small car, I hated moving. But I needed a spot.

Elizabeth, more or less the apartment queen, introduced me around during my “interview” at the flat in January. It was an agreeable enough crew, and after moving in I began the slow process of becoming acquainted with the other flat dwellers, all well enough known to each other.

In mid-February a high school friend rang me up, said he had a free place to stay at a weekend ski resort in Vermont with a former girlfriend, would I be interested in joining them? There was room for someone else too.

I queried the apartment, any takers? Elizabeth was the only skier amongst them with spare time and inclination, and even better, she owned a car. We drove up early Saturday.

Our skiing levels matched fairly well and we had a grand time on the slopes, talking on the lift rides up, our familiarity edging beyond the frontiers of new acquaintances.

After our day on the trails we followed Jimbo’s van along narrow, snowy roads to the tiny ski cottage, which belonged to some friends of his parents, and rustled up a simple dinner there. The heating was inadequate, it remained quite cold inside. Jimbo saw me scrutinize the cozy accommodations, only two small bedrooms, one narrow bed in each.

I eyed him closely. “Yep, two folks to a bed, it’s warmer that way however you manage it.” He gave me a squinty smile. I had not bargained on this part.

I was totally undone to be sleeping next to Elizabeth, this was the last thing (well almost) that had been on my mind. Technically I was still with Marla, although we were at one of our low points. If I had had any notion that sharing a bed was part of this ski-weekend deal I would likely have declined and avoided temptation. But maltepe escort bayan here we were, I wasn’t going to volunteer to sleep on the floor.

We looked at each other from opposite sides of the bed before climbing in. She wore loose flannel pajama bottoms but a fairly tight, stretchy, long-john type underwear top. Her breasts were narrow, pointed, and possessed enough firmness to assert themselves defiantly against the fabric. I tried to keep from staring. We scoped out how to position ourselves in the narrow bed.

That was as far as it went that night, close enough together to stay warm, not enough to be intimate. I was tormented, desire dueling with conscience. We know who usually wins that battle.

Elizabeth noted later how nervous I was that night, which oddly enough intrigued her. Was she that arousing? She must have been aware of her own powers. I still cannot completely reconstruct how we grew closer in the following days. Did she draw me on? Was I the one pushing?

Two weekends later I was in her own bed back on campus, not just for warmth this time, we were hoping for mutual pleasure. First times are always so unnerving. What was she really like? With her clothes off this time? Was my excitement too obvious? How would we fumble along together?

All went well. Each of us coaxed long satisfying climaxes from each other and then the delightful exhaustion that always followed, arms around each other. I woke up with one hand still on a small relaxed breast, soft and warm under the covers.

She smoked cigarettes. I did not like the taste when we kissed. She was my first and only smoker girlfriend. But I forgave her, she applied her tongue and mouth to all sorts of other lovely places on me. In my ear, in my armpits, along and around my penis. It was divine.

Her limbs were long and willowy, her skin satin smooth. The hair covering her quim was light, sparse, silky. Her smell and taste was subtle, meadowy. Her notch was narrow, it took a lot of work to get her slippery, but once aroused, she was off to the races, thrashing noisily while I licked her, pushing her pelvis strongly into my face.

Her channel, like the rest of her, was small and tight, thin-lipped but eager. During our time together she ended up with more yeast infections than normal. Was my beer-breath the cause, disrupting her quim’s normal climate of microflora? My sperm? Or just that her quim was indulging in lots of lively workouts in a new environment? Luckily it did not halt our pleasures and did not seem to cause more than temporary discomfort.

In the morning I delighted in the sight of her breasts, like the miniature footballs I used to toss around with my buds in our backyards as pre-teens. Long, narrow, one hand’s worth each, with soft nipples that grew hard, areolae pink with a blurred gradient. She came to enjoy straddling me from above and pushing her dangling, pointed breasts into my mouth for a suckle, then squashing them, wet and excited, all along my face.

It was an era that had spawned the feminist book Our Bodies, Ourselves. We read it together. Breast cancer was mentioned. It was considered wise to scout regularly for precancerous “lumps.” I volunteered to help.

So at least once a week I systematically checked each breast, a thorough deep-tissue examination to find any hidden danger spots. My fingers prodded her soft boob-flesh, kneaded into every hidden area. Somehow the exam and our mutual relief that no apparent troubles existed almost always led to a lively love session afterward. I wouldn’t know until many decades later that I should have mentioned the horrors of testicular cancer, and how her regular checking of me would have served the same medical goals of preemptive detection.

Also a treat was watching her lying down on her back in her bikini, or even with jeans on. She was so slender her front hip bones protruded upwards and held her garments aloof from her torso, leaving a lovely little glimpse through the gap created down to her curling groin hair and quim. A gap wide enough to slide a hand down and finger her without undoing jeans or disturbing her bikini bottom.

I would also straddle her chest in bed, push my penis along her boob furrow, then into her face, along her cheeks, along her smooth hair, marking her. She would lick and suckle, play with my testicles. Sweet times.

I was not in love with Elizabeth, our dance was almost entirely animalistic, earthy. Our intimacy was short-lived, it did not even outlast that Spring semester before we divested each other with furious, sparkling, angry expenditures of energy.

It turned out I was her “warm-up” act, she married her next partner, whom she met barely two months after we split ourselves. He is now the lucky one to lick her quim to pleasure, insinuate his erection into her tight gripping channel and deposit his sperm.

We remain in touch. I want to remind her of how sweet her embraces were, how narrow and intimate and cozy her quim was, the lovely escort pendik things she used to do to my penis, but these are dangerous waters to discuss for folks married to others. I do not dare.

Rachel was another complicated fling. We were chatting on a stairwell outside of a raging dorm party one Saturday night, each of us glad to have fled the indoor noise to a place of sufficient quiet for an intelligent conversation.

I knew her a bit from mutual friends, the New York crowd. She was immensely smart, with a razor wit and a devastating sense of humor. Handsome I would not call her, but earthy, intense. She was barely five feet tall, round and chubby with a large, dark-brown Jewish afro haircut that framed her face but seemed to accentuate her eyes and pointed chin.

We came back to my room. Arousal was evident on both our parts. It was a thrill to disrobe her, watch her oversize, globular, pendulous breasts tumble out of her bra. She undid my pants, we made our way into bed, hands all over each other.

She made it clear that fucking, at least that night, was not an option but that was fine. Her tongue was strong, insistent. Her own quim had thick pudgy lips that were already slick and needed little attention to have her hips squirming about. Her taste was strong, her whole furry region humid and expectant.

She came noisily, to my great pleasure. My own penis was impossibly hard. She took care of that, her lips soft and wet, her tongue suitably imaginative.

Despite maybe half a dozen nights together over that term, we never copulated, not because of lack of trying on my part. She was both more interested in me romantically and yet less willing to accommodate my penis inside her. Our asymmetrical agendas meant our meetings were irregular. We were off and on, only hitching up when both of us had built up a heady steam of arousal. Yet our connection was only one step beyond just raw, physical need.

And then late my senior year I fatefully met Kira. My instincts warned me off, there were plenty of signs that she was not a good fit, but less rational impulses urged me on. She was short, Jewish, overweight and feisty, and some part of the “caretaker-me” argued that she was a worthy project who would flourish with true love.

I took her virginity, her first real boyfriend, and we were married shortly thereafter, for the better part of a decade.

Her quim was flat, squishy, sparsely furred, yeasty and easy enough to arouse. She booted me unceremoniously after some bad mutual decisions about work and home, but I ended up with all the blame. My financial collapse had been complete and she wanted out. I think less about her erotically than any of the others, despite our lengthy time together. Our parting was acrimonious and our time together the greatest mistake of my life.

It was a jolt to the system to be single again in my thirties. But graduate school, a drastically needed retooling on my part to regain my economic feet, meant a whole range of smart, appealing female possibilities had become available to me.

Randi fit one of my established profiles at this point. Short, Jewish, dark curly hair and a lovely chest, she had flashing eyes and a penetrating intellect. We attended a difficult, advanced, highly theoretical course together in an overheated classroom Monday afternoons with a droning, impossibly opaque professor. My mind kept drifting to thoughts of Randi as a potential bed-mate.

We had lunch one spring day, off campus. There was some interest present. Another lunch, some exchanged feinting emails. The electricity had grown too great to ignore.

I knew she was graduating, me still another semester off, but it wasn’t until she had a job offer, and an upcoming move away, that my panic bell went off.

You would think that getting a pair of thirty-some-year-old aroused adults into bed together would not involve a lot of anxiety, but this was not the case, even after a few exuberant goodnight kisses at the door suggested serious intent.

The first night was dreamlike, surreal. For the fist time since college I had a new body next to me. Soft, warm, excited. Her kisses were intoxicating, her shoulders soft and round, her chest even more alluring when unclothed and up close, spread out in front of me.

We went too slowly for my taste, but I got to know all of her. Rounded hips I adored to trace with my fingers while we lay together face to face on hot summer nights. Her big brown eyes looking into my face, wide thick-lipped smile, heavy breasts hefting down with gravity.

Her quim was small in proportion to the rest of her, and despite a dark curling impression, her hair was thinner and shorter than I might have expected. Her clitoris was lovely, perched at the top of her notch. It grew firm and sensitive the more I licked and sucked. Her smell was arresting, like a freshly opened tin of strong Ceylon tea, malty, grounded in the earth, damp and inviting.

I loved it when she would straddle my face, her hands on the bed headboard, thick thighs gripping my head while she ground her quim into me. I could hold her ample ass-cheeks, feel them when they clenched tight, her breath coming out in long noisy exhalations and the last little shudders of pleasure, hips rolling into me.

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