Tales of an Amateur Gynecologist 1 - PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT
By Deane Christopher
DEANECHRIS@aol.com
Edited by Constance Grant
Copyright 2000
Several years ago I wrote the story HEELS which told the tale of a man and a magical pair of stiletto heel pumps which allowed the gentleman the ability to change into a fully functional female on a purely elective, part-time bases. Well, as fate would have it, another pair of those rather unique high heels has come into the possession of yet another young man. In a serialized, five part Tales of an Amateur Gynecologist (TAG), I have tried to explore how an avowed heterosexual male might use such heels to his advantage.
TAG 1 - Practice Makes Perfect TAG 2 - Best of Both Worlds TAG 3 - Inside Trader TAG 4 - Balancing Act TAG 5 - Confession is Good for the Soul
"That was fantastic!" Beth, having savored every last nuance of the orgasmic rush she had just experienced, breathlessly cooed. "Simply fantastic!
"I never - Ever! - had anybody make love to me the way you just did!
"I mean, you turned me every which way but loose! You know, the way you anticipated my every want! My every desire!
"Now, I don't know if you know this or not, but take it from me. You, Mr. Joseph Grant, are one phenomenal lover! You know, if ever there was one!
"I mean, not only do you employ the slow hand approach when it comes to the fine art of foreplay, but take it from me: you are one extremely talented tongued devil!
"I'll grant you that you're not the first guy who has gone down on me. You know, and eaten me out. But, in light of what you just up and did to me - You know, with that ever so talented tongue of yours! - I realize now that all those other times were more in the line of a lick and a promise! You know, with a heavy emphasis on the promise part.
"I mean, for awhile there, the way you had me going, I thought I was going to pop a blood vessel or have a heart attack or something! You know, the way you had me squealing and squirming and bucking and sashaying my ass all over the place like I was..."
Having heard pretty the same sentiments more times than he could recall, voiced by a whole parcel of young women who he had shared a bed with, Joe Grant, knowing that it was in his best interest to do so, went with the more cosmopolitan version of aw'sucks ma'am, t'weren't nothing routine. Though he was well aware of the fact that the spunky brunette's compliments were well founded and therefore, justly deserved, Joe wasn't stupid. He knew that if he wished a return engagement with the reasonable attractive Elizabeth Hamrmerman, humility would go a lot further to achieving that goal than what would no doubt come across as an egotistical assertion on his part that she was indeed quite correct. He wasn't just a good lover. He was - Egotism aside! - a great lover. And, that Little Ms. Hammerman should consider herself damn lucky to have had the good fortune to have had him administer to those carnal needs of hers.
"So, tell me!" a quizzical Beth playfully teased. "How the hell did a guy like you ever get to be so darn good in bed?"
"Practice. Lots and lots of practice..." Joe's reply was anything but boastfully couched
"So, what you're saying in a round about manner is: practice makes perfect?"
"Yeah... I guess you could say that..."
"So, I'm to take it that you've slept with a lot of women?"
"I guess that depends what you mean by a lot of women. But, yeah! I guess you could say that I have at that..."
"So, how come some lucky woman hasn't latched on to you before this? You know, and somehow coerced or enticed you into making an honest woman out of her?
"I mean, I take it that you do want to get married someday, don't you? You know, and raise a family?
"Or, do you like being a bachelor so much that you want to remain single for the rest of you life?"
"Actually," Joe, having answered pretty much the same sort of questions many times before, began to frame his answer thoughtfully, "though single life has certain advantages, the answer to question is: yes. I'd loved to get married. You know, someday. And, hopefully a whole lot sooner then later. Trouble is: though I've been looking, I just haven't met the right woman yet."
"Good! I can't tell you how happy that makes me to hear you say that! Because, had you found the right woman already, you wouldn't be here with me tonight!" Beth coquettishly replied as she reached over and, taking the matter in hand, began to gently stroke and caress Joe's flaccid manhood in an all out effort on her part to rekindle his ardor. "I mean, who knows! Though I know it's only our first time going out together, given how well the evening has gone so far, I've got a really good feeling about the two us..."
Wishing that Beth Hammerman was indeed the kind of girl he'd been looking for, but kind of sort of having the sense that she wasn't, Joe, knowing what was expected of him, got back to the business at hand.
After another round of mutually satisfying lovemaking, Beth tried hard to cajole him into spending the night with her. Joe, using the excuse that he had his animals to attend to, feigned a deep sense of regret as he begged off.
Forty some odd minutes later, Joe navigated the winding and woods ensconced gravel lane that lead up the hill to the secluded, rustic, two bedroom A-frame that he had inherited upon the death of his saintly mother. Parking his Jeep Cherokee around the back of the house, he got out, collected his things and headed straight way to the kitchen. There, after loving up his two cats for a couple of minutes, he located a stubby glass tumbler, plopped in a couple of ice cubes from a refrigerator that was on its' last legs and, after a moment of indecision, selected his old standby Jeremiah Weed. Carefully, he poured himself just enough of the bourbon liqueur to ease the tension that had resulted from telling Beth all those little white lies of his, but not enough to dull his senses. Those, he wanted it tip-top working order for what he had planned for later that night.
Carrying the tumbler and taking an occasional sip of its' tasty contents, Joe exited the kitchen and, passing the door to his own bedroom en route, made for the spiral staircase that granted access to the spaciously airy, open loft bedroom that overlooked the A-frame's generously large living room. Though he had completely refurbished the whole house shortly after taking possession of it, the décor of the loft bedroom was slightly out of kilter with the rest of the house, in that it lacked the rustic, manliness that clearly dominated the furnishings that populated all the other rooms. Though one would never go so far as to classify the master bedroom's décor as being blatantly feminine in nature, the room did promulgate an elusive - to be almost subliminal - feminine quality.
Placing the tumbler of Weed on one of the two black walnut night tables that bracketed the king sized bed's intricately hand carved head board, Joe entered the walk-in closet his mother had insisted on when he and his father had built the place back in the late eighties. There, he drew aside a garment bag with one hand while pressing a knothole that, upon close inspection, wasn't a knothole with the thumb of his other hand. That action triggered a spring-loaded mechanism that in turn pooped open a small door in the closet's cedar wall, revealing a craftily concealed wall safe.
Having reset the combination upon taking legal possession of his parent's retirement house, Joe spun the dial through two full clockwise revolutions back to the center point of the upper arch. Then, left to six and, completing the inside joke, right again to nine. Opening the door, Joe reached in with his free hand and withdrew the only two objects that resided within the safe's matted steel confines, with those two items being: a pristine pair of standard issue, black kidskin, stiletto heeled, pointy toed opera pumps. Carrying those two most prized possessions of his loosely, though nonetheless lovingly, dangling from the middle and index fingers of his right hand, Joe returned to the bed and, turning about, sat down upon the shinning bronze satin comforter that adorned it. Setting the shoes he irreverently classified in his own mind as dick teaser specials aside for the moment, Joe, after taking another satisfying swig of his Weed, unhurriedly removed the docksiders he was wearing and tossed them nonchalantly towards the wall. Checking his watch so as to make a mental note of the time, Joe then reached over and, adhering to one of those pesky and persnickety anal-retentive habits of his, procured the heel that was constructed to fit a very petite woman's left foot. Placing his left ankle atop his right knee, Joe positioned the ever so dainty appearing pump as if he were about to slip it on that average sized manly apportioned left foot of his.
Though he had seen the phenomenon hundreds of times over the past couple of years, Joe nevertheless still marveled as the shoe that hadn't a snowball's chance in hell of ever fitting his so much larger foot, slipped so effortless, and to his way of thinking, so eagerly upon it.
Then, even as he began to feel the substantial shift in the texture of the sock enshrouding his high heel festooned left foot, telegraphing the fact that its' woolen weave was somehow transmogrifying itself into the sensually electrifying feel of the sheerest of sheer nylon hosiery, Joe repositioning himself. Returning his stiletto heel shod foot to the floor, Joe reached over and picked up the other shoe and leaning forward, placed it upright on the floor, positioning it in such a way that it stood right alongside of his right foot. Teetering slightly, due to the artificial extension imposed on him by the added height of the lone heel he wore, Joe gingerly managed to stand. Having done so, in a fluid motion that made the balancing act he was employing look like child's play, Joe deftly slipped the stubby and unsightly toes of his right foot into the awaiting U-throat of the previously positioned pump.
Having undergone the fluid, full blown, upwardly flowing physical male to female transformation that the heels had somehow magically engendered more times than he could remember, Joe, well aware of the fact that the nylons were already halfway up those trim and tantalizing femininely restructuring calves of his, nonchalantly stepped over to the night table and, from its' top drawer, procured a daily appointment planner. Taking the pen that he had left affixed to the planner's front cover by its' little metallic dojiggy thing-a-ma-bob, Joe opened the planner to the current date. Then, upon double-checking to make sure he had the correct time; he made a notation of the approximate time he had donned those marvelously magical, transsexualizing high heels of his
Then, even as Joe was in the process of placing the daily planner back in the top drawer of the night table the phone situated atop it began to ring its' fool head off, startling the shit out him and causing him to reflexively jump back a step or two.
"Shit!" Joe, well aware of the fact that it was the second line he had coming into the house that was ringing, in a knee-jerk reaction quizzically exclaimed. "I wonder who in the hell could be calling me at this ungodly hour of night?"
Knowing fully well that he couldn't as yet answer it, due to the fact that it was the phone line he used when operating under his assume feminine alter ego, Joe had no recourse but to allow the answering machine incorporated in the phone to pick up the call.
"Jo!" Joe detected the hint of a frantic urgency in the disembodied voice. "It's me! Beth! You know, from your Tuesday night aerobics class! Look! I tried calling you earlier, but you're obviously out somewhere, probably on a date or something! So, I'll just leave a message!
"Look! I know I've have to make this short. So, here goes!
"The reason I called was to thank you for setting me up with your friend Joe! I had a really great time with him tonight and. unless I'm jumping the gun and am way off bases here, I think I may have just found Mr. Right!
"I mean, he's so fantastic in bed it isn't funny!"
"So, please call me, Jo! Even if it's late! I really want - No! Make that need! - to talk to you about him!"
Though he kind of figured that he had made a fairly good impression with the saucy and, to his way of thinking, over-sexed Beth Hammerman, it nevertheless pleased Joe to no end hear her confirm the fact in her own words.
Keenly aware that his lower extremities had reached a point in their ongoing transsexualization where they were about eighty five to ninety percent that of a female, Joe reclaimed the tumbler and, bringing it to his lips, took yet another sip of its' contents. Where upon, he adroitly pirouetted about and began to retrace his path back across the loft. As he did so, Joe took great pains to avert his eyes so as to not catch a glimpse of the absurd oddity of his steadily herifying self in the mirror that adorned the dresser. Reaching the stairs and, with his hand on the rail as a safety precaution to guard against an inadvertent misstep in the heels, Joe began his decent to the living room. However, round about the time he was halfway down the staircase, Joe, having became acutely aware that his manly prominence had reached the event horizon of its becoming a full functional vagina, stopped dead in his tracks. The erotic rush that he - Nay, She. - enjoyed each and every time the monumental re-sculpturing of his primary sexual anatomy into that of a woman's was just to mind boggling a thing not to savor and reflect upon.
Fighting hard against the damn near insatiable and omnipresent urge to reach down and grope the living shit out of herself, Jo, curious as hell to appraise herself of the concurrent and complimentary changes that heels' inherent magic had wrought upon the clothing that lay below her waistline, a waistline that was even then in the midst of severely constricting in upon itself, craned her head over. Her pumps, which had been your basic black kidskin but a moment or so before, were - as expected - a glossy indigo. Her jeans, which had been a loose fit below the knee, had become skin tight, showcasing those unabashedly feminine re-sculptured legs of hers in a most man-troubling and ego pleasing manner.
Satisfied that all was progressing as it should, Jo, with an impishly delighted smile broadening upon that as yet so manly countenance of hers, resumed her decent to the living room.
Setting a match to the fire that she had prudently prepared before heading out earlier that evening for her dinner date with the shapely and ever so cute and cuddly Beth Hammerman, Jo, with the polished ease of someone who was entirely at home in heels, rose to her feet. As she stood, she allowed herself an all to brief moment to crassly fondled and thumb-caress those two ample and deliciously conical chest protrusions that she was in the process of being fitted out with.
Undecided as to whether or not she would call Beth back that night, or do the prudent thing and wait until the morning, Jo was well aware of the fact that she had a decision to make.
The heels' inherent magic, as Jo had quickly discovered during her initial experimentation with them, not only turned Joe into a stunning femme fatale, but they also sustained him in his feminine form for a like amount of time when she doffed them. Needless to say, the first time Jo experienced a protracted amount of accumulated residual girl-time after removing those extraordinary heels of hers, it unnerved the hell out of her. For a while there, she actually thought her goose had been cooked and that she would remain trapped within the drop dead gorgeous body of a fully functional woman's for the rest of what would no doubt become, a very traumatic, ego-affronting and extremely heavy handed narcissistic life.
All it took was one clitoral-induced orgasm to convince Joe that his new found ability to become a part time woman had certain distinct and ever so pleasurable advantages. Basically, via the judicious use of the high heels, Joe had been able to realize the best of both worlds. Generally speaking, given the fact that that regardless of the massive amounts of estrogen that coursed through his body when physically female, Joe's mind and more importantly, his libido remained staunchly male attuned. And, due to that, while he had come to love spending time as a woman, he wouldn't want to be one on a full time bases. However, though he would always think of himself as the male he was born to be, should something unforeseen occur that would deny him his feminine sojourns, Joe knew that he would have a hard time reconciling himself to the dismal prospective of never, ever being a female again.
Truth be told: while Joe loved being a man, he had become hopelessly addicted to spending considerable amounts of off hours as a woman, so much so, that he wasn't ready to give up being either one of them.
As one might imagine, one of the residual side-effects of Joe's new found ability to spend time as an anatomically correct member of the opposite sex was that he gained first hand knowledge of all the ins and outs of a woman's body. And, as his familiarity with a woman's erogenous zones grew, he used that knowledge to his advantage and so became a grand master in the ever so subjective game of lovemaking. He learned, through many nights of personal experimentation, how to tweak, when to tweak, where to tweak and the all important and much overlooked, anticipation enhancing, when not to tweak.
But, the insider knowledge that Joe gained during his numerous stints as a female came with a price.
While it made him a much better lover as a man, there was a deficit side to the equation. Male orgasm, as he had come to realize, didn't begin to hold a candle to the excruciating and mind boggling amounts of pure unadulterated pleasure that women experienced when they reached climax. And, because of that, while he always enjoyed the orgasmic rush that accompanied the wild and sexually volatile ejaculation of sperm, he had been spoiled. Though he tried hard not to be, Joe found himself becoming increasingly envious and sometimes, down right jealous of the massive amounts of carnally derived pleasure he was so expertly engendering within his sexual partners via his self-honed and well crafted techniques.
As time went on and he settled into the dual sexual roles that the magical heels allowed him to enjoy, Joe realized that he had become enveloped with a narcissistic sexual conundrum that had him fantasizing about getting it on with his own herified self.
Joe knew what he needed. He needed to hook up with a woman who was a bisexual. A women he could make love to as both a male and a female. A woman who could serve and satisfy both his male and female needs.
And, he knew they were plenty of bisexual women out there somewhere. Trouble was, while Joe had dated and even made loved to a few women he strongly suspected as being bisexual, he hadn't as yet met up with one that he felt comfortable enough with to reveal that he had a secret. That he was an amateur gynecologist who spent quite a bit of his leisure time as an anatomically correct femme fatale in order pursue that rather unique self-serving hobby of his.
Establishing a long-term exclusive relationship with a bisexual woman was Joe's primary goal in life. Until he did so, in order to help him deal with all the envy and jealousy he felt whenever he engaged in sex with a woman, Joe had come up with what he hoped and prayed would be nothing more than a stop-gap solution. After a sexual tete-a-tete with a woman, Joe would hurry home; don the heels; build up some residual girl-time and then; head off to bed where she'd play an extremely crass, though nevertheless thoroughly satisfying game of titty-tweak and stink-finger with herself.
Jo, after a bout of indecision, decided that she'd wait until the morning to return Beth's call. Maybe, she'd even go so far as to suggest that they meet one another at a mall somewhere and do lunch and compare notes. A tactfully conducted debriefing was always a good way to gain an insight into how to improve one's approach and lovemaking techniques. Jo, not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, wasn't about to allow such a splendid opportunity to slip by without availing herself of it.
Then, knowing that she needed to while away a good two hours before she could address the needs of those newly installed erogenous zones of hers, Jo decided to occupy herself by watching one of her movies. Moving to her cabinet concealed video display rack, Jo, having whisked away a vagrant strand of the strawberry blonde tresses that the heels were magically in the process of adorning her with, Jo absently began to scan the titles available to her.
Though she really wanted to watch the movie 'Gettysburg' again, Jo desired something of a lighter fair. Thusly, she decided that a comedy would best suit her current mood. Having just watched Debbie Reynolds and Tony Curtis in 'Goodbye Charlie' the week prior, Jo, getting a kick out of how Hollywood portrayed similar situations to the one she found herself embroiled within, located her copy of Blake Edwards' 'The Switch'. Plopping the cassette into her VCR, Jo paused to jostle those new boobies of hers so as to better situate them within the ever so sensual coffins of the sleek satin bra that those magical pumps had most likely transmogrified the T-shirt she had formally been wearing into.
Before seating herself, Jo polished off the last vestige of her Jeremiah Weed and, though she really would have liked to pour herself another, reason stayed her hand. If she wanted her senses, specifically that of touch, to be operating at an optimum level when she finally got down to the business at hand, Jo knew without the shadow of a doubt, that the ingestion of anymore liquor was a definite no-no. A soft drink would have to suffice. And, that meant that a trip to the kitchen was in order.
En route, Jo, as was her want, availed herself of one the numerous mirrors that she had strategically placed all throughout the A-frame in order to address those damn near insatiable narcissistic tendencies of hers.
"Damn!" she enthusiastically exclaimed aloud to herself. "If I must say so myself, you are a fox!
"Oh! By the way," Jo chuckled as she continued talking to herself, "irregardless of what anyone else might say, I really, really like the outfit!"
Directing her next remarks at the heels themselves, Jo continued on to say, "You bad boys done good tonight!
"You know something!" Jo said as she gave her reflection another appraising once-over. "You girl, look good enough to eat! You know, all decked out in silver like you are!
"My only wish is that I was double jointed! You know, so that I really could go down on myself and give myself a proper and thorough tongue lashing!"
The heels, as Jo had come to presume, seemed to have gained some sort of metaphysical purview into the erotic workings of that male mind of hers, especially so in so far as her id, ego and super-ego were concerned. Unless she specifically specified what her attire was to look like at any given moment in time through a conscious visualization technique, those magical pumps of hers, left to their own designs, arrayed her in the most provocative, self-targeted, tease to please apparel that Jo could ever hope to imagine.
That evening was par for the course. Acting on their own volition, the heels had transformed the jeans she had been wearing earlier first into a pair of electric blue spandex jeans and from there, through a progression of lightening shades of blue, into a pair of skin hugging, liquid-silver, lycra-spandex leggings. Likewise, Jo's light blue denim long-sleeved shirt had transformed first into a smart looking blue satin blouse, before continuing on to become an ever so attractive, billowing sleeved, stretch-satin, poet's blouse that shimmered and shined with the same silver radiance of the leggings. Likewise, in concurrent stages, the heels themselves had lightened; going form black kid to indigo, indigo to navy, navy to a rich medium electric blue, electric blue to sky blue and from sky blue to a bedazzling and eye-catching silver.
A few minutes later, with her two cats playfully trailing along behind her, the bedazzling silver clad Jo, with an ice cold 16 oz. Diet Mountain Dew in hand, reentered the living room. With hips provocatively swishing and a swaying away to beat the band, she sashayed over to her favorite lounge chair and promptly parked that pert and perky tush of hers down upon it. Kicking back, she reached over and grabbed the remote with one hand, while provocatively allowing the long and delicately nailed fingers of her free hand to teasingly trace a lover's path along the erogenous zone of her thoroughly feminized upper inner thigh.
For roughly the next two hours, Jo would tread a fine line as she engaged in a balancing act, trying to keep herself in a mild, or more correctly, anticipatory state of arousal. Jo had learned through a lot of trail and error and the school of the to often hasty hand that it was indeed true what women said about how getting there was more than half the fun. While it took an enormous amount of will power on her part to cease and desist when and wherever necessary, Jo had become both a taskmaster and an ardent devotee of the excruciation art form of the slow handed lover. Heartened by the knowledge that it was more than worth the wait, Jo, to her delight, found that she could keep herself simmering on the brink of a full blown state of unfettered sexual arousal damn near indefinitely. While that vagina of hers might end up leaking love-juices like a sieve on a damn near perpetual bases, soaking the living shit out of the crotch of those spectacular silver spandex leggings of hers in the process, Jo wasn't bothered by it in the least. A conscious directive formed in the crucible of her mind's eye and aimed directly at the heels' inherent magic would instantaneously address the problem and there by eradicate the ever so irritating dampness.
Once, Jo came damn close to loosing it! Viewing, what was for Jo the erotically stimulating bathroom scene in 'The Switch', where Perry King becomes the extremely befuddled and sexually distraught Ellen Barkin was damn near her undoing. Having undergone a similar state of chaotic disorientation the first time the heels had supplanted her manhood with the multiple lip folds of a female's crevasse cress, Jo empathetically reached down and slowly drew the well-manicured nail of her emasculated middle finger upward along the swath of her womanhood.
Reassured by the corresponding sexual shiver that her prior action had so deliciously engendered, Jo, though it took ever ounce of will power she had to do so, stilled her hand. Then, in an effort to aid her resolve, Jo reached over to the end table which sat beside her chair and, picking up the small can in which she stored cat treats, vigorously shook it. In response, her two felines: one, a neutered gray tabby male and the other, a very personable and precocious tortoiseshell female, came a running. Parceling out two treats apiece, Jo, not given either one of her cats an option, hoisted first one and then the other onto her lap, figuring that if she couldn't play around with her own pussy, she'd at least avail herself of the ability to love-up another.
A speedy rewind and subsequent replay of the half-viewed portions of the videotape followed, as Jo resigned herself to the fact that it would be awhile yet before she had built up enough residual girl-time to adequately address those wonton needs of hers in the unhurried manner she most enjoyed.
Once the movie got past the scenes that revolved around how the character that Ellen Barkin was playing initially responded to the sexual switcheroo that she had undergone in her palatial New York apartment, to Jo's way of thinking, the story line became far to predictable and hackneyed. That said, Jo still thought the movie to be cute and, though she had watched it on numerous occasions before, she nevertheless thoroughly enjoyed viewing it again.
"Okay, guys!" Jo said to her cats, having just hit the rewind button on her remote. "I really hate to do this. You know, because the two of you look so comfortable. But I've got to get up, go upstairs and pay some attention to this other little pussy of mine..."
While Tom, Jo's gray tabby would eventually end up in bed with her, curled up in between her legs; he wasn't at all happy about being so rudely disturbed. Showed that he was somewhat putout, He took off for parts unknown. Jeri, Jo's marbled torttie and consummate voyeur, having caught a good whiff of her mistress' endorphin laced vaginal secretions, dutifully followed Jo upstairs.
Back in the loft, an eagerly primed and ready Jo pulled down the bronze satin comforter and the matching bronze satin top sheet that lay hidden beneath it. Turning her attention next to the shimmering, tease to please silver clothing that she was so provocatively trussed up in and starting straight away with those marvelous transsexualizing high heels of hers, Jo, began to disrobe. Employing the mirrored surface of the walk-in closet's sliding doors, Jo, in a calculated effort on her part to torque the living shit out that healthy male libido of hers, put on a real show as she tantalizingly removed first one and than another article of clothing.
Then, upon reaching the bare ass naked stage of the ever so familiar and damn near nightly and gratuitous game of tweak, prod and caress, Jo turned off the lights and climbed into the beckoning sublime luxury of the awaiting king sized bed. The mere feel of the satin flowing sinfully beneath that ever so curvaceous body of hers gave Jo a thrill that sent sexual shivers coursing throughout her whole entire body. Her hands, as if acting on their own volition, sought out certain specific parts of her anatomy. Opening two fronts, with the first being that of her right areola and its' corresponding nipple and the other, the erogenous zone laying along the shapely run of her inner right thigh, Jo got down to the business at hand. Jeri, Jo's voyeuristic torttie, from her chosen vantage-point atop the bureau, looked on with rapt attention.
Riving under the erotic wonderment of her self-targeted administrations, Jo, aware that it had reached the shit or get of the pot point in the proceedings, opted to up the ante. Taking the nimbly astute middle finger of her right hand and deftly inserting within the posterior section of her love juice slickened crevasse cress, she began to draw it, centimeter by excruciating centimeter, ever so slowly, ever so teasingly, ever so tantalizingly forward.
Reflexively, as the long and exquisitely tapered nail of her middle finger came in contact with the elusive nub that was the nexus of her sexual being and began to slide so adroitly around it. Jo's body bucked, shimmed and shook. She whimpered. She cried. She screamed, imploring the Almighty on High for succor, as she willingly enslaved herself to the primordial lust she had so skillfully engendered.
As a frenzied sense of primal urgency loosed the animal that lay hidden beneath the venery of her humanity, Jo transcended the limitations of her all to mortal perceptions. Rising - Phoenix like - on the hastening whirlwind whirligig of her unbridled passions, she raced helter-skelter toward the crescendo point of her desires and so found Nirvana as she blissfully passed into the rapture that encompassed and confirmed her femininity.
Though it was only a fleeting glimpse at best, mired and distorted by the quickness of its' ever so elusive passage, for an infinitesimal instant, Jo, on an intuitive level of her being, was afforded the momentary comprehension of what it was to be a woman. Body, mind and soul.
Unfortunately, that Epiphany of hers, though intense beyond belief, was so short-lived that within a moment of its' passage, it took on elusive, dream like quality. And in so doing, it quickly began to evaporate into the ghostly remembrance of nothing more than a hazy and idyllic recollection.
With her body tingling and feeling as if the essence of sweet ambrosia coursed within each and every artery and vein contained within that simply scrumptious over-sexed body of hers, Jo, as hard pressed as she was to do so, endeavored to savor ever nuance of the just passed experience.
Then, with the knowledge that she would treat herself to a repeat performance as soon as she was once again capable of doing so, Jo, with a most satisfied smile fixed upon her countenance, opened her eyes. There, only inches away, a pair of feline greenish-yellow eyes unblinkingly returned her gaze.
"Jeri!" Jo impishly cheerfully chided. "You certainly are a voyeur, aren't you? I mean, you really do like to watch me have at myself, don't you?
Propping herself up on her pillows, Jo, having no one else to talk to, continued to direct her off-handed comments towards her cat as she began to gentle fondle and caress the nipple and encircling areola of her left breast. "You know something! For what it's worth, I do believe that Beth was right! Practice does make perfect! And, just so you know, I plan on practicing this delectable little tush of mine off until I get it all down pat..."
Tales of an Amateur Gynecologist will continue in TAG 2 - BEST OF BOTH WORLDS