Reformat: "The Hills Of Becky" by Richard Budig (MF rom)
M.T.Head
The author is Richard Budig <bro...@ix.netcom.com>. Please send him
your comments.
The Hills Of Becky
My hands actually shook slightly as I tugged her panties lower and
lower until the cleft in her hairy pussy peeked over the elastic
waistband.
"Go on," she said in a firm, but friendly tone. It was basically an order
to pull her panties down farther so that in moments, her hairy pussy lips,
hiding her pink little pearl, would be inches from my face, my nose ... my
mouth!
"Well . . . get on with it!" This time, there was an edge to her tone.
She was what I called a moderately attractive woman. In fact, moderate
could have been her middle name. She was just tall enough, but not too
tall -- perhaps 5' 4". She wasn't heavy or light -- perhaps 120
pounds. She had average breasts -- perhaps 34B's or C's. Average is
what she was. Not great, not bad. Yet, here I was, being ordered by
her to remove her panties, and while she was not spectacular, she wasn't
all that bad, either. That's what kind of got me about her . . . how
the unspectacular person can, over time, become quite spectacular, how a
plain person isn't really plain at all if you have the time to get to
know them.
Or, in my case, the time to be forced to get to know them . . . to get to
know almost every pore and hair follicle on their body.
The follicle part was how I got to know her. I am, among other things,
a depilitation technician. In short, I remove unwanted body hair using an
electrolytic process in which a tiny, needle-like probe is pushed into each
individual hair follicle, and an electric current is turned on briefly,
which destroys the hair so it won't grow back. Older women have unwanted
lip hair (those little mustaches) removed, or they will have unwanted hair
removed from the backs of their necks, they'll have their eyebrows
permanently shaped, excessive arm hair removed -- the list goes on.
And that's how I met Becky Winston -- Ms. Average. She had been
coming to my salon off and on for a few months, and in that time, she
learned that I was a qualified depilatory tech -- a hair remover.
She was in the shop one day, and things were quiet. I had just taken
her out of the hair dryer. Only one other lady was in the shop, and she was
still under the dryer. Hair dryers tend to create a shushing kind of white
noise, making it difficult to hear. Becky knew the noise would cover what
she had to say to me.
Basically, Becky wanted to know about hair removal, but, after doing
this for several years, I knew there was more than idle curiosity to her
question. Knowing this, I gave her the two-dollar pep talk, explaining in
detail how this method would remove hair permanently and safely. Finally,
she got around to what was on her mind.
"I have the most embarrassing hair thing," she said, blushing slightly
as she spoke. I was happy to see the blush. It was the first
"un-average" thing I had seen in her since she started coming in.
Glancing around to be sure we were virtually alone, she said, "Here," and
she pulled her shirt collar open. I must have had an odd look on my face,
because she used the forefinger on her free hand, and pointed down the
front of her open shirt, as if saying, look down here.
So, I did. I had to work not to gasp, or to look surprised. She had a
fine line of downy black hairs roughly an inch wide running down her chest
and between her breasts, and, so far as I could see, it ran on down
beneath the belt line of her jeans.
Keeping a straight face, I leaned back slightly to look her in the eyes.
My look was understanding and inquisitive.
"I'm probably just a foolish woman," she said, "but I've often wondered
if this isn't why I'm still single," she sighed, her face flushing
slightly.
I didn't need a road map. Women are sensitive enough about their
looks, and the thought of disrobing in front of a man -- especially for
the first time -- when her main claim to fame is a streak of body hair
running from her boobs to somewhere below the belt must have caused Becky
to crawl into a shell of sorts. She appeared to be around 30, but something
told me she was a little older, maybe 36 to 40. That's a long time to put
off being with a man, I thought.
"Do you think you could remove that for me?" she asked, her cheeks
flashing, a film of perspiration on her forehead, probably from the
stress of showing a virtual stranger her hairy chest, not to mention her
fine, but as I said, plain vanilla boobs.
"Of course," I said quietly and sincerely, so she would sense that I
would keep her secret no matter what.
We started a twice-a-week appointment schedule. She worked days,
so I agreed to do it in the evening. Instinctively, we both knew that soon
enough, I would be working around her exposed breasts, and I knew,
instinctively, and from her blushing episodes while getting up the nerve
to tell me what her problem was, that the best place to start was at the
top, just below her collar line.
For her first session, I instructed her to wear an old shirt that buttoned
down the front. All I had to do for her first couple of visits was have
her lie back in the reclining chair, open one or two buttons, and go to work.
It was a nice way for us to get to know each other, and I worked extra hard
not to make her feel that I was messing with her boobs in that
"accidentally-on- purpose" way that was possible in this kind of hair removal
job.
Still, on her third visit, when I finally told her she was going to have
to open her shirt down to about the fourth button, and that she was going to
have to loosen, or remove her bra, we came to one of those mini-impasses,
the kind where someone has to finally make a decision.
True to form, Becky blushed again, and broke into a minor sweat. But,
since we were alone in a small room I used for bleaching and hair coloring,
and no one could see in from outside, Becky sighed, unbuttoned all the
buttons on her shirt, reached behind and unsnapped her bra, and laid back
in the chair. She smiled nervously at me.
"Good girl," I said in a voice the coach used to use when reassuring me
and my high school team members years ago. It was a fake coaches voice,
meant to elicit a chuckle, while simultaneously easing tension.
It worked. Becky laughed out loud.
"For cryin' out loud," she sighed at last. "I guess I don't have anything
you haven't seen before."
"That's right," I said matter of factly, trying to sound like we were
talking about paint drying, hoping the disinterest in my voice would calm
her. But I had to work a little harder to keep my mind on my job.
As I said, her boobs were the plain vanilla kind. But, in the end, what's
wrong with plain vanilla boobs. They were full, well formed, firm, and her
nipples rose to cone-shaped apexes, crowned by mulberry shaped nipples that
were slightly elongated -- something that really turns me on. Her only real
problem was that patch of rather fine, dark hair running down her chest.
"Sorry," I said, slipping a couple of fingers beneath her loosened bra.
"I need to move this."
"It's okay . . . honest," she said as I lifted her bra from her breasts,
exposing them and the hair that grew between them. In an effort to make it
easier for her, I tried laying the towel I was using over one of her breasts.
Becky laughed again. "Oh, give it up," she giggled.
"Sorry . . ." I said. I really had nothing to apologize for, and we both
knew it. It was a "sorry" that meant . . . well . . . sorry I had to do
this, and sorry you have to go through this, and sorry about all this hair,
and things like that. She understood.
So, I worked on, but now, those pinkish-brown mulberry nipples stared at me
right in the eye. And, without trying to touch them, it seemed I was
always bumping into them. My "gun" had little electrical lines coming out
the bottom. They trailed up and across her chest. And, I had to
continually clean the probe with an alcohol swab. I also had to tweeze the
newly killed hair and every now and then, I had to disinfect the spot I was
working on with an alcohol swab, which meant I was constantly dabbing at
her between her boobs. To do the job right meant keeping all these electrical
lines, swabs, and other equipment in perpetual motions, which meant that
every minute or so, I was brushing one of those nipples. It didn't take long
for me to realize that they liked being touched.
Becky, who was laying in a recliner much like the ones in dentist offices,
began crossing, uncrossing and recrossing her legs. I tried not to notice,
but I couldn't help wondering if my nipple-bumping was having an effect
on her. I know my cock was thinking on its own . . . thinking about those
nipples, and wondering often how far that patch of hair went.
The nights went on, and I kept working toward her belt line. By now, Becky
was not wearing a bra to the salon. When she opened her shirt, there they
were, those typically okay, typically medium, well-formed, stand-on-their-own
breasts with those coned aureoles and longish nipples.
And the leg crossing continued, too. Of course, as I worked my way lower
down her flat, but ordinary tummy, I had to continually change positions,
which meant that my forearms, which were holding part of my body weight,
were constantly touching and resting in new places along her legs and pelvis.
As I worked lower, I began to notice that I could see the outline of her
pussy lips through the fabric of the various pants she wore.
Sometimes, the length of my forearm ran down her tummy, and off her pubic
bone. I have to confess, I was doing this on purpose, sometimes. I got
a buzz out of it, and I thought Becky did, too.
By then, we had become reasonably comfortable together, and all of a
sudden, I'd realize I was draped across her body in such a way that I
was "feeling her up," with everything but my hands, which were busy tweezing
and swabbing. And, I wasn't sure, but every now and then, I'd swear that
as I moved around just above her pussy, I could feel her hunch forward
slightly, pushing herself into my arm.
More than once, I found myself so distracted that I was tweezing hair I
hadn't yet "electrocuted." Every now and then, when I raised my head to
change the pressure on my neck, I thought I could see a faint smile on her
lips.
And then, one evening, the time I had begun dreading arrived. "Well, Becky,
that's about it," I said. "I've gotten every one of these little whiskers
that I can see." I leaned back, and started cleaning up, collecting old
swabs, and other equipment.
Becky's eyes grew wide. "What? What are you doing?"
"Have a look, kiddo," I said. "I think we're finished."
Becky raised her head and sighted down between her breasts.
"NO . . . No!" she yelped. "We're not finished . . . here, look." And
with that, she unbuttoned her jeans and threw open the fly. Wow, I thought,
she really has grown comfortable with me. I smiled inwardly.
Sure enough! Just as I thought. Becky's "patch" didn't just stop.
There was the rest of it, trailing on down her alabaster tummy where it
disappeared beneath a rather brief pair of white cotton panties. They
weren't bikini panties, but they were quite narrow. Narrow enough to see
that her "stripe" of hair flared more broadly where it disappeared beneath
her panties to join her pubic hair.
Now, I was excited. Really excited. Not that this ordinary woman hadn't
already begun to excite me. For one thing, I found myself looking longer
and differentially at the "ordinary" girls who came into the salon. I
began wondering how much I had missed by dwelling on the flashy ones.
Flash is nice, but as I began studying my customers, the more I noticed that
there was a lot of good stuff going unnoticed beneath the frumpy, baggy
sweaters and shirts they wore.
But, more to the point -- I was excited because, while I was wondering
how far Becky wanted to go with this hair removal thing, I knew that her
action of throwing open her jeans meant that the work would go on. The
only question was, how far. And by now, I knew I wanted it to go all the
way. I wanted to fuck this plain but dreamy, woman. Hell, I wanted to eat
this woman. I wanted to do a lot more than just touch her breasts
accidentally. I wanted to stroke, fondle, pinch, rub, knead, squeeze,
suck and lick those sweet things. And then I wanted to do it all over
again between her legs.
And, so began my final assault on what I called "The Hills of Becky."
That's what I had started calling her. Every time I saw her there, laying
back in that chair with her breasts exposed, I thought how they looked like
small but identical mountains. And then, when she opened her britches, there
was that ordinary, but slightly mounded woman-tummy rolling away to her
"mound of Venus," and below, were the outline of two pouty pussy lips
straining to escape her pure white cotton panties.
In fact, I began wondering . . . . If this hair problem started early on,
say right about puberty, when extra body hair begins coming in, had Becky
been so shy about it that . . . ???? Hmmm, . . . that she had never had
sex.
Was it possible that she was still a virgin? Not that a woman her age hadn't
yet found her clit, that she hadn't rolled it beneath her finger, that she
hadn't strummed it like a guitar string, playing the most beautiful music of
all, the music of orgasm. But, is it possible, I wondered, that she has
never felt the pistoning of a red hot cock slipping and sliding in the sheath
of her vagina?
So, dutifully, and according to Becky's wishes, I went on, working my way
down her belly until here I was, being asked to remove just another inch
of those pesky little hairs, which meant that I had to have access to ...
to ... well, in plain language, to her cunt, her pussy lips!
"Well," Becky said again, "go on. Really. It's okay. I've gone this far.
No sense stopping now. Take that hair on down so that it slowly blends out
of my pubic hair. I want to look 'natural.' Know what I mean?"
"Your wish is my command," I smiled. "But . . ." I hesitated.
"But what?" she asked.
"Well . . . Becky, you know this means I'll be . . . uhh . . . working near,
around . . . uhh . . . right ON you."
Another Mona Lisa smile crossed her lips briefly. "But you'll be gentle,
won't you?" she laughed.
I knew she was kidding . . . or was she? "Very gentle," I replied.
And so I started gently electrifying and tweezing her hair, being careful
to give it a blended look. And, as I suspected, both my hands rested
directly on her mound. This time, there was nothing between me and her ...
no jeans, no panties -- just hair, and that was disappearing a little at a
time.
I had been working away for about thirty minutes, paying as much attention
to my job as I could, considering that with practically every move, I could
feel her spongy pussy lips roll beneath my hand. In fact, they seemed
to be getting larger, puffier. Her pink clitty was more than winking out
at me.
It was, in a manner of speaking, sticking its tongue out at me. It had grown
by half an inch. Maybe more.
Also, Becky was reacting to practically every hair I tweezed. Out came
a hair, and twitch went her body. Each twitch seemed to thrust her pelvis up
and into the heel of my hand, further elongating her growing clit.
Once, she actually grimaced, and said, "Ouch."
"Sorry . . . did I hurt you?"
"Ohhh . . . not really," she cooed. "It's a little more sensitive there than
where we've been working. Sorry. I'll try to stay still." she said.
"Let me see if this helps," I said wetting a cotton swab. "A little alcohol
will disinfect the whole area and might put a stop to the itching," I said,
and began bathing the lower part of her belly, the part just at the top of
her pubic hair.
"Ooouuugghh," She sighed. "That . . . helps . . . a little."
"A little?" I puzzled.
"Be a little rougher . . . it itches. Scrape me . . . itch me," she pleaded
but with a smile in her voice.
"Like this?" I said, using my fingernails, but very lightly.
"Oh, my God," she purred. "Yes . . . that . . . feels . . . great."
I continued stroking gently, and as I did so, I widened the arc of my sweep
so that occasionally -- very occasionally, so she couldn't sit straight up
and yell rape -- I let one of my thumbs graze her pussy lips. Each grazing
brought a minuscule flinch, but no complaints.
As I rubbed, I noticed tiny goose bumps rising on her flesh. I mentioned
this, and added that she may be experiencing a little cold from the
evaporating alcohol.
"Here," I said, "I'll warm that up for you," and I leaned forward, my mouth
hardly more than an inch above her swollen pussy lips, and gently let
a lung full of warm air waft out and across her skin, making sure the warmth
included her clit.
"Oh, God . . . what are you doing?" Becky called as if from a great distance
away. Her eyes were closed, but her eyebrows were raised as if in a
question.
"Just warming you up, Becky," I said softly.
"Well . . . you're doing a pretty good job of it," she said, and almost as if
being guided by an inner set of genetic instructions, her legs opened
noticeably, as if asking for more.
By now, I was on the verge of giving up the pretense, but I had never been
in this position before, and for me, it was still a precarious one. All she
had to do was pull up her britches and run into the street, screaming rape.
As of yet, nothing absolute had been said. But, on the other hand, I
reasoned, what is left to say when a woman is laying there with her legs
open and your mouth is hovering an inch above her pussy.
"Well . . . lemme see if this helps," I said, and I leaned forward, and let
out a gently breath of hot air, starting just above her pubic hair line, and
then worked my way down to directly above her clit, which, if I wasn't
mistaken had begun to twitch.
"Ooohhhh, yyyeeeesssss." Becky said. "Yessss."
Keeping my mouth just a fraction of an inch above her clit and thinking,
"here goes everything," I said, "And if that helps, how about this . . . ."
and as I said it, I moved my mouth closer so that my moving lips nudged
her clitty with every word.
That did it.
Becky thrust her pelvis forward so that her clit literally jumped between
my parted lips. That was all it took for me, too. I drew the little button
into my mouth and began running my tongue over her swelling little point.
About the third stroke of my tongue, Becky came up on her elbows,
her voice loud. "MY GOD, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
Oh, God, I thought. I'm busted. She's going to go through the roof, start
screaming. I could already hear jail bars clanging shut behind me.
"I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry, Becky. Please . . . ."
"NO. DON'T STOP! Oh, God. What are you doing?"
I had to stop to tell her what I was doing.
"Well, Becky. Basically, it's called eating pussy . . .' and I was about to
go on, but Becky interrupted.
"Whatever . . . it's wonderful," she sang out. "Just wonderful! I've
never . . . ."
And then it hit me. What I thought earlier was probably true. This was
her first time, ever.
I lowered my head and very gently resumed eating her. I stopped long enough
to say, "Just lay back, now, Becky. Lay back and let the feelings take
you away."
A long moan floated up from somewhere deep inside of her. Her hips rocked
gently in time with my up-licks, matching my rhythm so that my tongue passed
rather quickly, but harshly across her clit. In moments, her whole lower
torso began twitching and flinching in time with my tongue.
Then, she went stiff, her back pressed into the couch, her hips rose, her
puffy pussy lips slipping over my lips and onto my cheeks, her clit swelling
to the size of a cherry. She grabbed the back of my head and forced me down
and onto her pussy mound. I licked and slurped as fast as I could, trying
to keep up with the river of pussy juice that flowed from her.
Again and again, she strained against me until her hips fell exhausted onto
the couch.
"Aauuggghhh . . . Ohhhh," she moaned, almost crying. "I've . . . never
... . nnnneeeevvvveeeeerrrrr . . . felt anything like that," she sang.
"Whew," she added. "Let me catch my breath, and then . . . then . . . "
"And what?" I asked.
"God, I dunno," she breathed. "Whatever comes next, I guess," she said,
going silent for a moment. She took a few more breaths, raised her head
and said, "What does come next?" she smiled.
As it happened, I had just downloaded and read a file from an adult site
that went into detail about something called a Yoni Massage. It was a
technique for massaging a woman's pussy. In the end, it wasn't a whole lot
different from an average rubdown. But, there were differences, and I had
been hoping to have an opportunity to try out the whole procedure.
According to the instructions I read, I began by massaging her pussy lips
using oil and the flat of both hands. While one hand went toward the
vertical, the other hand pulled down, causing both lips to rub gently
together as they passed each other. But more important, as I saw it
happening before my eyes, was that as each lip rose and fell in opposition
to the other lip, caught in between these puffy pussy lips was old
Miss Clitty being gently squeezed, pressed, slipped past, protruding out,
and then sinking in again.
Her clit rose and fell, rubbed and relaxed, all by the stretching motion of
gently but firmly pulling her pussy lips up and down.
The next phase called for inserting a finger inside her vagina, and then,
tipping the finger up, as if calling someone to you by wagging your finger
in a "come here" motion.
Becky's pussy was already dripping from the eating and massage I gave it,
and now it was absolutely dripping as I slid my finger into her slippery
hole and began wagging it. Each wag brought my finger in contact with the
roof of her vagina and the rough spot that lives just inside the entrance
to her love cave.
Becky began moving in tiny little pulses in time to my finger movements
when I introduced the third element of the Yoni massage by gently seeking
out her virgin rosebud asshole just below her vagina, and inserted another
finger. I purposely worked it in very slowly so that she could stop the
motion anytime it became too much for her. But, she never did. As my
finger slipped behind the rubbery donut of her asshole, and my other finger
slipped deeper into her vagina, my thumb came to rest against her clit, just
as it said it would in the directions for the Yoni massage. I began a
very slow, rhythmic plunging circular motion that worked both her
love tunnels while rolling her clit beneath my thumb.
Becky began stiffening again. I could tell she was trying to hold off
hitting another peak so that she could savor the moment, so I, too, backed
off a little and brought her down a notch. Again and again, I applied just
enough pressure to bring her up, and then back down. Up and down.
Climax pending, climax descending. All the while, I could tell that the
sphincter of her anus was loosening, getting used to having something inside
its rubbery grasp.
Finally, I could tell Becky was having a hard time holding off because
her virgin pussy muscles began twitching as though sucking my finger deeper
and deeper into her pinkness. And then, it gripped her . . . a giant
muscle contraction that brought her entire body up. Her ass rose out of the
curve of the seat as she thrust against my hand. I returned the pressure,
and to my utter amazement, as I pushed my fingers deeper inside her sopping
pussy, I felt the unmistakable resistance of her hymen at the end of my
finger.
"Aaaaahhhhh. Oooohhh, GGGgooooooddddddd. I'mmmmm ccccuummiinnnggg.
God . . . don't . . . let . . . this . . . ssstttoooopppppp."
As Becky thrust and fought against my hand, seeking deeper penetration,
I managed with my free hand to undo my pants and shove them down. My cock,
so painful inside my pants, sprung free inches from her pussy and bobbed
like the arm of a scale seeking balance.
Becky's eyes were barely open slits. Sensing my movements, she peered
through the mists of emotion, and, seeing my cock swaying above her,
thrust again, higher as if trying to impale herself on my stiff love
pole.
"Yyeessssss," she hissed. "Do it . . . do it. Put that cock in my
pussy."
I withdrew my fingers from all of her holes, and spread her lips. With
my other hand, I guided my cock toward her glistening pussy.
" . . . just one thing," came her voice. It sounded tiny, now.
"Yes?" I said.
"Be careful . . . this . . . this is . . . my . . . first . . . time."
I lined up my pulsing cock with her pussy, and pushed tentatively,
knowing what I would find just a couple of inches inside.
"I know, Becky . . . I felt it when you came."
"You're my first . . . my very first. Make it nice for me . . ."
And so, I began a series of very small strokes, letting Becky get the feel
of hard meat in her virgin wet softness. It was all I could do not to come.
A good pussy does that to me, not to mention a virgin pussy. And more than
that, here I was inside a woman whose body I had been looking at, dreaming
about, feeling, stroking, touching for weeks. By now, I could have chiseled
a statue out of steel with my cock. Forcing myself to go slow was about
the last straw for me.
But it was Becky's obvious pleasure that kept me focused, that kept me
hanging on the edge. Anything to please her.
I kept adding length to my cock-stroke and soon enough, I began to feel
the resistance of her hymen. Becky looked up at me. She tried to speak
aloud, but she was in the midst of starting to cum again. "Now," she
mouthed silently to me. "Take it now . . . push through . . . do it
when I . . . when I . . ." and she couldn't go on.
Convulsion after convulsion ripped through her body and in one final thrust,
she impaled her ballooned pussy lips onto my cock, driving it in and in
and in and past her final frontier.
The feel of her cherry stretching and then popping drove me over the edge,
too. My balls were already boiling, and when they erupted, thick globs
of white cum sprayed against her cervix. With nowhere else to go, it boiled
down around my cock, dripping out of her pussy and onto my balls.
We stayed like that for at least ten minutes, letting my cock deflate and
finally slip from her steaming cunt. And while things came back down to
room temperature, we talked. A lot. About all kinds of things. About how
beautiful a pussy looks when it's completely bald, when the hair has been cut
so closely that there is no hint of a stubble. Or, how much better it is if
there is no stubble at all. None. Ever. As in, if the pussy hair has been
removed permanently.
And so began my time with Becky, and my adventures in exploring the hills
of Becky. We'd spend about one night a week at the salon, slowly but
surely removing the hair from her pussy. It seemed to take forever, though.
I'd hardly get started poking around her beautiful pussy, and the first
thing you know, we were right back where we started . . . me blowing hot
breath on her and massaging her pussy and remembering how it had been when
I first stormed the hills of a virgin. Not many men can say that, today.
End