To Helen, this was both delightful and frustrating. She wanted it from the front, the tongue slapping the clitoris. Of course, Cleo had planned it that way.
But Helen waited, hoping Cleo would return to the delightful nipping of the ass cheeks that excites so many nerve-ends and sends such delicious sensations coursing through the body.
Cleo knew this want and she supplied it once more.
But she kept a hand on that cunt.
Helen lay on one arm and thought that even if the plane crashed down into the ocean, right now, she would want Carlotta to go on making love to her.
Now came the signaclass="underline" Turn over!
On her back, Helen drew Carlotta to her for more soul-kisses. She did not let the lithe Argentinean go until her tongue grew actually tired.
The humming and quivering remained delightfully in her mouth when Carlotta switched ends again and they played female sixty-nine.
As they both knew, sixty-nine is easier to play when at least one of the partners has a long, hard prick. When two women do it, it takes a lot of stretching the neck. But both Helen and Carlotta were young and active. They went at each other, tongues flickering eagerly.
They found the right angle and they went to work.
Helen soon realized that her experiences with other woman had not given her anything like Carlotta's cunt-licking expertise.
Carlotta knew the nerve centers, not only in the cunt, but along in the delicate areas on either side of the outer lips, where cunt meets thigh.
While Helen was seeking honey in the depths of Carlotta honey pot, Carlotta was giving her certain preliminaries that had been brought to Spain by the Moors in the tenth century, and had been used heavily by the harem women who had had little to do all day beside cunt-lick. Also these techniques had had time to become perfected since then.
Like the South American snake that lonely women often use for sexual excitation, Carlotta's tongue made its sinuous way along the outside of Helen's cunt lips. By the time that wise tongue had made a circumnavigation, Helen was getting so overcome with sensation that she hardly could make her own tongue go.
Then Carlotta settled down to tonguing Helen's clit.
Helen gave up. She couldn't go on doing her own tonguing while this wonder of wonders was happening to her. She did not know that Carlotta was tongue bating her clit according to a mathematical formula worked out by the ancient Mayan astronomers in their lonely towers. Provided with women, boys, female llamas or whatever else they needed to keep them happy, they had discovered more about sex than the average American whorehouse madam would ever remember, let alone believe.
So Carlotta went a secret number of times clockwise and a secret number of times counterclockwise around Helen's throbbing clitoris. She then felt for a certain pulse at the other end of the cunt, and did it again, but counter-clockwise first.
By now she had twisted her lithe body around once more and was able to concentrate better. Having Helen firmly in control, she went from the hostess's clit to her yearning fuck tunnel. Here she did something simple; that is, simple to someone who has studied a certain art most of her life. She simply drove Helen wild.
When her twisting, searching tongue had caused slow rings of heat to march up and down the length of the fuck tunnel, and Helen was holding her own breasts, actually digging her nails into her breasts in her excitement, and moaning, "Uh, uh, uh, uh," Carlotta turned her attention to the areas of Helen's sticky cunt that she had not yet dealt with. These were, first of all, the outer lips.
But in order to give them her full attention, Carlotta wanted a position called the Buenos Aires Angle.
Forsaking Helen for a moment – but with a whispered promise to return immediately, and a loving nip at the ear for reassurance – Carlotta got a cushion off the couch and seated herself on it, kneeling at the edge of the bed.
She then worked the wildly humping Helen around, and got her settled with her legs up over her own shoulders. This presented Helen's cunt in a highly approachable position.
"Shhh," she said fondly, trying to control Helen's abandoned thrashing. "Now the come."
By lifting one of Helen's legs, then the other, she altered the angle of the cunt so that she could go at it sidewise and with her clever lips pull the outer lips, first the right one, then the left, as though, if she pulled farther, she would make the lip cover the cunt with a kind of weird modesty.
Rather than try to pull that tender cunt apart as the rapist had done to Helen as a high-school girl, Carlotta was putting its parts more closely together. This of course concentrated the heat and Helen felt as though she had been brought to the Equator and displayed, legs spread, to the tropic sun, whose penetrating heat run all around her pelvis and up her spine to her head and back again.
Carlotta mouthed the outer lips well, lingering where she knew the nerves came together in sensitive junctions.
She gave the fuck tunnel another quick flip and penetration and then put her finger down into it and made her finger vibrate. The muscles inside grabbed at her finger convulsively.
Carlotta now slanted her finger to one side, thus making room for her face, and slithered her tongue at the inner lips, feeling meanwhile the vibrations rising. Yes, her new friend, whom she really liked, was approaching the time of the Pampas Wind, the great tempest that carries all before it.
Slanting her finger to the other side, Carlotta was about to get her tongue in there again when she felt the tiny spasms inside Helen's fuck tunnel give way to great surges of sexcited flesh.
"Good, good," murmured the expert, and did not mind Helen's heels beating her back while the other woman humped and moaned and thrashed her arms in the ecstasy off her long delayed climax.
When Helen had recovered somewhat, she bent her own face into Carlotta's twat and made sure that marvelous woman achieved her own climax.
Then they rested in each other's arms.
"Who needs men, my darling, my darling," murmured Helen, gently kissing Carlotta's nipples.
Carlotta whispered, "Shhh. We see about this. We see."
"Well, Captain," said Cleo Prentice as she came out of the short-wave phone booth, "you might like to know that one of your hostesses is a lesbian. Caught her at it."
"Yeh?" said Hank, suppressing an urge to hit the smugly smiling woman in the tweed tailleur.
"Here are my credentials, by the way."
"Yeh, yeh, you're one of Security's undercover cunts."
"Really, Captain! One supposes that a Chief Pilot has regard for the welfare of Wanderlust Airlines!"
"Sure. I fly the planes safe. Hey, wait a minute. Weren't you a Wanderlust hostess yourself, once? And didn't you get fired for fucking women?"
Cleo Prentice drew herself up and glared at him. "That is a very crude way of putting a most subtle matter. Merely that any intelligent woman can come to realize that she has been making a mistake. I consider it now my sacred duty to cleanse Wanderlust of lesbian trash."
"Yeh," choked Hank, forcibly keeping his clenched fists at his side.
"Now, Captain, you ought to be getting a message from Security at any moment, covering the Helen Troy matter."
He turned his back and walked away. He presented a thundercloud face to the passengers. In the cockpit, he snatched away the copilot's newspaper and shouted, "Goddamit, you're in command here when I'm out!"
"Sure, Hank, but what am I going to do while the computer flies us in a straight line and no red lights or buzzers are sounding?"
"Well, ACT busy!"
Slamming into his seat, slapping on his headphones, Hank Hastings shouted back at the communications man: "Get the printout on that message that's just coming in."