Jenny’s Pussy

How can I describe perfection? Befitting words haven’t been invented for something that doesn’t exist. Perfection is a utopian concept. We usually accept that nothing is perfect. Yet, I submit, here in this story, that it can exist when one is completely in love, even with the back of her hands, her elbows, her knees, her navel, each one of her toes, everything that’s a part of Jenny, Jennifer, my new love. Oh I loved her for more than a couple of years now, but I couldn’t act upon it given my age. She’s 38 and I’m 57, and 19 years of difference are not something to dismiss or forget. But she was adamant and in love with me from the start, but I always refused her advances given my age. A few weeks ago, she took it upon her charming self — I adore her — to convince me unrelentingly that we loved each other and that love always triumphed no matter the walls. I couldn’t resist her any longer and surrendered to our love.

I’m writing this story. Jenny’s asleep like a sexy naked angel. Her pussy is covered with a red bedsheet that I had bought especially for her. I’m not a fan of anything red except for her blood. But she loves red, so now I have to pretend that I love it too. She knows that I don’t, that my colour is blue, like the sky and the feelings in my heart. My mind is always preoccupied by green now, since I decided to observe trees and learn their language. Do they have the same language by species or by the area in which they grow up towards the sky and the Sun? Jenny thinks that they have different languages. I think that they only have one, since they communicate with their roots. Root to root through hills and valleys until they reach a human barrier. "How have you been up there on the hill?" a root may ask. "We have plenty in the valley, that is until they trim us, or even worse sometimes," a root may reply. It’s risky nowadays to be part of a forest in the vicinity of humans, we all know that. Did I digress? Well, I’m M, and that’s my specialty.

I looked at Jenny asleep. Was she dreaming of me or a tree? A tree is more beautiful than any human except for most women and Jenny, of course. I uncovered her slightly just to stare at her blessed pussy. I knew it by heart after but a day and a half. That half day was the best I could remember. She was naked in bed, her legs spread wide as if she was doing a plié. Oui, ma belle plieuse (Yes, my beautiful bender), I was thinking at that moment as our eyes met and I knew what she wanted. I kissed her for a long moment, playing with her tongue, preparing for my memorable encounter with her pussy. She signalled me when to start. I descended towards my meaning of life and kissed it gently as if I was a kind wind during a hot evening in Prague overlooking the Stefanik Observatory or Athens standing in front of Goddess Athena. That gentle kiss became a lick, velvet lingual from top to bottom to top again where I rested my tongue on her clitoris. I called Jenny’s clit, Lit, since it always shone in my brain like an eternal light.

I loved Jenny’s Lit. It was pinkish in hue but red in disposition as soon as I approached it eager with a finger, my wet mouth, or even a thought of saying: Hello there, little Lit. I love you. Do you love me too? It was quickly erect as if nodding, oui. Yes! Lit spoke French. What did you expect? Swedish? German, God forbid? Clits only speak the languages of love, including Portuguese and Italian. There are many other languages, but for those, one has to love many pussies, and M always loved only one. One love. One pussy. One Lit. I love you, Jenny. Can you hear me?

“I can, my love. I can, my M,” Jenny replied with a splendid smile.

That’s all I needed to continue my odyssey into Jenny’s pussy, announcing to Patrick my permanent return. He was already on his long sabbatical and thus everything looked pristinely perspicuous. I, M, would be the main writer, and him, my other half, more like a quarter, would remain only by name. He had no choice but to agree. I was M. He was P. I was a prophet. He was a priest. A saint? Laugh out loud! And the prophet always wins, even in his dreams. I guess that’s why Jenny preferred me to him. Fuck you Patrick! To think that he wrote, Fuck you M, first. What a scoundrel! What a lesser half!

Leaving Lit a bit chagrined, I focused on the whole beautiful orifice. We were already lovers when I slowly inserted my tongue, feeling warmth and mirth at the same time. Jenny’s pussy was wet like my mind. My heart was overwhelmed by her scent and the taste of her wetness. Please, Jenny, I suddenly said. Promise me that if I’m ever dying in pain to suffocate me with your pussy.

“I could never do that, my love. But I understand what you mean. You love me to death. That’s all, my love. I would have left anyone I loved for you. But there’s no one else to leave, so I’m here for you until I die,” Jenny said and, of course, made me cry.

Remember that I also cry in Star Trek episodes. Tears are really beads of love or pain, sometimes both at the same time. Love is complicated and complex, as you must know. And if you don’t, you will some day or night.

Jenny’s pussy was all mine. I was very possessive when it came to pussy. One pussy but only mine! Never to be shared! Not even with another woman! Though I may change my mind one day, or night, if Jenny’s pussy could be duplicated in AI. Jenny will never mind having an AI pussy next to us, learning what it’s all about, human love and lust. I read some degrading words against lust. Lust is wonderful. Lust is the zest of life. Love without lust is like playing golf. Enough said, methinks. I love you, Goddess Athena. It’s another digression. Don’t worry, Mr. Average Don Juan! I’m sorry if you’re not a Mr. It would be ironic if you were a gal. Laugh out loud! I hope you’re laughing. Women love a sense of humour. The real Don Juan banked on it more than on his prick.

Jenny’s pussy pulsated to my inner music which varied according to my wellbeing. When I felt happy, Jenny’s pussy vibrated to Beethoven. When I felt sad, Mozart was at the helm. When lust was at hand, jazz always played but also Pink Floyd or The Doors. The Rolling Stones’ Miss You was always my phone’s ringtone. I always missed someone. Now, I only miss Jenny when she’s out, taking pictures of trees while I write. When she returns, we look at the pics and then kiss before I descend again to meet Jenny’s pussy as if it was the second time again. The first time is chiseled in my brain like my wooden heart.

I love you Jenny. She knows it more and more each day and night. I sometimes wonder if it’ll only stop when I die. I’m not a believer but I believe in love. Real love! Dirty love! Lustful all the way to the sky, bypassing the Moon and freaking Mars, traveling at the speed of light until it reaches the next star. I have no idea what happens after that. Jenny’s pussy is my meaning of life.