"Oh, shit!" Jill griped, sitting down. She eyed the hairy exposure. "It really looks gross, doesn't it?" I didn't think so. I thought it was cute. But I knew what she meant. She picked up scissors from her vanity and started to snip away at the offending hairs.

"You'd better let me," I volunteered, slipping off the bed and onto my knees beside her. Jill surrendered the scissors, then untied her bikini pants to give me better access.

I pulled softly at the clumps of tufted fuzz, dipping where it seemed necessary. She felt like spun silk to my fingers and I had a hard time taking my eyes off the center of her auburn delta, where a very ripe, very pink ravine peeked vertically through the curls. Once upon a time I'd have touched her there. I'd have tickled her gash with my index finger, tracing up and down the puffy outer works until the tight space between them was just beginning to dew over with a coating of mist, and then I'd have started to work my way inside while she chewed on her lip and squeezed her boobs and patted my head once in a while, and I'd hear her purr and make sudden little groans that could have been anguish or joy-groans that made a matching dewy moisture spring out of my own depths and coat the lips of the love trap I carried between my thighs.

And in another moment Jill would have her hand in my panties, petting me as I petted and played with her. But where I was always so soft and gentle, she was usually frantic and frenzied, and she'd have her middle finger jammed up me before I'd even finished the preliminaries on her clit. As if it mattered. Because when she thrust up me, I'd go all glassy-eyed and round-mouthed, and I'd giggle, and then I'd start giving her pussy bloody hell. Once upon a time.