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.