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This is Part 3 of my Balkan adventures. It follows Mongol Hoard and Trans-Ending. If you haven’t read those all you need to know is: it is around midnight in the hotel in which a language course is in progress; I have had a night with a transwoman I called Borte, and a session with her and two cis-women I called Marina and Bistra.

That tumultuous four-way had, naturally, spread its exudations extensively on sheets and towels, and I decided I would seek the night staff and request fresh bed-linen and towels. It was not that I didn’t relish the scent of the secretions, but I didn’t want to stain the blankets or carpet. Besides, it would be uncomfortable lying in that slippery swamp.

I took a shower, straining to empty the Borte tribute from my rectum, slipped on my blouse and skirt, picked up the bundle of laundry, and padded in bare feet down the stairs to the foyer. Behind the desk was the receptionist who had booked me in, and disappeared when Borte had taken charge. Obviously she was the duty staff member.

As I approached she started, as if in shock, and stood up, staring at me with what I read at first as a horrified or disgusted expression. I surmised that she had understood on my arrival that Borte and I were going to, and doubtless did, have, sex, and she was repelled. Hotel staff know all about the guests, so she probably also knew that Bistra and Marina had spent the night together, and even that they, Borte and I had just concluded a fuckathon. Or maybe she was disapproving of my presenting myself bra-less in public.

I smiled and bade her dobro vece. She recovered into professional mode, and, pointing to the armful I was carrying, asked if I wanted clean items. I nodded and she collected a bunch of keys from the desk, moved out from behind it and set off down a corridor. I didn’t know whether I should wait for her to bring the necessary or follow.

Intrigued by her reaction I decided to follow. She stopped outside and unlocked a door, stepped into the room and switched on the light. I again followed and she looked round, as if alarmed by my intrusion. The room was shelved floor to ceiling on all walls to hold the hotel’s stocks of bedroom and bathroom gear. In the middle of the room was a large bare table, presumably to enable sorting and folding.

She gestured for me to drop my load in a corner, turned her back and moved towards a pile of towels on a rack at head height. She reached up to collect one or two from the top of the stack, but then remained in that position until she pushed her face into the towels and again stood still. I wondered if she felt ill or faint and stepped towards her to catch her if her legs gave way.

Before I could ask her if she was all right or take hold of her, her shoulders began to shake. For a second I thought she was laughing, but then I realised she was sobbing, trying to suppress the sound by burying her face in the towels.

Of course, I put an arm round her and tried to turn her round. She resisted at first, but realised I was not going to let go and turned to present her tear-stained face. Which I pressed against my chest by putting a hand behind her head. We stood like that for some minutes, without speaking, until she recovered some control, pulled herself free and dragged down a towel to mop herself up with, though the tears had had yet ceased. She was clearly embarrassed or ashamed, and would not meet my eye, and not because she had broken down but for some other reason.

‘Now,’ I said, ‘Tell me, please.’

She struggled to find the English, but eventually said, ‘You go with Mongol woman.’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘You are lezzyban,’ she said and it was not clear if this was neutral or disapproving. ‘Yes, I’m a lesbian, but I like men, too, sometimes.’ Better leave it at that.

‘Is wrong to go with woman.’ Was that a question or an accusation?

‘Do you think so?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know. I have not done.’

‘Did you want to, with woman or with man?’

‘It is not possible for me.’ She began to weep again and I gathered her close. Did she have a moral objection, or was there a medical condition?

‘Is that why you are crying?’ Inspiration.

She cried all the harder. Confirmation enough.

‘You think about this because you know I can and do?’

She nodded.

‘What makes you think that you can’t do it?’

More nodding.

‘Because you are different?’

More, and more desperate, sobbing. She pulled hack and tried to blot up the tears with the towel she was still clutching.

I released her, took her hands, drew her to the table and helped her up onto it. I joined her. We sat side by side, like two schoolgirls perched on a wall, legs dangling. ‘What is your name?’ I asked.

It was a flower name, so I will call her ‘Nevenka.’ Marigold.

I gathered her history, in English supplemented by my limited Serbo-Croat. She had been born in a tiny village at the back of beyond, and in the Balkans the back of beyond is beyond bahis firmaları the back of beyond. She had been bright at primary school, and gone to live with an aunt in the nearest town to attend secondary school, where she had learned English. She had no higher education, but her basic English, and personable appearance, were enough to secure her work in a tourist hotel.

She was younger than I had first estimated, only thirty-two, but whatever the nature of her being different, unable to be intimate with women or men, its stress had etched lines in her forehead and beside her eyes. It was time to tackle the problem. ‘How are you different?’

‘I am ugly.’

‘Oh no, your certainly are not. You are an attractive woman.’

‘It is not my face.’

‘Something is wrong with your body?’

She made a supreme effort and choked back the upwelling tears.

‘What part of your body?’ I asked.

‘I am like man.’

‘How are you like a man?’

‘It is in my woman part.’

I began to have an inkling and deliberated how to go on.

‘You think something is wrong with your genitalije’

She could not speak and reverted to nodding.

‘Can you say what is wrong?’

‘It is like man.’

‘Do you know the word clitoris?’ It’s the same in Serbo-Croat, with k.

‘I know.’

‘You think your clitoris is different?’

‘It is very big.’

‘Have you seen other women’s?’


‘Have you seen pictures? On the internet there are thousands.’

‘It is wrong to look at them.’

‘But if you looked you could see if yours was different.’

I got off the table, fetched a towel from the rack and laid it on the table beside her. Then I climbed onto the table and lay down on my back. She was puzzled and watched. But after a moment she guessed what I was going to do. She said, ‘I must not see.’

‘Looking at my clitoris won’t make you a lesbian,’ I said. ‘Get off the table so you can see properly.’ I drew up my skirt and parted my legs a little. What a day it had been for Show and Tell — two days, since it was after midnight.

She slowly got down, turned and snatched a glance, like a child stealing a sweet.

‘Bend forward and have a good look,’ I said, pulling my labia open. ‘Can you see?’

‘I can see,’ she said, now gazing intently.

‘Does it look different from yours?’

‘It is like same but not big.’

‘They come in many sizes and shapes. This is one is middle-sized.’ I got off the towel and table and dropped my skirt. She looked apprehensive, guessing what I would say. ‘Nevenka, I have seen a hundred clitorises, of all sizes. I can tell you if yours is different.’

She made several attempts to get on the table, semi-deliberately failing. Eventually I boosted her back into sitting, picked up her legs, swivelled her on her bottom and laid her on her back. She was trembling, with apprehension.

‘You want me to look, but you’re frightened of what I’ll say.’

She nodded, and I took hold of the hem of her dress. She put a hand on her knee to stop me, but then withdrew it and looked up at the ceiling, like a patient awaiting an examination which might reveal a fatal condition.

I drew the front of the skirt up. It was full enough to give me access to a large, loose pair of knickers, their fabric perished through years of washing. ‘Lift bottom, dupa,’ I said. ‘Has a doctor ever seen it? I thought not.’

She scrabbled with her heels, but I dragged the knickers down, bringing into view a generous mons-mufft. I did not need a magnifying-glass to inspect her clitoris, but it was not, as she had complained, ‘big.’ It was enormous. It resembled an acorn in size and shape, nestling in its hood-cup, protruding proudly from the north end of her quim, which was otherwise unremarkable, except insofar as I love to see any vulva.

As I looked she stiffened and even ground her teeth.

‘Look at me, Nevenka,’ I commanded, and waited while she forced herself to turn her head and attend to my verdict. ‘You have a big clitoris, Nevenka, but it is absolutely normal, and it is magnificent, splendid, superb, beautiful. You know those words? It is cudesan, lep, velicantsven. You are so lucky. It is a treasure. Men love big ones, and women will love it if they love you.’

‘It is right?’ A glimmer of hope.

‘It is as right as a clitoris can be.’

‘We could go and show it to the women I was with earlier, and they would say the same, I promise you. They would want to kiss it, like me.’

‘That is not right,’ she said, and I sensed the objection was not to a lesbian act. There was still some further fear or doubt. I asked, ‘Have you never touched it to give yourself pleasure?

‘No, no,’ she said, ‘It has bad feeling.’ She pushed down her skirt.

‘You mean it’s painful?’

‘No, it is opposite, that is wrong.’

‘It is wrong that it gives pleasure?’

‘Yes. Woman must have pleasure in rodnica.’

Somehow this poor woman had kaçak iddaa imbibed the idea that sexual enjoyment should be vaginal only.

‘My dear Nevenka,’ I said, ‘Most women enjoy sex through their clitoris.’

‘That is only lezzybans, lesbians,’ she informed me.

‘Ah,’ I said, ‘So if you have pleasure from your clitoris you must be a lesbian?’

She nodded.

‘No, dear Nevenka. Where and how women get sexual pleasure is different for every woman, whether she is a married, a lesbian, or a virgin, devica, like you.’

‘It is wrong for devica to have this.’

‘Why7’ I asked.

‘Only married woman must have.’

‘You have got these ideas from someone. Maybe your mother or the aunt you lived with. But you don’t have to follow. You are a beautiful, mature woman. You can choose how you live. Don’t other women you know choose how they live?’

She made no reply, and I went on, ‘I am going to give you pleasure now. It will not make you a lesbian. It will show you what your perfect clitoris is for.’ I turned back her skirt, leaving the knickers still pulled down to mid-thigh. ‘You want me to, really, don’t you?’

I waited for her nod, as I was not going to do clitoral rape, and then bent to begin.

Instinctively she clapped a hand over her pussy, but then took it away. Now she was trembling, with anxious anticipation.

‘Just tell me, what happens, Nevenka,’ I said, noting that she quivered from my breath stirring her muff. ‘I will stop any time.’

When I touched that ripe pink acorn with my tongue-tip she flinched, and I stopped to say, ‘It is sensitive, that’s its nature.’ I pushed my tongue alongside the organ and circled it, as if licking an icecream cone.

She jerked and gave a little exclamation, but this was not a demand to desist but a response to the tide of feeling spreading out, like a ripple on a pond from a dropped stone. And, naturally, the fruit did something an oak tree cannot do. Its stem lengthened and stiffened, and the shiny dome swelled, so that I was able to suck the whole growth into my mouth and mash it with my lips as I slurped it with my tongue.

Suddenly she grabbed my hair and pulled my head away. She said, ‘It goes bigger, like man petel.’

‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Clitorises behave like penises. They go harder, erect. You are not a man, I assure you, Nevenka’

‘It is doing right things?’ she asked, anxiously.

‘It is doing exactly what it should do. Does it feel good?’

‘It makes good feeling.’

‘That good feeling will get stronger and stranger and spread through your body.’ I resumed my lingual and labial attentions and it was clear that the good feeling was increasing and invading just as I hoped. It was, in fact, quite evident that this impressive nub was as orgasmaphilic as it was majestic in proportions.

She began to heave and gasp. She was even a little fearful. She said, ‘It is so much feeling, so much. What happen to me?’

I withdrew my mouth to say, ‘The feeling will get stronger until it makes a great storm everywhere inside you.’ I resumed, sensing that the moment was nigh.

She began grabbing at me with her nearest hand, and I took and held it to reassure her, like a passenger on a jet trying to reassure her neighbour that all is well. She held tight and continued the ascent into the orgasmasphere, where she was suffused with beneficial radiation from the root and branch of her responsive toolet. I thought, as so often, how delightful it would be if a clitoris could ejaculate. This one would have shattered my front teeth. Instead it was gratifying to observe the flow from her virgin vagina. Or was she now deflowered? Did there really have to be penile penetration to make the breach? What about a partner’s fingers, such as those I was now slipping into her to complete the climax?

She lay breathing hard, and rolling from side to side, as the tissue-tempest blew itself out. She dozed a few minutes, woke, and said, ‘Do you have like that with women?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘And with men, if they know what to do.’

‘And putting petel in rodnica, also?’

‘Yes. I love to feel a petel in my rodnica.’

She sat up, wriggled off the table, her hare bottom leaving a slit-slick on the table by the towel, and pulled up her knickers. ‘You can do like that with man petel?’

Yes, indeed, though that is usually messier.’

She snuggled into my arms. ‘You have teach me much much,’ she said.

‘Your clitoris is your dear friend, not an enemy,’ I said. ‘She is always there, always ready to give you joy and satisfaction. You can’t use your tongue on your own, but you can use a finger any time you want.’

‘You can do many times?’

‘Women vary in that, too. I can cum five or six times quite quickly, but some can do it many more times. You will find out your own ways.’

Just then the telephone rang in reception and she hastened away to answer it. I stayed put, because I guessed she would return, and there would be kaçak bahis more explorations before daybreak. I heard her put down the phone and hasten upstairs. I thought of her leaking into the loose gusset of those well-worn knickers.

She came back into the linen-storage room, giving me a shy, even conspiratorial smile, and said, ‘Woman was hot and cannot open window.’

‘How do you feel now, Nevenka?’ I asked.

‘Different from before.’

‘You are different from before, because you know something new about yourself.’

She came close and said, ‘I can do when I want?’

‘You certainly cane. When you do it for yourself it is called masturbation. Some women do it every day, some do it many times a week. I do it when I feel like it, when I have no-one to have sex with. Sometimes women do it together.’

‘It is more than I knew.’

‘Somewhere I was reading that about a quarter of women make love with another woman at least once. Of course, they don’t all go on doing it, but women together is commoner than many people think.’

By common consent we hoisted ourselves back onto the table edge and I put my arm round her. ‘For me what matters is whether I like the person, man or woman, and if I want to do it with them.’

‘You like doing to me?’

‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘I love to make people come, have orgasm.’

‘You like me to do with you, to make orgasm?’

‘Very much,’ I said, ‘You are a beautiful woman.’

‘I will do with mouth?’

‘Well, I have had a shower, but you can use your fingers instead, or as well.’

This was touching and exciting, a woman who had never orgasmed till now with her own clitoris, and had never worked another woman’s was now going to attend to mine. She really was several kinds of virgin. I waited for her to take charge.

‘Maybe you lie on towel,’ she said, helping me as I had done her. She lifted my skirt and giggled. ‘I saw before you have not gacica.’

‘Panties, knickers, no. Didn’t think I’d need them just to change my sheets.’

She stared at my groin-grove a moment or two and said, ‘I can touch now?’

‘I shall be disappointed if you don’t.’

She tentatively placed her forefinger in my vulva jest below the target and moved it against the glanslet. ‘I move my finger?’

‘Rub gently beside it. Yes, that’s right. No, wait a minute, I have a better idea.’ She withdrew her hand. I said, ‘The best way to find out how is to try on yourself.’

‘But I have done before.’

‘You came before, yes, but I’m sure you can come again.’

‘I do myself?’

‘Yes, I want to watch. Take off your gacica and lie beside me.’

There was no reluctance this time. She was soon in position, skirt up and ready to go.

‘Of course,’ I said, ‘It would be much better if you could undress completely, but you have to be ready to deal with any emergency. We’ll get you naked, but not now.’

She watched as I slid my hand over my belly and homed in on my clitoris and began that gentle circular motion with the finger-tips which is, I suspect a staple of female tossing off. The trick is, I think, to tease it obliquely, grazing the glans only, pressing into the flesh below it. Experimentation is how most women accumulate their masturbatory techniques.

Nevenka said, ‘Special feeling is coming?’

‘Oh, yes. Try touching yourself like this.’

‘I have never done, you know,’ she said, ‘I thought feeling was wrong.’ She rubbed and teased that spectacular clitoris, seeking the best forms of touch, and readily finding them, because quite quickly she was beginning to shake and breathe faster. ‘It is making strong,’ she said, ‘It goes bigger.’

‘See if we can come together,’ I said, ‘That’s always good. Tell me when you’re going to come. You’ll know all right.’

In the middle of the Balkan night, two women lay side by side on a table coaching their clitorises towards orgasm, One was a virgin seeking only her second climax, the other was a veteran of a thousand, a hundred thousand, climaxes brought about by a hundred, a thousand, means. The maiden had so far experienced only a friendly tongue and was about to finger herself to her second ecstasy, assisted by the psychic, pheremonic companionship of the old-stager, who was herself stimulated by the novelty and the voyeurism of the occasion. How she loves to watch sex and thrill to overseen orgasms!

Nevenka, the novice, was a virgin voyeur, but a budding one, because she was excited by watching my five-finger exercises while exploring the possibilities of her own clitoral gymnastics. I began to wonder if she hadn’t been staging a skilful charade for me — perhaps all the protestations and hesitations had been a hoax, because she was actually an experienced lesbian, aiming all the time for just the intimacies we had recently relished and were now pursuing further. Maybe she needed to be cajoled into sex, her inhibitions overcome, before she could justify the sex to herself. I have enjoyed riotous romping with women, and men, whose prissy ‘Oh no, I don’t do that sort of thing’ has to be swept aside. There are occasions when No really does mean Yes, though many a man has not understood that No often really does mean No.

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