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blood was young blood.”

“Oooh, what a wonderful idea, Daisy.”

“I’d like to sample a young honeypot.” There were nods all around.

“I happen to know that at my alma mater, The North End Women’s Academy, there are like-minded young women. We could invite some of them to join us,” offered Gladys Wortham who still had the taste of Abigail’s pussy cat in her mouth.

“Splendid. They are of age, aren’t they?”

“Of course. I suggest that we take it slow, inviting one woman to each of our homes for a private meeting.”

“Not just a meeting, Gladys,” everyone laughed, and Priscilla Randolph took Gladys by the hand and led her to a room where they could have some privacy. Privacy, so that Gladys could enjoy the delightful tongue that Priscilla possessed.

As Gladys could not get enough of Abigail’s pussy cat, Priscilla Randolph found Gladys’ treasure an unparallelled delight.

Daisy Jackson had a female friend at the North End Woman’s Academy. When she asked her if there were any young woman who might write poetry, played an instrument or were otherwise interested in intellectual pursuits. The name Gertrude Morefield came up.

Mrs. Jackson arranged an introduction and upon meeting the young woman and finding her enchanting, suggested a private luncheon.

The luncheon, in Mrs. Jackson study was far more than the older woman expected. “Mrs. Jackson, I hope you don’t mind, but I brought along a few of my own poems,” Miss Morefield offered.

“Of course, my dear. It’s always a gift to hear what the younger generation is thinking.”

Miss Morefield’s poetry was as bawdy, but in a little less subtle way than the poetry the women in Sappho’s Sisters read to each other; sometimes in a group; sometimes individually. Miss Morefield’s poem described the ruby red lips of a woman; the lushness of her breasts; the femininity of her nipples, and the promise behind and below her silky, damp, curlier than anyone thought possible, hair.

“Miss Morefield, where did you get the ideas for such a randy descriptions of a woman?”

“Ummmmm, Mrs. Jackson, I looked in a mirror.”

“Perhaps, seeing you would give me some ideas for my own poetry.”

“You mean, Mrs. Jackson, you’d write a poem about me?”

“I’d be delighted. Now, come this way to my boudoir.”

The rest was easy. “Your poetry described your breasts perfectly, Miss Morefield. They are lush,” Daisy Jackson said as she fondled one. Then kissed it all over, concentrating on the young woman’s nipple.

“Thank you, Mrs. Jackson,” Gertrude, lying naked in her arms, smiled up at her. The mature Mrs. Jackson said, “please call me Daisy,” as her hand went to those silky curls between her legs. “Calling them damp was brilliant, and I must say though, damp is an understatement. If I had a good look at them, it might trigger words that I can put on paper.”

With Gertrude’s legs spread, Mrs. Daisy Jackson as she’d done with the members of Sappho’s Sister and they’d done to her, maneuvered between young Gertrude’s legs and mumbled, “lovely,” “the ideal woman,” “beautiful.”

“Thank you, Daisy. This is all new to me. I’m so happy that you find me pleasing.”

“Gertrude, I don’t want to find you just pleasing, I want to find you luscious.” She kissed the young woman’s labia, first with her lips and then with her tongue.

“Ooooooh, oooooh, ooooh, Daisy.” There had never been anything like it in young Gertrude’s life. For girls of her status and generation, although American, they subscribed to Victorian puritanism. Masturbation was a very strong prohibition and virginity on their wedding night, a given: a gift to their husband. “Ooooooooh, oooooooh, Daisy.”

Daisy Jackson’s tongue went on and on and Gertrude moaned and sighed. “Gertrude, your honeypot is a delight, but if you’ll bear with me, I’ll find your special spot.”

It took a minute or two, Gertrude’s special spot was small, but the rewards for both women were in the words of today’s vocabulary, mind-blowing. Gertrude bucked and her hips and ass came off the bed. There had never been a feeling like it.

Daisy Jackson was certain that once young Gertrude experienced such joy, she’d be more than willing to become the newest member of Sappho’s Sisters. Her tongue continued to tantalize Gertrude’s special spot. “Oooooooooh, ooooooooooooh, ooooooooooh, Daisy.”

It was Gertrude who insisted that they meet again and soon. “I promise I’ll write a poem about our tryst today.” She smiled.

Daisy noted the young girl was glowing. To herself, I am, too.

“Miss Morefield, Sappho’s Sisters has eight members, all my age. It would be nice to add some young women to our group. Do you know any women like yourself?”

The poem Gertrude Morefield wrote and read to Daisy had her knickers damp; actually. more than damp. The poem suggested that the young woman was interested in reciprocating. “Miss Morefield, are you interested in what your poem proposes?”

“Mrs. Jackson, since I left you, all I’ve thought about is making you feel like you made me feel, but I’m a novice.”

“Patience, my dear, you’ll learn. All in due time.” She pushed Gertrude’s head to her breasts.

Daisy Jackson smiled as Gertrude demonstrated that she wasn’t satisfied with just exploring her breasts. “Take your time Gertrude, I’m there for you. My treasure is yours.”

“Daisy, I never realized how beautiful a woman’s most personal parts could be.” She kissed Daisy Jackson’s silky curlies all over.

“You know what I’d like, Gertrude. I know you’d like it, too.”

“And your fragrance is enchanting. Do you mind if I get to know what you hide behind those lovely silky curlies?”

“Gertrude, you are most welcome to my treasure.”

Later that afternoon, after Mrs. Jackson had used her tongue to pleasure the young woman and they held each other close, “Daisy, last time you asked if there were any other young women at the North End Women’s Academy who might be interested in joining an intellectual women’s gathering.”

“I remember that. Do you know any such women?”

“I’ve been thinking about it. I mean I was thinking about it when I wasn’t thinking of the delightfulness of your breasts . . .”

“And my . . .”

“Oh, of course, that, too. Anyhow I have a list of girls at the Academy who might be interested.”

“You can share that with me later, but first I’d like a taste of your womanhood again.”

Whoever came up with the idea of inviting young women should receive a medal, Mrs. Jackson thought. She loved the taste of those mature women, especially Henrietta Horton, but there was nothing like the sweetness of young Gertrude Morefield. Mrs. Jackson hoped she’d have the opportunity to please her again.

TO BE CONTINUED

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