Part 1: "An Accident for a Question"

Amara could not believe what she had just heard. The words that washed over her ears hit her with the unforgiving consistency of a cement bollard. She was so shocked that she lost her hold of the dinner tray, sending it together with its contents crashing to the floor with a loud clatter that turned all the heads within earshot in her direction. At the same time, Amara felt the muscles at the centre of her vagina involuntarily spasm. She felt a disorientating dizziness rise to her head, and a warm, wet glow flooded her pussy.

“Do you think it would be correct to say that your face looks exactly like your pussy?”

Amara tried to clench her fists, willing herself to hold her balance. Instead, her hands hung limply by her sides. Her rib cage thudded with powerful thrusts, her heartbeat having accelerated to a frenzy. She felt her knees weakening, and her pussy lips tightening and loosening inside her panties. If she hadn’t just eaten, Amara felt sure she would have fainted. She closed her eyes to clear her head, not bothering about the mess she had just created on the polished floor of the restaurant.

She had been on her way to deposit the used dinner tray when the accident happened. He had casually walked up to her; had said hello, and had asked how she was, and how work was, et cetera. They had chit-chatted for a few minutes, slowly walking and talking, through a bustling company restaurant nearing the end of its lunch service. And then he had very calmly, and very simply, gone ahead and said it.

“Your face looks exactly like your pussy.”

Oh my God!

“I...I...what!?” Amara blurted out. She looked around to see if anyone was looking. People were looking. It was the busiest time of the day, on the busiest day of the week, and she had just made the loudest clamour, dropping her lunch set. Amara decided to ignore the looks and sniggers and to concentrate on the delicious things this young man was saying. Had she heard him correctly, she wondered, or was she hearing things? Had this man just asked her if she thought her face looked exactly like her pussy? She thought she could actually feel her clitoris pulsating between her pussy-lips.

“I’m sorry, Amara,” Keaton, the usually courteous man from Customer Management, was saying. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” He stooped to the floor and started picking up the broken ceramic pieces, placing them on the empty tray. “It’s just that…I…I…well…I’m doing a project for my part-time course. It’s a master’s in hereditary genetics, and we have that question as part of a study. So, I just wondered if you would agree that your face looks exactly like your pussy.”

Oh my God! He was saying it again!

“Your face looks exactly like your pussy.”

Again, her vaginal muscles convulsed, and Amara felt wetness oozing out of her hole and soaking the material of her underwear. Her skirt was long enough—it wrapped tightly around her pinch-thin waistline, ballooning down over her curvy hips and ample ass and stopping halfway down towards her knees. But on this lunch hour, Amara felt inadequately dressed; in her tight skirt, her equally tight-fitting blouse that barely contained her double D-cups, and her five-inch heels. She feared that a trickle of her vaginal liquids might easily run down her legs unhindered. She had her panties on, but in that moment, Amara felt exposed. As if her pussy was already on display. As if Keaton was already looking at it and comparing it to her face.

Because that was what this concept meant.

That is what this meant, didn't it? If Keaton’s notion was taken on its merits—Amara thought—which was to say: if it was true that her face looked exactly like her pussy, then by looking at her face, Keaton was in fact already looking at her pussy.

This was a torturous thought to Amara, and her vaginal walls contracted again and released more of her cream. Right now, where this man stood looking into her face, he could very easily be carrying in his mind, the idea that by looking at the details in her face, he was matching those details to a set of her intimate body parts; like her shaved mound, her smooth outer labia, her soft inner lips and her clitoris.

She should be outraged, she thought. Nice gentlemen never walked up to a lady in the company restaurant and just blatantly asked her if she thought her face looked like her pussy. And yet the tingly hot flush that had started at the centre of her vulva and crawled deliciously up the crack of her curvaceous ass, up her slender spine, up her belly and surrounded her ample breasts, betrayed her lack of anger or annoyance. Instead, her breathing had quickened, and her chest was heaving. Amara stood rooted to the spot, feeling so dizzy that she thought she might fall over in a heap if she moved. Everything, even time itself, seemed to have ground to an eerie, slow motion.

What on earth is happening to me, she thought. I should be shouting at this man, and I should certainly be in total control of myself. But even as she thought that, Amara knew it was futile. There was a delicious, hot sensation inside her pussy, and there was no way she was in control of that at all. Instead, it made her want to squeeze her thighs tightly, and to put some much-needed pressure on her genitals.

She didn't understand why just hearing those words had such a powerful effect on her; on her body; on her pussy. It wasn't because of Keaton: yes, Keaton was attractive, but he wasn't exactly her type. He was almost exactly the same height as she was, which made him too short for her. Besides, she was already taken, and that naturally meant she never thought that way about her co-workers—or about anyone, for that matter, except for a few infrequent fantasies. And it wasn't because of his voice: again, yes; there was a rich, vibrant timbre to Keaton’s voice, but as voices went, it was just a voice. It didn't particularly do anything to her. No, there was something else. It was just.... It was the idea… That idea....

It was the very notion that someone—anyone, yes, perhaps even Keaton himself—could possibly, literally look at her pussy, and then look at her face, and then maybe look at her pussy again, and compare them. As in, someone literally comparing her pussy to her face; in real-time….

God, that was so hot!

She wondered what she would say or do if Keaton—who had just picked up the last piece of broken dinner plate, and placed it on the tray—if he were to ask her right there and then if he could do the physical comparison, what would she do? A realisation hit Amara: she had not automatically ruled out the possibility that she might allow him! No, she couldn’t, could she? As Amara wondered, it occurred to her that the way her pussy was responding, it had its own answer to that particular question.

This was so unexpected, so shocking, that it unnerved Amara. She had never thought of herself as an exhibitionist, and she usually liked to have sex in low light so that her lover would not be able to see too much detail. But she admitted to herself that she always felt a different kind of excitement whenever someone looked directly at her nakedness. That excitement always came with a mixture of shyness, pride and longing. Could her reaction right now be connected to that?

They were interrupted by a lady from catering, who arrived at the scene and offered to clear up the mess.

“Are you okay, miss?” she said. “You look a bit pale. Was it all a bit of a shock?”

“Oh, I’m fine thank you,” Amara said. “Yes, it just suddenly slipped. Thanks for helping.”

“Oh, don’t worry, miss. I’m just doing my job. And it’s okay. Accidents are part of life.”

Amara nodded. The interruption had allowed her to regain some of her composure, although Amara still felt the hot, sticky wetness that had formed inside her knickers. She took a few deep breaths, eager to steady herself more, as Keaton handed the tray over to the catering lady. Again, Amara looked around the restaurant. The lunch parties were all now more or less minding their own business.

“You said what!” Amara said when the caterer left. She was trying to get the upper hand in the exchange, and steer the conversation into a safer direction. “You realise that…that I could report you for asking me a question like that, right?”

“No, please don’t,” Keaton pleaded, his voice hushed, making certain no one else could hear. “Look, I can explain. I mean, it’s a serious programme, and I can show you. Even if you don’t want to take part. It’s just not a good idea to involve the likes of human resources, because that will just complicate things and could lead to a misunderstanding. This is a very rare thing, and most people just respond with shock, you know. Because a vaginal study is a taboo subject.”

Keaton was still explaining something but for a few seconds, Amara wasn't even listening.

“A vaginal study is a taboo subject…”

A powerful mixture of pleasure and desire washed over her, even as her vaginal muscles shuddered again. She knew this time that her panties were practically gushing with her hot juice. God, how desperately she wanted to come!

"Hey, are you okay?" Keaton was saying when Amara came to her senses. "You looked like you were going to faint or something for a minute there. You had your eyes closed and everything."

"What? No...I mean, sorry," Amara blurted out. "So...Uhm, what you are saying is that…wait…what are you saying? Are you asking people to take part in this study?"

"Well, yes," Keaton said. "But I'm not getting a lot of success. Most girls just think I've gone crazy."

"I can imagine," Amara said. "So, how can someone know if you are not just being a pervert? That's the problem with this crazy study."

"But I have the project release notes from the university. People are not even bothering to come and examine it, in spite of my assurances and invitations. It’s all perfectly in order."

"You have a document from this university of yours?"

"Yes."

"Can I see it?"

"Sure," Keaton said. "I'll bring it with me tomorrow. Do you want to come round to my office, say after lunch, or shall I come to yours?"

"Does it matter?" Amara said. "Just let me know when you have it, and we'll figure the rest out.”

“Oh, thank you,” Keaton said. “I don’t even know what to say. Just, please don’t mention it to anyone else. Is that okay to ask? I need to be in control of the messaging. You know…to avoid any misunderstandings.”

“Okay, you have yourself a deal. And no bullshitting, okay? Otherwise, it’s HR for you, and then jail.”

Amara left a relieved-looking Keaton and headed for the lifts. A forefinger extended to press the lift-button, and Amara noticed that her hand was shaking. The lift came and she got in, relieved that she was alone.

As the lift started up, Amara felt a warm tingle running down her left leg. She looked down and was horrified to see that a trickle of her vaginal fluids had run all the way down her left thigh. Amara realised that the entire lift was now filled with the smell of her pussy.

Damn, she thought. What if someone comes in here and knows that it’s my pussy they can smell? She frantically reached into her handbag, taking out one after the other, her Touch of Pink perfume, and her body and hair sprays. She sprayed these liberally around the lift. Then she quickly took her panties off, and used them to wipe her pussy dry. Moans escaped Amara’s lips as she dubbed and wiped her panties at her pussy lips. She almost cried when she pressed the material to the entrance of her vagina. She held it there for some seconds, letting the soft material absorb her oozing fluids. It felt sweet, holding her panties at her hole. She flipped the pair of panties over and repeated the action; holding them to the entrance to her vagina, and then she took a few slow wipes over her inner lips, and then again over her outer labia.

She felt much drier now, and placed her now soaked panties inside her handbag. But within seconds, Amara felt her vagina walls start to wet up all over again. She knew that the only cure was for her to come. And she knew that she needed to come soon. Very soon, she thought. I need to put something inside my pussy. I need to release this pressure on my clit and inside my cookie.

Amara was almost in a blind panic, now. But she decided that she wasn’t going to masturbate in the lift. It was too dangerous, and the ride was too short. She was going to have to wait until she could get somewhere more private. No, until she could get somewhere private, period. Only the privacy of her office would do. The bathroom was just as risky as the lift.

As Amara strode out of the lift to her office door, she could have sworn that she heard squelching noises coming from her pussy, where her clean-shaved lips, soaked by her juices were rubbing against each other as she walked. She almost sprung into a trot, frantically searching her handbag for her office keys. A shaky hand prised the lock open and once inside, she continued fumbling with the lock and key, her actions frenzied: closing the door with a forceful bang, inserting the key, then turning it, and pulling at the door to make sure it was locked.

Even as she was locking up, her free hand had already lifted her skirt, bundling it around her waist. Amara’s other, now-freed hand shot straight from the door handle to her mound, pressing hard into her crotch, rubbing her pussy juices all over her swollen vulva.

It was a roomy office. In the corner to the right of the entrance, a set of two and three-seater sofas surrounding a low coffee table created a meeting area. On the same side and in the opposite corner by a large window was a snack bar with a high table and stools. And opposite all this was a Amara’s large desk, a comfortable, swivel chair near the window, and two visitors’ chairs across the desk.

And it was to that desk that Amara ran. She threw her handbag onto the desk and slumped into her chair. She kicked her heels off and raised one leg, placing it on the desktop. Items of stationery careened off the desk to the floor, creating a clumsy mess. Reaching into her bag, Amara retrieved the used panties and her phone. She started with the phone, navigating to the Spotify app, and pressed ‘play’ on ‘Peru’ by Fireboy DML. Amara then took her panties and with her left hand, she prised her vaginal lips open, completely exposing her tight hole to the elements. Slowly, inch-by-inch, Amara pushed the soft material of her panties into her vagina. She inserted one finger after it, pushing her panties in deeper into her pelvis. Then she closed her hand over her pussy, and pushed hard, moving her ass up and down in a humping motion.

She could feel her pussy walls contracting and relaxing; contracting and relaxing around her panties as she pushed them deeper in. She moved an index finger to her clitoral hood, and started flicking it, left and right; left and right, her tempo increasing with every few flicks. She continued rapidly grazing the button of her clit, sensing her inside walls start to pulsate, and her entire nakedness quiver. She sustained this tempo on her clitoris, until she exploded, her pussy shuddering, and her vaginal cavity flooding with juices and completely ruining the already-ruined panties still wedged inside her quim.

Amara waited to recover from her orgasm. Geez, that felt sweet, she thought. Just what I had needed, thank you, Keaton. When her breathing had reached what could be described as normal—which took several long minutes—it was time to pull the panties lodged inside her pussy out. Amara pushed her ass to the edge of her chair and lay right back. Again with her left hand, she held the lips of her vagina open, and then with the free hand, reached a thumb and forefinger at the entrance, feeling for the material.

Then inch-by-delicious-agonising-inch, Amara started pulling her panties out of her vagina, taking her time, and feeling another climax building from the depths of her sex. She came powerfully again, as the last bit of her panties popped out, together with a gushing squirt of her cum. She sat back in her desk-chair, her chest, together with her ample breasts heaving with her heavy breathing; one leg on the floor, and the other still on her desk, next to the sodden panties, her pussy totally exposed.

“Can you see my pussy?” Amara asked mentally, imagining him kneeling right there in front of her, in between her legs. She would make sure that he was so close that she could feel his hot breath on her genitals; that he could inhale the aroma of her juices, and the musk of her flesh; that he could smell her cum.

“Yes, I can see your pussy,” he would respond.

“Can you smell it?”

“Oh, yes, I can smell your pussy, and it smells glorious,” he would say.

“Look at my face!” she would demand.

“Okay,” he would respond. Their eyes would meet, both pairs filled with lust, desire and excitement.

“Look back at my pussy again,” she would say. “Tell me what you can see.”

“Oh, how I love what I can see of your pussy,” he would start. “And I can see everything. It’s completely shaven, with beautiful, smooth, plump labia majora. It’s got petite labia minora, barely visible between the outer-lips. And it’s got this dark, big clit, with a fiery-pink tip. And I can see that your pussy is oozing cunt juice, trickling down the crack of your ass into your asshole. In fact, your entire pussy is glistening with your water.”

“Look at my face!”

“Oh my God!” he would cry out.

“What’s wrong?” she would ask.

“What’s wrong?” he would repeat. “Well nothing. But, your face…your face looks exactly like your pussy!”

“How?” she would demand. “Tell me how!”

“You’ve got this cute upturned nose; your cute nose looks exactly like your clit! And you have, sensual, moist, kissable lips—just like your inner pussy-lips. Then the plump outer lips of your pussy are so fleshy, they are almost like cheeks… Your outer pussy-lips are exactly like the cheeks of your face. And your mouth, oh my God! Your mouth!"

"What about my mouth?" she imagined herself asking him, as he paused. "Go on, tell me! What is it about my mouth that looks exactly like my pussy?”

"Your mouth looks exactly like your vagina!”

“Tell me again!” she would say, spreading her pussy lips wide, making sure that he had a clear view of her hole.

"Your mouth looks exactly like your vagina,” he would repeat.

“Again!”

"Your beautiful mouth looks exactly like your beautiful vagina.”

“And again! Tell me one more time how my mouth looks exactly like my vagina!”

"Your sweet, beautiful mouth looks exactly like your sweet, beautiful vagina.”

The tips of Amara’s fingers—four fingers on each hand that she was using to hold her pussy-lips open—were now completely covered with her juices.

“My hands are getting too wet,” she imagined saying. “Look how slippery it is when I try to keep my pussy open. My fingers are just sliding off my pussy.”

“Yes, I can see that,” he would say. “Your pussy is so wet, exactly like a mouth; watering at the prospect of eating something delicious; the prospect of having something tasty go inside it.”

“And when I do this,” she would ask, “What does that look like?” With her hands on either side of her pussy, Amara started opening and closing her labia lips, opening and closing them, over and over again.

“Gosh, that’s so beautiful,” he would say. “It looks like your pussy is talking. Drooling lots of saliva—pussy juice—as you speak. It looks so delicious.”

“I can’t do this much longer. Look how there’s too much juice, and it’s too slippery. What am I to do? I need to get some of this wetness off my fingers.”

“Why don’t you just lick your fingers?” he would ask.

“Oh, that’s such a good idea,” Amara would agree.

Releasing her pussy, Amara moved both hands to her mouth at started licking at her juices.

“No!” he would scream.

“Oh, I thought you said I should lick my fingers? Look, they are so wet!”

“Yes, Amara,” he would say. “I want you to lick your fingers, but not like that.”

“How do you want me to lick them?”

“I want you to push your fingers inside your other mouth," he would say.

“My other mouth?”

“Yes, Amara. Lick your fingers using your other mouth.”

“Oh, fuck!” Amara would scream. “You want me to dip my fingers inside my pussy!”

“Yes, Amara,” would be his response. “Push your fingers inside your vagina, Amara. Dip those fingers deep inside your vagina. That would be exactly the same as you using your mouth to lick them.”

Oh! Amara actually screamed when she inserted first, one finger, and then two inside her wet hole. She was met by a soft, hot wetness inside that vagina, her inner channel a flooding pool of pussy-juice. With the other hand, Amara pushed her index finger alongside her clit and pressed hard into her pussy. Then she started flicking at her clitoris again with one hand, while pumping two fingers of the other in and out of her sodded minge, howling with complete abandon.

Amara continued moaning, in loud, guttural exclamations of pure pleasure as she continued attacking her dripping pussy until she erupted in another powerful orgasm, her body twisting and contorting in uncontrollable spasms. Then as the waves subsided, Amara sat back in her chair, her eyes closed and her chest heaving, her lips twisted in a smile of satisfaction.

What the hell is happening to me, she thought, as she drifted into a light doze.