The Devil's Vulva

The reporter almost dropped the book, shocked by the sudden appearance of the illustration. It wasn't so much the content itself as the vivid, unexpected splotch of color—the rest of the book had been printed in black and white, but this sole illustration appeared to have been hand-painted.

Something about it drew Lois' eye...the shape, so suggestive, yet undefined, almost seemed to stare back at her from the page. Quickly, she scanned the accompanying text, hoping for some context to what she was seeing...and, a moment later, had her answer.

The Devil's Vulva. The image was, apparently, a meditation device. "To make reale your desires of the flesh" the text had hinted. In any other book, Lois would have accounted this as little more than superstitious mummery. In this one however...

Lois found her gaze drawn back to that strange, dark ovoid. She could certainly see it as a symbolic vulva. The bright red of the inner lips, fading into the darker, shadowed depths of the vagina...the reporter could almost smell the slight fishy odor her own pussy sometimes gave off, when she was sweaty and hadn't had time to clean her kitty properly after a long, hard run.

No, not almost. Lois' nostrils twitched. She could smell something.

Bending down, nose hovering over the painted page, Lois breathed in slightly...and then took a longer, deeper breath. Yes, there was an odor to the paper, to the image. Like used panties, a kind of familiar reek that had never been quite as unpleasant to Lois as he thought it should be.

Holding her nose close to the paper, almost touching it, she tared into the red paint, letting her eyes unfocus, breathing in that scent...the scent of a woman...and ran a finger down the length of her own slit, wet and eager for attention.

The smell as much as anything was what was doing it for her, Lois knew. She had never really given in to any lesbian impulse...but there had been times at the gym when she had admired the female forms around her, had not turned her gaze away too quickly when the towels came off, or the other women bent over to slide the panties up their legs...

She opened her mouth to catch more of that scent—did they work it into the pigments, somehow? Lois had heard of artists painting with menstrual blood—and it was stronger now, strong enough to almost taste it, salty and earthy and yet indefinably that of a woman.