A Small Mountain

It is an organ, albeit small, protruding, as it does, a tiny knob. At home it is on minor lips, more secrets well concealed inside a shroud. Its raison d'être in all mammals (hyenas are exceptions which is sad) is the giving of and simultaneous taking in of tasted pleasure, now and then. This, as a gift to females from biology, develops from a tubercle and ends up either way. It tickles first the mind but soon it overwhelms, by power of eightthousand nerves, all set to tease and capable to please. Its head is veiled by an exotic hood, it has a shaft and inner lips as well as crural legs, there are some vessels, muscles, ligaments and central station called the commissure with a fourchette. I love to spend some time there, at the shady place, Mons Pubis it is called. And yes, it has it all. .