mf oral



"...in lechery there is at least something permanent, something that is
truly founded upon nature and is not subject to the imagination, something
that is present like a constantly live coal in the blood...if I didn't have
that, I'd probably have to shoot myself." -Crime and Punishment

"Hope all is well. Working in Boston for the summer. We should try to get
together. Let me know."
That's what Tricia Bradington's E-mail had said. I had known Tricia for
several years. Four years ago she had been a high school senior enrolled in
a Russian Literature course I was teaching. Tricia had moved on to an ivy
league university and I moved on to other pursuits. I had recently received
a grant from the Coleridge Institute to finish a play I had been working on
for some time. Tricia had graduated from her ivy league university and had
wrangled an internship at a law firm in Boston for the summer. We had
maintained a correspondence during her college years, so it wasn't unusual
to hear from her. I guess it was just that phrase: "we should try to get
together" that startled me a little. That phrase was like someone sneaking
up behind you and tapping you on the shoulder. For even though it had been a
long time since Tricia and I had seen each other...she had been with me.

Any male teacher is invariably forced to confront the attractive female
student at one point, probably at several points. It is not uncommon for
said male teacher to notice the sweep of a developing bustline, or the curve
of a tanned thigh as it is crossed in front of him. It would be unnatural
not to notice such things. But just because one looks doesn't mean one
cares. It is nothing of substance, nothing considerable. It is only a
passing moment. I thought at first that Tricia was just one of these passing
moments. She was undeniably beautiful, but not in a sexual way. Finely
sculpted facial features, diminutive in stature, a small chested and slim
waisted girl who looked almost adolescent, virginal, and younger than her
eighteen years. As parts of her personality were revealed to me, I
discovered that there was nothing at all sexual about Tricia. She was as
politically, morally and behaviorally conservative as her aristocratic,
Catholic parents had raised her to be. That is why I probably discounted my
increased awareness of where she sat in the room, of what she was wearing,
what she was doing with her hands. I liked Tricia, I respected her intellect
and grace. But I did not desire Tricia. That would change. I can tell you
when it changed, and what it changed to, but even now I can't tell you
exactly why it changed.

It must have been February. The class was discussing Ckekov's 'The Duel'. We
had created a small chart comparing elements of 'The Duel' with Bazarov's
duel in Turgenev's 'Fathers and Sons', which my students now copied into
their notebooks. I sat beside Tricia as she worked, and watched as the
buttons of her starched white shirt gapped ever so slightly allowing me a
glimpse of the side of one breast encased in the predictability puritanical
white bra she wore. For weeks I could not get that image out of my mind.
That image was never quite erased, but eventually was replaced with other
images. This was the beginning of my fixation. I spent hours in the evening
imagining pushing my hand into that white shirt, holding the weight of that
small young breast in my hand. What would her nipple feel like hardening
beneath my fingertips? Would her breath get heavy? Would she moan my name?
Her Victorian outlook only fueled my imagination and it did not take long
for that imagination to move from gentle fumblings to furious copulation;
fantasies of Tricia coming unraveled beneath me, on top of me, in front of
me. It did not matter that these were qualities I had only invested in some
self-promulgated, self-designed fictional Tricia. That is what fantasy
provides; an opportunity to create a life more interesting than the real
thing. And my fantasies of Tricia were very creative, and very compelling. I
fully realize that these were the prototypical docudramas generated by the
male ego. The conservatively pure catholic girl suddenly transformed into a
nymphomaniacal supernova when faced with the irresistible masculine charms
to which she must inevitably succumb. Nevertheless, despite their prosaic,
hackneyed nature, these XXX masturbation film reels ran almost nightly in
unending repeats, in continuous rerelease. They were indeed, progressively
altered, improved and colorized. But the movie was always the same: boy
meets girl, boy fucks girl into coma, boy can get some sleep. And I never
got tired of watching them.
I had watched them for four years. And now their star actress had said "we
should try to get together."

She called me on a Thursday afternoon. She was settled into an apartment she
was sharing with a friend. I was amiable, but maybe a bit defensively
guarded. It was she who initiated discussion of seeing one another. She went
as far as to suggest that she come out to my house. On the appointed day, at
the appointed time, there she was. My life would never be the same.
She looked as beautiful to me as I remembered her being. There was little
difference, I noticed with some astonishment, between the body she had as a
22 year old and the body I remembered her having as an 18 year old. She wore
a green sundress and her light brown hair fell loosely around its lose,
scooped neckline. A faint hint of cleavage lay flirtatiously below the
smooth expanse of her upper chest. She swept by me on her way into the house
and I was momentarily hypnotized; first, by the scent of her perfume, and
then by how fit and firm she looked from behind in the tightness of the back
of her legs and the exquisitely sculpted ass concealed by the fabric of her
dress.
We began that afternoon by speaking of innocent matters. She spun out tales
of her university years and her plans for attending Duke law school, of her
accomplishments and glories. I spun fictions about my writing career and
stole glances at her impossibly slim waist and mouth watering legs everytime
she would shift her position on the couch.
"So, how are things in the romance department," she asked, smiling. I may
have been somewhat startled by this apparent non-sequitor. Perhaps I hadn't
been paying attention.
"It's all right I suppose. There's no one special, if that's what you're
asking," I said. It wasn't a completely honest response. I was hardly
adopting the role of the haunted, celibate artist. But recently I had been
hesitant to get too involved with anyone since tlast month's incident when I
had come too dangerously close to calling out Tricia's name as Carrie, an
executive secretary, bounced on top of my infatuously inflamed cock.
Tricia told me of her boyfriend Peter, whom she had been seeing steadily
since her junior year. He was a year older than she and had taken a job at
one of the major brokerage houses. I simultaneously stifled a sigh and a
smile. It was so easy to predict Tricia's inclinations and tastes. Did she
aspire to be a stereotype? Was this predictability an accident or a product
of design?
"How serious are the two of you?" I asked.
"Pretty serious...I guess," she said, "our relationship certainly seems to
be progressing..." She did finish the sentence, but I didn't hear it. What
did I care? What did it matter to me? Apparently, a considerable amount; I
was virtually crestfallen.
"What's that mean?"
"Well...we increasingly talk about our future now...and...and...we have a
physical relationship..."
I should have turned away.Why didn't I just let it go? Why do criminals
return to the scene of the crime? Why do gamblers return to the gaming
tables? Why does Susan Lucci return to the Daytime Emmy's? I had a lot of
questions.
"How physical?"
"You know," she said, "we sort of...did it...last month," Her eyes looked
downward as she made this confession. Was she ashamed of this disclosure?
Was she embarrassed to be telling me this? I tried to mask my inexplicable
devastation by playing the ignorant, buying time.
"Did what?" I asked. Her eyes lifted to me now, slightly exasperated
"You know...made love," she responded.
Could she hear the envious resentment cracking inside me, like a large tree
limb burdened by heavy snow? I tried to keep the sound of that shattered
limb out of my voice,
"Well...congratulations, I guess. I thought you told me once you didn't
believe in pre-marital sex...or did I miss the ceremony?"
"I don't know...I mean, we had fooled around before. I guess it was just the
right moment...and he didn't put up much of an argument." That went without
saying. I stared at the sweep of her throat and wondered who would put up an
argument.
Some deal with vulnerability better than others. For some, it elicits
acquiescence or acceptance. For some "admitting you have a problem" is the
first step towards a recovery they have no intention of ever making. They
don't want to recover; they welcome their vulnerability as though the very
weakness upon which it is based heralds liberation from the pressure of
having to pretend they are too strong to be vulnerable. The nudity is of
comfort to them. Then there are those like me. My vulnerability is a
dentist's appointment, an oil change or a visit to the DMV. Something I
would all the same pass by if it were not for the reality of its inevitably.
Towards that end I resented my vulnerability. I resented my aching desire
for this young woman who now sat here in front of me, speaking of her sexual
exploits with another. One who was not me.
"How was it?" I heard myself ask, voice dripping with resentment.
"It was over very quickly. All I really remember is it hurting...and
thinking...never mind," she interrupted herself. She went on to tell me that
her boyfriend had been almost pleading with her for months. That their
amorous experimentation had escalated quickly and that her reservations were
overcome by her curiosity and affection for him. Perhaps I should have been
more focused or understanding during her confessional. She sat with downcast
eyes as she told her story, never looking up at me. But the details became
more vivid as her tale reached its climax, and their description fed the rat
gnawing at my stomach, poured hot wax on the lump forming in my throat, and
ran cruel, teasing feathers across my aching testicles. I sat saying nothing
for awhile after the completion of her story.
"You think less of me...don't you?" Tricia asked in the silence of my
paralysis.
No Tricia...I think more, I thought. I cleared my throat, took a breath.
"No...of course not," I said. Then returned to my preoccupation.
She got up and walked to me, sitting on the arm of my chair. Her dress rode
up to mid thigh. Was I staring...I must have been staring. She snapped me
out of it.
"Well what do you think?" she asked, the emphasis on 'what' She sounded
almost impatient and testy.
"What am I supposed to think?" I relied. You know, I thought, it would be
very easy...very easy...I could just move my hand up between her legs,
beneath the dress and...and...
"I just don't want you to be disappointed with me...I mean...in me."
"Tricia, that's pretty stupid. Why would I be disappointed in you?" I didn't
understand what was happening here. Was she waiting for some confession of
my own? In a move that I can remember as though someone had taken a
photograph of it I had been staring at for eight months, she simultaneously
covered her eyes with one hand shifted her knee, bringing it into contact
with my leg. With no conscious thought I reached out and placed my hand on
her kneecap.
"Tricia...what is the matter?"
"I just don't think I was very good?"
"Good at what?"
"You know...good in bed. He didn't seem to enjoy it very much," she spoke
softly. "Maybe it was me, maybe I am too distracted."
"Its understandable. You were nervous probably. It can be an intimidating
thing, the first time" This was getting to be too duplicitous even for me.
Here I was pretending to provide solace and counsel, while entertaining the
notion of throwing her to the floor and fucking her senseless.
"No...we did it again, and afterwards he seemed distant...maybe I made him
think I was disinterested."
"Were you?" I asked.
"It's just that...the way Peter looked at me...it reminded me...it reminded
me of the way you would look at me sometimes."
Oh God! She had revealed me as the lecherous, libidinous, secretively
hopeful seducer I knew myself to be. I had thought my masks were
protectively impenetrable, but I had somehow unconsciously sent out a
message in a bottle. And that bottle had washed up recently on the shores of
her maturing perceptions, to be opened and read by one who had recently
unlocked the secrets of its language.
"Tricia..I...I..."
"Its all right. I didn't understand then, I only figured it out a couple of
months ago when I saw Peter looking at me the way you used to look at
me...the way you've been looking at me now."
"I'm sorry...I never meant..." I stammered
"I know," she said, "you don't have to apologize. I've just been thinking
about you recently. I thought about you then...that night...I thought about
what it would be like if it had been you."
I couldn't fully grasp what I was hearing, couldn't fully internalize what
she was saying. She bent down and brushed her lips lightly over mine, then
again, a bit more forcefully. She leaned back to look into my eyes.
"And I was thinking," she said "that maybe it could be you. Could it be
you?"

I led her into the bedroom, where her ghost was firmly ensconced, but it's
manifestation had never been. I kissed her gently, not wanting my
excruciating desire to frighten her. My hands were around her slim waist and
I ran them lightly along her sides, brushing my fingertips across her ribs.
I could feel the material of her bra beneath the smooth fabric of her dress.
Though I was struggling to keep my hunger in check, her kisses were
simultaneously hesitant and anxious. I found their reserved passion highly
arousing, and the way her tongue slashed into my mouth sent shivers through
my hard cock. I had waited a very long time for this moment, fantasized
about it, played it through my head dozens of times. Now that the scenario
was real, and not some abstract masturbatory vision, I didn't know quite
what to do. Or, I should say, didn't know what to do first. I wanted so
much, I didn't know where to begin. I wanted to touch her. I wanted to look
at her. I wanted to pull away and see her breathing heavily in that slight
green dress. I wanted to lick her ear, and lick her clit. I wanted to feel
her hands on my back as our kiss became more entangling, but I wanted to
feel her hands stroking my rigid cock. I wanted it all, all at the same
time. But that was impossible.
She was kissing me more forcefully now, the reserve giving way to her own
desires. I had to do something to break the inertia formed from my physical
and psychological sensory overload. I pushed her back onto the bed and she
lay flat, head on the pillow. She looked up at me, wondering what my next
move would be. I'm not sure I knew myself. I'm not sure I knew anything
anymore.

I lay myself down beside her and placed my lips against her temple. Her hair
smelled of strawberry and I inhaled deeply as my hand traveled from her
waist, to the inside of her thigh beneath the hem of the dress. She lay with
eyes closed and awaited the determined destination of my hand. I explored
her leg, the thigh so slim I felt as though I could encircle it in my grip.
I moved my hand up to the juncture of her legs where I swore, perhaps in my
fevered imagination, I could feel the heat emanating from her pussy. I
imagined the desire manifested there, the moist, damp arousal that would
greet my fingers as I plunged them inside of her. The anticipation was more
than I could bear. I kissed her deeply and moved my hand to the crotch of
her panties, cupping her pussy in my palm. It was not my imagination, for
she felt hot in my hand, and she groaned briefly through our kiss as I slid
my hand up and down the complete expanse of her pussy. Impatiently I moved
my fingers down through the top of the elastic of her panties and gasped as
I felt that first tactile sensation of her fine, soft, sparse pubic hair
against the tips of my fingers. Wanting to feel all of her, I spread my
fingers and used my entire hand to cover the territory now accessible to me.
Tricia shuddered slightly and spread her legs almost imperceptibly wider
allowing me greater freedom.
"Rub me a little harder..." she gasped.
This was all a bit too much. Not only did I now have Tricia Bradington on
the bed beside me; not only was I uncovering those protected secrets that
had been tormenting me for years; but if I followed instructions properly, I
would soon see the personification of the object of my desire collide with
the throes of orgasm. Wanting to see it all I paused briefly, pulling my
hand away and quickly positioned myself so that I could slide her panties
down the firm, smooth legs I had been not so surreptitiously watching as she
sat on my couch. I reveled in the feel of holding Tricia's 'intimate
apparel' in my hand before dropping it to the floor and resuming my forays
into what every sexual impulse in my being saw as a paradise. Now...now I
rubbed a little harder...and a little faster, simultaneously kissing her
with hunger, wanting to push the action to a different level. I was pleased
to feel her match my forceful kiss with one of her own, tongues slamming
into one another. She began to thrust her hips off the bed, fucking my hand.
I broke our kiss, I had to watch it.
I looked down to see her legs splayed wide, the hem of her dress riding up
above her narrow hips. My hand was partially obscured by her thighs as she
scissored them closed on the finger now buried inside her. I tried to be
everywhere at once. I moved my finger in and out of her, I moved my palm up
and down, and I found her clit with my thumb, applying pressure to that as
well. Her pussy felt incredibly tight and hot to me. Although I could feel
moistness, she wasn't terribly wet and I worried that I would begin to
irritate her, to hurt her. But she was moving faster now, and in several
moments locked her thighs together and spasmodically wrenched her hips off
the bed. I was watching a Tricia Bradington orgasm.
No matter how proficient you are at fantasy, no matter how creative the
intellect, the vividness of the imagination; the power of one's own
self-created vision is always somehow diluted by the very awareness of it's
creation. A magician performing an illusion is never as impressed with the
effect as the audience. You know, consciously or not, how the illusion was
produced. The audience does not know. This was not an illusion, this vision
was a reality, and my mind, my body, and my heart grasped that reality
immediately. That reality was as much an aphrodisiac as the sight of the
young, lithe body, now writhing on my bed.
I was now privy to information I had been wonerdign about for a long time.
She was quiet in orgasm. Barely any sound was audible to my over anxious
ears. Her mouth was open, eyes tightly shut. For Tricia, in climax, the body
commandeered the voice. It was the body that expressed what rendered the
vocal capacity mute. Her eyes were closed, the spasm began in her hips and
traveled through her upper body, her hands grabbed at my arms, squeezing
tightly. She finally collapsed onto the bed.
"Oh God...Rick," she gasped. Her arm was thrown across her face.
Some of her hair had fallen in front of her eyes. I kissed it away, my hand
remained, motionless on top of her pussy; satisfied to remain in proximity
to her sexual center. To be near it was enough. But soon that pledge of
satisfaction was replaced by a demanding urge for more. I rolled us over so
that the full weight of her body now reposed on top of mine in an attempt to
make as much body contact as was physically possible. I held her head in my
hands and kissed her face, her throat, and her forehead. Overwhelmed by the
closeness of her I began to thrust my painfully hard cock, still encased
behind the cloth of my pants, at the nexus of her sexuality. She sat up,
straddling my legs.
"I want to see it...can I? I want to see your cock," she said.
Stunned into silence, all I could do was to stare at her, my consent
obvious, as she unzipped me and reached into my briefs, extracting my rigid
prick. I felt dizzy, Tricia's hand was on my cock! I lifted my hips, pushing
my pants and briefs down to mid thigh, removing encumbrances, providing
Tricia with space to run her hands all over me. She hunched forward a little
and my naked cock was now smothered by her naked pussy, her pubic hair
gliding over me.
I reached behind her to lower the zipper of her dress. The fabric fell
forward and I drew it over her shoulders. She slid her arms through the
sleeves and the material slithered down, collecting at her waist. There
before me were her breasts, hidden behind her white cotton bra. I could see
the nipples protruding through he slightly padded cups. I anxiously pulled
the straps of her bra down to reveal them, recalling that one February day,
long ago. Uncovered, they were all I had hoped they would be, all that I
envisioned them to be. They were firm and small. I could cover them entirely
in the palm of my hand, but their remarkably erect nipple singed the palm of
my hands as I reached out to possess them. Tricia groaned as a I held her
breasts, betraying their sensitivity. Those beautifully formed, girlish
breasts became for me the ultimate personification of Tricia's sexual self.
Hidden, as they always were, contained, remaining a mystery, an object of
fantasy to the men in her life, as they had been an object of my fantasies.
I leaned forward to take one in my mouth. My tongue explored its surface and
I bit down on it slightly, rewarded by the sound of Tricia moaning again. As
I moved across her chest, alternating my attention from breast to breast,
Tricia started rubbing her exposed pussy harder over my rampant cock.
"I want to feel you inside of me, will you make love to me Rick?" she
gasped, still rubbing herself across my cock.
"God yes, Tricia, please let me..." That sounded like begging to me, and
that is exactly what it was. But I was past the point where any sense of
dignity or pride in one's personal control restrained the combined clawing
of the flesh and the psyche. I would remember that thought months later.
"It won't hurt this time will it?" she asked.
I held my dick upright and rubbed the head over her clitoris, which caused
her to hump slightly against it.
"Do whatever you want, whenever you want." My gracious advice hopefully
disguised the impatient quiver in my voice. She took me in her hand and
placed me at the entrance of her pussy. She gently inserted the head, and
when it invaded her tight folds she moaned slightly. She kept her hand
between her legs, feeling the contact, touching where my cock made entrance.
Her hand brushed over her clit and I felt her pussy flutter before a burst
of wetness covered my cock. She bit her upper lip and descended fully on top
of me, burying my dick in her. I almost screamed in the completeness of it,
and quickly worked my hands beneath her dress to hold her naked hips in my
hands. I frantically moved them around to run my palms over her small, tight
ass, following her movements as she began bouncing on top of me. She felt
incredibly tight to me, and slightly wetter than I would have imagined.
With increasing hunger, her pace quickened. She was driving herself
forcefully up ad down my rigid shaft, and I watched her face, taking
inventory of what the signs of approaching orgasm were. I labored to
forestall my own explosion as I watched her head snap back, teeth gritted,
breath expelled in ragged gasps. "Oh yes, Rick... oh God...it's happening,
I'm going to cum..."
"Yes Tricia, do it...let it go," I exclaimed, through gritted teeth of my
own, as I slammed my hips up to meet hers.
"Oh God....yesssssssss....now...."
She paused briefly on an upstroke, holding only the top portion of my cock
within her, then let her weight fall on me, impaling herself. Her body
leaned forward, fingernails dug into my chest as her hair fell in front of
her face, obscuring the view I so desperately needed to see. I reached up to
draw her hair back and kept my hand at the back of her head. I threw my hips
off the bed in an attempt to bury myself in her as deeply as possible. Her
orgasmic quaking subsided and she leaned backwards, a hand between my
calves. I looked deeply into her face, wanting to capture and catalogue
every nuance, every line, every expression. With eyes closed, her tongue
slithered briefly out from between her smiling lips and ran itself around
their curves, and her hips convulsed in jerking fashion one more time. The
entire scene was my breaking point and I felt the cum begin to rifle up my
shaft.
"Oh fuck Tricia...I can't stand this..." I gasped as I grabbed her waist and
pushed her off of me. My cock slapped against my stomach as it withdrew from
her. It bounced slightly from the impact as my own orgasm gripped me. My
chin felt the first blast. Tricia, recalled from her reverie and realizing
what was happening, leaned forward to capture my firing cock in her soft,
gentle palm. She didn't stroke me as much as she just squeezed me, almost as
if to milk the passion from my body, and I reveled in the feel of her hand
on me. All the while she stared in fascination as heavy ropes of my cum
layered my chest and stomach. I struggled to keep my eyes open, struggled to
maintain my gaze watching her watching me. Her rapt attention, her soft
smile, her flushed cheeks, her intent hazel eyes...the whole picture, only
made my orgasm all the more intense.
Utterly exhausted, I pulled her down to my lips by the soft skin of her
shoulders and we shared another lingering kiss.
"I don't know how to explain this," she said, when our lips finally parted,
"It's so hot watching you cum."
I understood what she meant. I felt it more than she, though I would never
have told her that. Was it about power? Was it about domination? Did I want
her undone? To exact some sexual revenge on her for all those nights of
torment, to establish my own control? Or was it about abandon? I never raped
Tricia in any of my fantasies, never forced her. In all of my fantasies she
was a willing, if hesitant, participant. That's what I wanted, I wanted her
willingness. I wanted her to want what I wanted.
Our clothes were a mess. My seminal fluids covered almost everything I was
wearing and her wardrobe also bore the marks of our coupling. Watching her
disrobe, I was struck again by the power of fantasy becoming reality. She
turned her back to me to place her crumpled dress on a chair and turned to
face me. The firm, upwardly mobile breasts, the flat, almost concave stomach
preceding the slight flair of her girlish hips. I drank it all in, and felt
myself hardening. My burgeoning erection was not lost on her as her eyes
swept over my body, as mine had swept over hers. She saw my cock lurch
against my thigh and a smile spread across her lips. She lay down next to me
and took me in her hand, gently stroking, rekindling my lust for her,
bringing me to full rigidity. To me, her beauty and desirability was almost
overwhelming and I grew fully hard in her hand.
"I want to do it again, Rick. Make love to me again." She took my hand and
placed it between her legs.
"Feel how wet I am already," she said deviously.
I rolled her over on her back and, feeling the softness of her inner thighs
on my hips and waist, buried myself again into my deepest, most
incarcerating fantasy.

I dreamt I was walking along a suburban street in the moist closeness of a
summer evening. As I traveled the sidewalk I passed a fence that looked like
wrought iron but felt like aluminum to my touch. It's solidity was
interrupted by what appeared to be a gate. I rapped against it with my
knuckles, and the sound of Tricia's muffled voice rose up in response to my
accidental knocking. I peered through the gaps in the fence but could only
detect her movement, not her form or features. I passed through the gate and
was engulfed in darkness. I called for Tricia but could not determine from
where her responses were originating. For hours, it seemed, I wandered in
the black, trying to follow the sound of her voice. At the depths of my
hopelessness, close to abandoning my efforts, I heard her voice directly
behind me.
"I'm here," the voice spoke. I turned to see her backed up against the
fence. I could see more clearly now. Her hands gripped the wrought iron
spikes and she smiled at me. Her shirt was unbuttoned to the waist,
revealing a pale, peach camisole. I reached out with my hand and touched her
chest below her throat. She giggled, her teeth reflecting light somehow. She
reached towards me to return the gesture and when her hand touched my
shoulder it seemed to sting me. I pulled back in astonishment, and she
laughed again.

I awoke facing Tricia's back, and passed my hand over her shoulder to reject
the notion of my dream. My lower body made contact with her ass and I
couldn't resist pushing my inexplicably hard cock against her. To my
surprise...she pushed back. Tricia was awake.
As he pushed her ass back against my crotch, she could feel how hard I was
and reached back to rub her hand over my erection.
"You're hard again," she said, an almost lilting laugh in her voice.
"I'm a stud, what can I say?" I chided, kissing the back of her neck and
running my tongue to her earlobe. She had put on one of my t-shirts to sleep
in. Still on her side, I kissed her shoulder through the material, and
worked my way down kissing everything as I went. I kissed her arm, kissed at
the side of her waist, and, moving the t-shirt aside, licked at the bone of
her hip. My hand burrowed below the hem of the shirt and I passed it lightly
over her pubic region, re-familiarizing myself with the soft hair . I pulled
her hip towards me and she rolled over on her back, looking at me. I held
her gaze for a moment then descended on her stomach, pushing my tongue into
her navel, running my hands over her leg. I lowered my face and lightly
kissed the top of her pussy, planning on finding her clit with me tongue. As
I was about to begin my oral exploration, she pulled at my shoulder.
"No Rick...don't do that...come here," she said, pulling me up towards her.
I acquiesced, allowing her to guide me up to her face, a little disappointed
and a little hurt.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"Nothing...I just...I just don't want you to do that." she replied.
"All right," I said, thinking briefly that I could let it go, then realized
I couldn't. "Why not?
"I just don't, O.K.!" she said and rolled back onto her side, facing away
from me. "It's perverted."
This was the woman who had gloried in my desire for her, the woman that had
stroked my ejaculating cock, so that a tidal wave of cum had drenched the
both of us. This was the woman who came to me with the sole intention, and
I'm convinced of this now, of seducing me; knowing it would be easy, knowing
how much I wanted her. I almost had to laugh.
"Why is it perverted Tricia? If it brings us pleasure, what's the harm"
"It's just not right...I'm just not comfortable with it...are you
disappointed in me?" she asked.
"No," I replied, "it's not a matter of that. I don't want to force you to do
anything you don't want to do."
"But you wish I wanted you to do it, don't you?" She sounded angry.
"It's all right Tricia, forget it." I said, and kissed the back of her head.

"Peter wanted me to do that to him...to take his thing in my mouth, I
couldn't do that either...don't take it the wrong way," she said.
This is where she drew the line. This is where the aristocratic, country
club culture, matching hairband and sweater set mentality kicked in. It
couldn't be sexual gratification founded solely on procreation, could it?
For her, could it be that sexuality was only a means to an end, not a means
of expression? She would, with incredible facility, rescue the moment. How
easily distracted I was.
"Why are all you men so fixated on oral sex anyway?" she asked,
simultaneously reaching back to rub my cock through the shorts I was
wearing. 'All you men??!?' This was her vast experience of all of two men
speaking.
"Isn't it enough," she continued, in both pertinent endeavors, "to have me
where it really counts? To possess me in the most private and personal
ways?" She continued to stroke my cock as she spoke, and, of course, I grew
erect beneath her hand. She reached into the waistband of my shorts to
feather her hand across my exposed erection. Her touch destroyed me. I began
to push myself against her hand, trapped between my cock and her ass.
"Isn't it enough to have my pussy?" she asked, and her language had its
desired effect. I stifled a moan. She was silent for a moment, never halting
the motion of her hand.
"C'mon," she almost pleaded, "slide yourself into me."
I pushed my shorts down my legs, removing them with impatient speed. I took
my rigid cock from her hand, and pushed up against her from behind, probing
for entrance. She guided the head of my cock to her entrance and shifted her
hips. I slid into her in one fluid motion.
"Yeah...just like that," she said.
We had not made love this way before and the uniqueness of it was startling.
In our position I felt an unexperienced deepness of penetration, and she
felt even tighter than in our earlier copulations, something I would never
have imagined possible. She began to drive her ass back against me, and grew
wetter with each of my thrusts.
"Does this feel as good for you as it does for me?" she asked through
clenched jaws.
"God yes!"
"Good, ...I want it to feel good for you Rick....I want to satisfy you..."
Realizing how turned on she was at how turned on I was, I bit on the bait. I
started thrusting faster, thrusting harder. I rolled onto my back, dragging
her light body with me. She was now splayed on top of me while I fucked her
from beneath. Trying to do everything I could, I reached around to rub her
clit as I pounded into her. Her arms reached up above her, drawing her tits
tight against her chest. I grabbed at one with my other hand, pinching her
erect nipple between forefinger and thumb.
"Oh God Rick, I'm going to cum...do you want me to cum?" she panted
"Yes Tricia, I want you to explode, I want you to drench my cock in your
cum...cum for me baby!"
"I want it to be good...for...you," she gasped, "I want you to want me."
"Tricia...I want you more than I've ever wanted anyone....Tricia...I love
you!"
I had said those words I had resisted saying. With those words, we both
achieved some sense of victory. As was so fitting for my situation, that
victory meant sexual fireworks. As soon as the words left my mouth my semen
jetted from my cock. Even after the night's earlier activities I felt like I
was shooting a quart of cum into Tricia's pussy. I felt it blast from me,
and I felt it leak out from around where my swollen cock was encased in the
hold of her cunt. The speed of sound is slower at such moments, was it my
orgasm, or my words, that triggered Tricia's explosion?
"Yeahhh Rick, I feel you shooting into me...I can feel it..."
She writhed atop me raggedly, thrown spastically through her own crashing
waves.
"Jesus...I'm coming so hard! I'm coming sooooooooo harddddddddddd!" she
cried out as the pulse and tremor of our shared climax passed back and forth
from one who was lost to one who was found, and back again.

Tricia had to return to Boston on Sunday afternoon, but we spoke on the
phone every day until her promised return the following weekend. Most of
those conversations were lost on me then, but I remember them now. We spoke
on many subjects: literature, music, education, history, religion, our
respective pasts, our respective ideals and values. We argued, we debated,
we laughed. I realize now that I had two different Tricia's. There was my
own, exclusive "virtual Tricia" and there was the "corporeal Tricia". The
corporeal Tricia was the woman everyone else knew, the Tricia whose
upbringing and social caste had created her Victorian arrogance; prideful
and possessive of a pre-configured life of upper class comfort in marriage,
family and material wealth. My problem was that I could not sacrifice one to
be with the other. I could not speak to her about even the most mundane
topic without seeing the virtual Tricia. The woman I had made love to, the
woman who had groaned "God...you make me so hot!" The woman whose sundress
once lay on a chair in my bedroom, while she lay naked on my bed. The woman
who allowed me the opportunity to exorcise the collected demons of a hundred
moments of fantasy. The woman who had pulled my hard cock towards her pussy
and said "Slide yourself into me." I got hard simply recalling how she had
brushed her hair wearing only bra and panties in my bathroom that very
Sunday morning. I can ask myself now: which one of these variants was the
real Tricia Bradington? At the time I did not know. Did I care? I should
have cared.

We made plans for her to come back out to my house for the following
weekend. I had a meeting I could not evade scheduled for that Friday
afternoon, but left a hidden key for her, with instructions to let herself
in. I raced back from my meeting that day to find her car parked in the
driveway. Anxiously I entered the house and called her name...there was no
response. My voice died against the walls in the disguised emptiness of the
house.
Though her car was there, I couldn't find her. She wasn't in the living
room, and I checked the deck through the plate glass windows. Perhaps she
had gone for a walk. I made may way upstairs to change clothes. As I got to
the upstairs landing I heard Tricia's soft moans from the bedroom, the sound
froze me on the spot. I walked quietly to the door and looked in. Tricia was
lying flat on the bed, eyes closed. She was wearing denim shorts and a black
t-shirt. Her left hand had dragged the hem of the t-shirt above one breast
which she was massaging through the lace of a black bra. Her shorts were
unzipped, revealing the top of her panties, a matching set. Tricia in black
lingerie. I felt my cock lurch in arousal. I could see the wrist of her
other hand as she slowly rubbed her pussy. I stood there mesmerized by the
vision. Tricia was masturbating, I almost didn't think it possible. What
would the country club members say? What would her parents say? What would
the Pope say? What would Laura Ashley say? I stood there slightly bemused
and very turned on. Her ministrations became more frantic. The pace of her
hands quickening. She pinched her visibly erect nipple and thrust her hips
off the bed, fucking her hand. Concealed as it was by her clothing I
couldn't see her hand. Was she shoving her finger into her pussy? Was it
more than one finger? Was she rubbing her clit? Was she close to cumming? Of
all my questions, the most intriguing, the most tenacious, the most urgent
in my mind was: what was she thinking about? There had been dozens of nights
where I, tormented by my frustration, had jerked myself of thinking of her.
It was sheer ego that now prompted me to fantasize that she was thinking
about me as she stroked herself off. I held my breath, not wanting to
interrupt, desperately wanting to see this reach its conclusion. I listened
carefully, less she utter a name, a phrase that would uncover what she saw
in her mind's eye. I received no such information, but watched hypnotically
as she approached orgasm. Her hand moved faster, her breathing became ragged
and her hips danced on the mattress, ass rising and falling. She moaned
(more loudly than she had last weekend) as climax overtook her. She threw
her hips up and froze there, back arched, the cords of her neck muscles
drawn tight, mouth open; before she relaxed onto the bed, panting heavily.
She had finished.
"I can't leave you alone for minute, you go and start without me," I said, a
smile on my face.
Startled by my voice, her eyes flew open, she turned her head to see me. She
frantically removed her hand from its resting place and pulled her t-shirt
down, irrelevantly covering herself with her arms. The flush of
embarrassment spread on her face.
"How long have you been standing there?" she asked.
"One orgasms worth," I answered.
"Oh God," she sighed, and buried her head in the arms now crossed against
her upper body.
"Why are you embarrassed?" I asked, walking into the room, walking to the
bed.
"Because...you saw me...it was just an impulse...I never meant..." she
added, apologetically.
"Why do you feel you have to apologize for these impulses, Tricia?" I asked,
looking down at her flushed form. I could see the outline of her still erect
nipple, and smell the faint scent of her arousal. A thin strip of flesh was
still visible at the waist. I dropped to my knees and bent down to kiss it.
I moved from there to kiss a nipple through shirt and bra. She ran her hand
through my hair as I lingered around her breasts.
"I don't know," she replied, "I just...never mind...it's just a little
humiliating, that's all."
"You shouldn't think of it that way," I said, standing up. "Nothing to be
ashamed of, it's all right to feel desire. Speaking of which..."
I moved to kneel above her, my knees on the outside of each of her legs. I
unbuttoned my shirt and pulled it off, throwing it on the floor. I then
unbuckled and unzipped my pants, reaching to pull out my cock, still hard
from watching Tricia's performance. She stared at me wide-eyed as I began to
stroke my shaft.
"It's only fair," I said looking down at her, "after all the nights I spent
doing this, thinking of you. Wondering what it would be like to have you
with me. Wondering what you're body would be like, how it would feel. I got
to find that out last weekend. It was better than I ever fantasized it would
be, and I've been remembering all week."
"I was thinking about last weekend too, that's what got me started...I was
remembering how hard your cock got, and how it felt moving in and out of
me...and how I wanted to do it again and again. I couldn't help myself."
This confession, and I saw it as just that, a confession, sent an electric
jolt through my sexual synapses. I felt my balls churn in Pavlovian response
to Tricia's words. She had been thinking about me. My arousal was equaled
only by the immense satisfaction I received with the contract of this sexual
equity. What is more seductive? To want, or to be wanted? This was the
geometry of desire, the algebra of appetite. The more I felt she wanted me,
the more I wanted her. In what was, at that moment, almost a symbiotic
metaphor, she reached out to replace my hand with her own. She slid her fist
up and down my rigid shaft as I watched. A look passed through her eyes
that, in anyone else, would have seemed utterly maniacal.
"I like the idea of you jerking yourself off thinking of me," she said.
"I'm sure you do..."
"You got to see me cum," she said, "now I want to see you cum." With that,
she squeezed my cock a little tighter and moved her hand a little faster,
sitting up parallel to my body. Looking down at her, still fully clothed, a
very faint sheen of perspiration on her forehead, my desire threatened to
swallow me completely. With the ounce of self-control I still retained, I
grabbed her hand and halted her movements on my cock. I reached down to pull
the t-shirt from her, revealing her small firm breasts encased in the lace
of her bra. The sheer black fabric looked exquisite against the porcelain
quality of her skin, and I ran my fingers underneath the thin straps
traveling the curves of her shoulders.
"You don't get away that easily," I said, trying to keep my voice even, "get
yourself off again...let's do this together."
My cock was once again encased in her silky grasp she leaned forward to kiss
my stomach. I reached down to pass my hand inside the cup of her bra and
feel the light weight of her breast. She pulled her face away >from my
stomach and for a brief, unrealistic moment, I almost thought that she was
going to use her mouth on my throbbing cock. But she only moved a strand of
her hair from where it had become trapped in her mouth and continued
stroking me with her hand. She would occasionally look up at me, measuring
her progress. Let me tell you, er progress was considerable. I could look
down into her bra and see her breasts move slightly with her efforts.
"C'mon Rick...cum for me," she said, a pinch in her voice that almost
brought me to the boiling point, but I held out for more.
"Tricia...rub yourself for me again. You get to see me cum when I see you
cum again."
She lay back on the bed and inserted her other hand into the waist of her
unzipped shorts. As she had before, she began to move her hand urgently
against her clit, all the while keeping her eyes locked on mine.
"Oh God...Yessssss," I moaned. Encouraged by the effect she was having on me
she began to move both her hands faster.
"Jesus...I didn't think this could be so hot," she groaned.
I reached down to pull her bra strap down, breaking the rhythm she had
established on my cock, which was a good thing. I was getting too close too
fast. I desperately wanted to hold back and wait for her orgasm. Her arm
prevented the complete removal of the strap, but I managed to expose her
breast and cover it with my hand. I rubbed her tit a bit more forcefully
than perhaps I intended, but she gasped in contentment as I did, rolling her
head from side to side. Her hair flew around the pillow and raising myself
back up I shoved my cock into her fist. I watched for all the signs. When I
saw her grit her teeth, throw her head back, and thrust her hips off the
bed, I knew the moment had arrived.
"Fuck...Rick...cum for me...its time....I'm coming...ughhhhhhhhhhh,
yeahhhhhhhhh."
The come cannoned from my cock. The initial arc of the my sperm flew against
the headboard with almost frightening velocity. While I groaned deliriously,
it was followed by a volley that fell to Tricia's throat, the rest dropping
onto her black bra and stomach. In a light headed stupor I fell forward,
supporting myself by my arms, on all fours, above the young woman I was
increasingly aware I could not live without. The hand she had used to
stimulate her clit was now resting on the pillow above her head and I took
it in my hand, drawing it to my mouth to taste her, to lick her juices from
the fingers. I sucked on the index and middle fingers and knew I wanted
more.
I should have realized then the danger of where I had gone. The valueless
void of the junkie's mentality; the prism that refracts, in diminishing
returns, all that one has, into all that one has yet to acquire. The abject
poverty of the addicted. But I, of course, could not see that with Tricia
beneath me. Lying as she was in the afterglow of our shared sexual
deliverance. No, that was neither the time nor the place for the surgical
glare of reality. That was only the realm of want, of need, of physical
desire, of sexual greed. I wanted the elevator to the top floor, wherever
that was; but I gave no thought to how, if ever, I could find my way down
again.

I got up to stand at the foot of the bed and pulled her shorts down her
legs, tossing them on the floor. She had extended her legs to help me with
the disrobing process and I held them, kissing her ankles, her calves and
working my way up to her inner thighs. I released her legs and knelt on the
floor looking at her. Her bra was still on, though disheveled, the one
exposed breast beckoning me. I licked at the valley between her breasts and
took that beckoning nipple into my mouth. I felt her hands on the back of my
head as I nursed at the breast. With a hunger manifested in the force with
which I used my mouth, I dined on Tricia's breast, ribcage and stomach,
moving myself into position to run my tongue beneath the elastic waistband
of her sheer black panties. Her hand had remained on my head throughout
these travels, it served as a sentry who would alert me through gesture as
to when I had transgressed it's masters territorial boundaries. But this
sentry had not anticipated the speed with which I would act. All alarms
sounded when I swiftly pulled Tricia's panties down and swooped in to wipe
my tongue over her extended clit.
"Rick...no....don't."
Now I know no means no, you know? I was genuinely torn between my desire to
do this, and not wanting to upset her. But, and I'm saying this without need
for defense, at the same time she said 'no', her hand on the back of my head
pulled me tighter against her pussy. The sentry had defected. The tip of my
tongue struck at her clit again, applying pressure, both figurative and
literal.
"No...Rick," she gasped in protest again, "it's too dirty... please stop."
I raised my head from between her legs, my hand rubbing her stomach lightly.

"Tricia, I want to taste you...I want to do this. Why is it too dirty ?" I
asked, and bit down on her inner thigh.
"It just is..." she gasped as her hands ran through my hair.
"What is it you don't like Tricia? What is it that makes you uncomfortable
about my tongue in your pussy?" She gasped at my question, and her hand
pulled my hair.
"It feels too good..."
"Tell me to stop one more time Tricia, and I will. But I don't want to
stop," and dove down again to snake my tongue over her exposed, swollen
clitoris. I pushed my mouth hard against it, my hands firmly planted on the
top of her thighs.
"Oh fuck," she groaned, "I give up...don't stop Rick...keep licking
me...please!"
Gentleman, start your engines. I almost ripped her damp panties in my haste
to remove them from the equation. I wanted nothing less than to devour her,
to drink all of her, to swallow her whole. In a fury of starvation I
ravished her pussy, using tongue and mouth, fingers and hands, compelled to
drive her deeper into the black crater of her own depravation. There, we
could finally be together. Join me, I said to her through my oral assault,
in the surrender of total physical inferno. He hips began to move, savagely,
against my mouth. I removed my tongue and rubbed my finger against her clit
vigorously.
"That's it Tricia, fuck my face...cum for me my love," I said, and submerged
again into her need.
Her fingernails dug into my scalp as she groaned ecstatically with impending
release. I flattened my tongue and plastered it to her clit, moving from
side to side as my index finger plunged into her. Driven to excess, I was
harsh, I was rough, I was overcome; and she was about to explode. I could
feel her pussy fluttering around my finger, feel her clit throbbing against
my tongue. I lifted my eyes without removing myself from her pussy. Both her
hands were on my head, and her arms pushed her breasts together, creating,
what was for Tricia, an exaggerated cleavage. One breast was exposed, the
other still shielded by her black bra.
"Yes Rick...Yes...just like that, keep doing that...yes...I'm going to cum,
AAHHHHHHHHHH!!"
Something had happened to her. That wasn't a moan. That wasn't a groan. That
was a scream. She thrust her cunt into my face and held my head tightly
against her spasming pussy, I could feel it grab at my tongue. I slid my
hands beneath her raised ass and held her weight against me as she shuddered
through orgasm, snapping up against me, her groaning guttural and
animalistic.
My cock was granite between my legs, I got to my feet and threw off my
remaining clothing, never taking my eyes off her. Her eyes were closed, her
stomach and breasts heaved with her efforts to regain her breath. She panted
there on the bed, her pussy swollen and wet. Her cheeks and chest were
flushed, and a thin sheen of sweat had developed on her exposed breast. I
saw the whole thing through the red haze of my own consuming lust for this
woman. Impatiently, without warning, without concern for anything, I threw
myself at her. I could not have entered her more forcefully if I had taken a
running start. She grunted in surprise, but almost instantly wrapped her
legs around me. I slid my arms beneath her thighs drawing her legs up for
the fullest possible penetration, spreading her wide open. Gratification was
no longer the issue. It was now about possession, but I didn't know who was
possessing who.

For the rest of that summer, Tricia would come out to my house each weekend.
We would talk on the phone during the week. She didn't want me to call her
because she didn't want her roommate disturbed, but she called me
religiously each evening. One night she even talked me through what she
planned on doing to me that weekend. Her descriptions were quite colorful,
so colorful in fact that I started stroking my fully erect cock listening to
them. She insisted on knowing when I was about to cum, my hoarse yelling of
her name as I covered my hand and shirt with cum satisfied her of my
fulfillment of obligation.
Our hunger for each other seemed insatiable. Familiarity with each other's
bodies did not dilute the passion, it only seemed to increase it. I couldn't
see her in any outfit without becoming engrossed in the vision of what it
would be like to fuck her out of it. Her allure was in how she elegantly
skated the line between what was demure and what was decadent. One night at
dinner I noticed her nipples, erect in the air-conditioned cold of the
restaurant, clearly visible through the pale pink of her polo shirt. I asked
if she were uncomfortably chilly while staring at her breasts. She laughed
and said, "I suppose I picked the wrong evening to go braless." I rushed us
through the rest of the meal, and, not even able to make it past the hallway
entrance of my house, lifted her light body up and we fucked while standing
there. I held her ass in my palms and she wrapped her arms around my neck.
Though the situation called for no modesty, I wanted her to keep the shirt
on, licking and biting at her breasts as they bounced subtlety on her chest
beneath the fabric.
One Thursday night in early August she called to say she had to make a visit
home and could not see me that weekend. I can not fully describe to you the
depths of my depression. It seemed intolerable to me that I would have to
wait an entire additional week for her return. Panic seized me when I
suddenly wondered whether she would return at all. I resented all those
people she spent time with when she was not with me, as if they were
ultimately responsible for her absence. Her roommate, her other friends,
even her family. A sickening thought occurred to me during the irrationality
of my weekend without her; what about Peter? Whatever happened to Peter? I
had completely forgotten about him during these summer months. Had she? I
almost threw up considering the possibility that he was still a part of her
life. We would have to talk about this. The next time we were together, we
would have to discuss this.
She called the following Wednesday, said she couldn't talk long but that she
would see me on Friday. I diligently, assiduously rehearsed my opening
remarks and questions. But when she arrived on Friday afternoon, her
youthful radiance rendered me voiceless. And when she slipped out of her
clothes to reveal that exquisitely crafted body in a light blue slip, and
pantiless, all was lost. I completely forgot about Peter. I wouldn't
remember until two weekends later.

A warm late August breeze drifted through the open windows as we lounged
together on the bed. Perhaps it was her preoccupied distant manner that
served as an incubator for my suspicions. She had been like that for most of
the day. What was she thinking about? My need to know outweighed my fear of
knowledge.
"Tricia...what's the situation between you and Peter?"
"We still see each other, if that's what you're asking," she said, after a
slight hestitation and touch of annoyance in her voice.
"What does that mean...'seeing each other'?"
"We've been out, we do things...listen, do we have to do this now, do we
have to talk about Mr. 45 second fuck right at this moment!?"
"It's important to me, " I maintained.
"Well it's not important to me...not here, not now," she rolled over on top
of me, she raised herself up, straddling my hips and leaning down to my
face. "All that is important to me right now is being here, being with you.
You make me feel...sexy...I never felt sexy before...I was just plain old
Tricia before you."
The way she said it made me ignore gnawing dread, ignore the worry. I felt
quite clearly, though I had conceived of the notion before, that my lust for
her was a manifestation of my genuine love for her.
"Tricia, you're the sexiest woman I've ever seen..." She kissed me lightly
then raised her face away from mine, a smile on her lips. She wore a light
white cotton sweater, and while still smiling into my face, pulled its deep
V-neck down exposing her chest and the valley between her small, firm
breasts. She wasn't wearing a bra and I sawÊher nipples rub against the
cotton of her sweater. As usual, the view made me dizzy. She got off me,
sliding the shorts and panties she wore down her legs. She reached out to
unzip my pants, I helped her remove them, then quickly tore my shirt off as
she climbed back on top of me. She rubbed her pussy against my legs and
cock. She got me very hard, very quickly, and laughed appreciatively when
she felt my cock throb, trapped between our bodies.
"Rick...do something for me..."
"Anything Tricia...anything you want," I moaned.
"Lick me again." she said, and I was impressed and aroused by the ease with
which the sentence dripped from her lips like melting ice cream.
I only smiled in ascent. She started to move off of me but I stopped her. I
slid myself down till my face reached that point between her legs, and
reached out with my tongue to bathe her pussy. My neck strained upwards,
licking at her, but only until my ministrations became too enticing for her.
She began to bounce on my tongue and mouth as she had formerly bounced on my
hard cock. Tricia was fucking my face, and I loved it. I tried to move my
tounge faster, more energetically in and around her cunt. The excitement I
heard in her voice and felt in her movements sent waves of frustration
through my maddeningly erect cock, so I reached forward to take the reddened
shaft in my hand. I fisted myself as my cock lived vicariously through my
tounge, wishing that it was where my tounge was. My cock willed my tounge to
thrust into Tricia's pussy as it would have done had it been in my tongue's
place. The hand not jerking myself off ran itself over Tricia's body: over
her hip, her waist, her ass, and her back underneath the thin sweater she
still wore. As the contractions sized her, Tricia screamed and convulsed on
my face, jerking her pussy over my lips and tounge. I could taste her
orgasmic secretions and felt her wetness on my face. After several minutes,
she relaxed a bit and took notice of the motion of my hand on my hard dick.
"Oh...I want to watch this..." she gasped, still slightly breathless >from
her orgasm.
She extracted herself from my mouth and dismounted my body. But I had
another idea and communicated to her through body language what I intended.
She now straddled me again, but now turned with her back towards me. I
lightly kissed the back of her thighs and the cheeks of her ass, before
returning my tounge to its promised homeland. With broad, flat strokes, I
traveled the length of her pussy. She seemed to shudder on top of me as he
combination of my tounge in her cunt and my hand on my cock drove her closer
to the abyss once again.
"Oh Christ, Rick...I'm right on the edge again...." she panted.
With that, something snapped, some last reserve was eliminated from the
libido of Tricia Bradington, some curtain opened, some door unlocked, some
back alley revealed. She bent forward, almost impulsively, and passed her
tounge over the head of my prick.
"Oh God Tricia...!" I moaned ecstatically, not fully believing what my
senses incontrovertibly told me was happening. I had to stop licking her,
stricken as I was by the fact that she was using her mouth on me. I removed
my hand to give her all the room she could use, and her tounge bathed the
tip of my cock, then took long journeys up and down the length of my dick.
Her sweater rubbed against my stomach and I could feel her breasts pressed
between it's fabric and my skin. She interrupted her oral experimentation
only long enough to pull the sweater off and toss it on the floor. When she
returned to my hair trigger prick, it was real nipple I felt on my flesh. I
rallied my resources and attacked her pussy again with my mouth, encouraging
her, all the while moaning in disbelief and arousal. I felt the top four
inches of my dick enveloped by the warm, wet blanket of her mouth, and
uncontrollably thrust my hips off the bed. Startled by my urge, she grunted
in surprise but never lost contact. Tricia Bradington had my cock in her
mouth. It was not a matter of consciously realizing what was happening to
me. It certainly wasn't a matter of exerting some control over myself. All I
could feel was my cum shooting up the engorged column of my shaft.
"Of Tricia...I'm coming...I'm coming...FUUUUUCCCKKKKK!"
She pulled her mouth off of me, but used her hand in that final crucial
instant. I felt the cum surge from within me, and could only imagine,
feeling its force, how it must have blasted against her tits and throat. I
heard her sharp intake of breath as I felt the cum drip onto my stomach,
rebounding off her body.
"Your cum feels so great on my nipples," I heard her say through the vacuum
of my ecstasy and I threw my face at her pussy again as I pictured her
rubbing my sperm into her breasts and she heaved her cunt against my lips.
She screamed again, and the sugary walls of her cunt snapped tightly against
my tounge. The fingernails of one hand dug deeply into my thigh, I was to
find out later that they had actually drawn blood, but it didn't mean much
to me at the time. I almost fainted >from the intensity of the combined
effects of our orgasms. At the end of the hurricane of her orgasm she had
bent her head once again to my cock. I could feel her tounge slather over
me, painting it. Softening after my orgasm, she was able now to take most of
it in her mouth and was working me over again. I could feel her breath on my
balls, and I began to harden in her mouth. She moaned around my growing cock
in surprise and satisfaction in her own talents. As I grew fully erect
between her lips she could take less of its length, but moved faster on me.
I could feel her teeth scrape lightly against the sides of my shaft, and
groaned deliriously. Her exertions seemed to have exhausted her, for she
removed me from her mouth, stroked me several times with her fist then
tumbled off me, lying on the bed as my cock throbbed, swollen and anxious
yet again.
I moved to lean over her prone form and looked into her eyes and over her
body. Her hair was tousled and somewhat damp with sweat. She was breathing
heavily through open mouth and I watched her tounge move furtively across
her lips. Her chest was slick from perspiration and my cum, and I watched
her hard nipples rise and fall with her respiratory struggles.
"It was so great feeling you get hard in my mouth," she said, with an
expressionless countenance I don't recall having seen before, completely
wrapped up into what she had done to me, what we had done to each other.
"Fuck me again," she said, "I'll do whatever you want...just let's not
stop..." Her voice seemed a little hoarse to me from her screaming.
I rolled her over on her stomach and pulled at her hips, getting her up on
her hands and knees and assumed my position behind her, kneeling between her
legs. Her ass looked fantastic and I reached out to rub my hands over it,
sliding them down the back of her thighs. My cock was aching for the
sanctuary of being inside her again. I took it in my hand and rubbed the
head across the now very wet lips of her cunt. She shivered slightly at the
contact and reached up between her legs, somewhat impatient to feel me. I
entered her in one long smooth stroke until my stomach was firmly planted
against her ass.
"Ohhhhhhh Rick, you feel like you're in so deep this way...." she moaned.
I remained motionlessly embedded in her, until she began to rock forward and
back, enveloping me with each movement. She seemed to know exactly when to
reverse her direction; forward until the very point when the tip of my cock
threatened to pop out of her, then back again. I simply kneeled there
watching the motion of her fantastic ass and hips. She ran her hands through
her hair and looked back at me. This proved to be my undoing and I grabbed
her hips in my hands, urgently slamming myself into her. The flesh of her
lower body would jiggle slightly with each collision and she reached beneath
herself to finger her clit as I tried to move harder, tried to move deeper.
Sweat dripped from my face onto the small of her back and I stared intently
at the ridge created by the base of her spine. I looked with adoration upon
the sharp cut of her shoulder blades and the breathtaking femininity of the
back of her neck.
"Move a little faster," she groaned, "I'm almost there...you're going to
make me cum."
As usual her command was my overwhelming desire and I slammed into her
almost savagely, as if wanting to punish her for being so desirable. She
collected a portion of the sheet, gripping it in her hand and drawing it to
her mouth. She bit down on it as orgasm overtook her.
"Yes...just like that...yes, I'm coming now, yes...fuck me...fuck meeeeeeee,
agggghhhhhhhhhhh!"
I couldn't see her face, but I pictured it, inspired to continue slamming
into her even as her initial orgasmic contortions subsided. I maintained the
pace relentlessly, forcing her through another orgasm. Hungry for more I
continued to fuck her insatiably, reaching around to alternately rub her
clit and slippery breasts which now hung delicately >from her chest. She
erupted again. She now had almost no voice left and a rasping gasp burst
from her throat as her hips and ass twitching uncontrollably, before she
collapsed weakly onto the bed. I followed her down and now lay with my
weight on top of her, impatient for my own release. She panted and gasped
beneath me.
"God Rick, this is fantastic...I never would have thought..." she whispered
hoarsely.
"Tricia, you don't know what you to do to me...." I moaned.
"Rick...I want to make you come again...c'mon...do it!"
I pulled out of her slick pussy and rolled her over on her back. She stared
at me wantonly and ran her hands along the inside of her thighs.
"C'mon...fuck me...get yourself off, do anything you want...." Tricia
groaned.
I took my aching cock in hand and ran the head roughly against her clitoris.
She jerked her pussy up, jamming herself into me as I my cock slid into her.
I was too impatient to simply enjoy the moment and began rutting into her
immediately. She gasped beneath me.
"Yesssssss, fuck me harder Rick, cum for me...use my pussy to make yourself
cum!"
I felt the by now familiar flutter of hips and cunt as her body ran its
preorgasmic checklist. I knew she was on the precipice again.
"Tell me when you're going to come," I gasped through gritted teeth, trying
valiantly to delay my orgasm to coincide with her hers. I knew she was
close, as the frantic movements of her hips became less rhythmic and more
primal. Her raw, erect nipples rubbed against my chest and I reveled in
their yearning desire.
"Wrap your legs around me," I grunted, "swallow me whole...I want you
completely...I want you to own me..."
Her legs enveloped my hips and waist, squeezed me tightly. Her mouth gaped
open and I ran my tounge over her exposed teeth. Her wail began somewhere in
the volcanic depths of her jammed, tight pussy and traveled electrically
through her swollen breasts to her throat. There it was captured by her
wildly moving tounge finally finding expression in words that emerged as a
triumphant battle cry, a call to arms for the physicality she was now able
to embrace and celebrate. It was the wildest I had ever seen her.
"YESSSSSSSS! NOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWW! YEAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!"
What it might have lacked in eloquence, it more than made up for in energy
and passion. The tattered voice was just a forum for the body anyway as she
pushed herself at my embedded cock, urgently, violently fucking herself
through orgasm. I felt the additional wetness in her, creating an even more
velvet like grip on my thrusting cock. With her sandpaper scream ringing in
my ears I thrust against her only twice before I rocketed through a
wrenching orgasm of my own that almost actually produced pain in my
recoiling testicles and spasming prostrate. I felt Tricia bite down hard on
my lower lip as heavy ropes of my cum splattered into her pussy. I was
insane with lust and desire for her body and I tried to cleanse myself of
this insanity with each uncontrollable lunge...but it was a hopeless cause.
There would be no exorcism. The demon only chuckled at my feeble attempts to
satiate it. 

It was the following week that I received her letter in the mail. It was the
only letter I had ever received from her and I opened it with curiosity and
apprehension. The document I held in my hand was Tricia's good-bye letter. I
still have that letter, and in my worst masochistic moments, I reread it. It
spoke fondly of our time together. It spoke of her attraction to me, it
spoke of her desire for me, and it spoke of her gratitude to me for helping
her to discover and explore a part of herself she had rejected and
repressed. But it said nothing of her love for me. In fact, what it said was
that she could not, would not, love me. She did not apologize for not loving
me. I refused to let it end this way, I rejected it's ending at all. I
called her apartment constantly for forty-eight hours, but the phone simply
rang endlessly. In desperation, I tracked down the number of the law firm
for which she was interning, and called her at work. A mixture of furious
betrayed rage, and emotional devastation froze into jagged icicles in my
stomach when I learned that the firm carried three interns each summer, and
none of them this year were named "Tricia Bradington," none of them this
year were even female. I called her apartment and talked to her roommate
only long enough to discover that Tricia had only visited for several weeks
in June and had never lived there. She suggested I try reaching Tricia at
her parent's home in Southern Connecticut. Tricia had been driving to my
house each weekend from Connecticut, not Boston. With maddening poetic
justice, the telephone operator told me there was no public listing for
"Bradington" in New Caanan, Connecticut. I went as far as to contact the
alumni office of the preparatory school where Tricia and I had shared our
first moments of union, the environment that threw the two of us together.
But they offered no help, instead, merely promising to put me on the mailing
list for the Alumni Bulletin. Tricia was gone. She had disappeared. There
were no other phone calls, there were no other letters, there was no
vestigial E-mail. There was nothing, and there hasn't been since, these past
eleven months.
I have nothing left but her ghosts and their accessories. I have the T-shirt
she once wore, I have the photographs she once allowed me to take, I have
the chair where her green sundress once lay, and I have the letter she wrote
to carve up my chest. I have one more thing. I have written this story
because of what came in the mail yesterday afternoon. On page eighteen of
the Southington Alumni Bulletin, a small item:
"Mr. an Mrs. Gary Bradington of New Canaan, Connecticut are pleased to
announce the marriage of their daughter Tricia, to Peter Hardwick of Nyack,
New York."
The geometry of desire, transmuted into the geometry of loss.