“…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 last 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 replied. 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 that I have 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 was 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 wondering 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 and 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, her 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 the 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 saw her 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.