by Katy Terrega
(11/1/00)

Carolyn told me it would be like this.

"You're asking for trouble, Lacy," she warned, sounding almost absurdly ominous. "You don't understand how intense he is."

To tell you the truth, her holier than thou attitude kind of pissed me off. What, like I'm not a grown woman? Like I can't handle myself? Like a little intensity is going to...what? Kill me? "Please."

In the end I'd have to say that it was her warning, or, more accurately, my prepubescent reaction to it -- "You're not my boss! You can't tell me what to do!" -- that spurred me on. I know, I know. It's not her fault. It's mine. I am, as a fully functioning and thoroughly socialized creature of the new millennium, one-hundred-percent responsible for my own actions.

But still, I can't help but wonder. Perhaps if she hadn't been so adamantly opposed to my dating Evan, perhaps if she had followed that sage advice of friends and family everywhere -- "Stay out of it or you will force her into his arms!" -- perhaps then I wouldn't have been so incredibly determined to prove her wrong.

Then again, perhaps nothing could have stopped me. It may have been that my fierce desire for Evan would have overcome any small bit of control I foolishly thought I had. In the end, maybe nothing could have thwarted my obsession with, my addiction to, Evan.

Only he could have stopped me, stopped "us," but of course he didn't.

Not that I wanted him to, then or even now.

Because now, you see, the whole thing's become quite Pavlovian. Only instead of food, Evan feeds me sex. Delicious, mouth-watering, mind-bending oral sex. But, of course, it's not my mouth that drools when he whispers in my ear that he wants to fuck me now, or runs his wet tongue over his succulent lips, or pierces me with the ice-blue shards of his seductive gaze.

No, when Evan does those things, when Evan even "thinks" about doing those things, that's when my pussy begins to salivate. That's when I feel the tingle deep in my belly, the loosening of my thighs, the dribbles of juice on my quickly swelling lips. That's when I lose all control.

But it didn't start out this way. It's not like I planned it, you know. It's not as though I wanted to be swallowed up, no, "devoured," by his sex, his mouth, his tongue.

At least not at first.

At first I just appreciated his handsome charm, his gentlemanly demeanor. "Ha," I scoffed inwardly, as I was treated with the utmost respect tinged with just a touch of gentle humor and slight mystery. "This is intense? This is bad?"

Scoffed inwardly, of course, until he touched me. Until that first casual stroke that belied a subtle yet highly-charged eroticism that quite literally shocked me. I have to admit that I knew from the first moment his fingers lightly brushed my forearm that I was going to sleep with him. And even now, writing this, I can still conjure the goose-bumps that sprang up instantly along the entire length of my body as I felt his fingertips lightly play against the soft fuzz of my arm. Right then I knew that it was only a matter of time. I just didn't know how deliciously far it was going to take me.

To be fair, I have to say that I don't think that Evan ever consciously tried to seduce me into this world of semi-slavering submission, of subtle sexual control. It's really not his fault that I am the way I am, that I fall to my knees the instant he expresses a desire that I suck on his long, lean cock. That I spread my pussy lips wide for him the second his gaze indicates his intention to lick my always swollen clit. It's not his fault that I crave his kiss, his touch, his probing presence.

Nor is it his fault that he is the way he is; that his touch brings me to my knees, that his gaze liquefies my inner thighs. He could no more control his almost unbearable seductiveness than he could the sandy color of his longish hair or the pale blue of his eyes.

He never actually came on to me, you see. He never tried to finagle his way into my bed, my panties, my pussy. He never said that he wanted to fuck me. Not like he does now, of course.

"Lacy," he murmurs now in that soft and slow, but oh-so-powerful voice. "Lacy, I want to fuck you."

And then -- can you hear Pavlov's dogs begin to pant? -- my skin prickles and my cunt aches and my legs begin their slow but uncontrollable spread. Then he has me.

But at the beginning it was different. Or at least I thought it was.

Back then he just seduced me with words, with glances, with soft butterfly touches of his warm fingertips. Although I suppose I should have known, even so, should have been aware of how totally he had me under his spell. Ha, all I knew was that I wanted him.

Oh, I was a good girl, at first anyway. I held out for awhile...two dates? Three? But it didn't matter. By the time I ended up in his sparsely furnished but oh-so-tasteful loft, it was too late. I was in way over my head.

In my defense I have to say that no woman alive could have resisted him at that point. Because -- and I hate to be trite but it's true -- my God, he is such a good lover. I knew from the moment he began to undress me that I was in the hands of an expert.

Imagine a dream world, if you can, one infused with a pale wash of color, pastel shades. Now imagine the softest of sounds and the most delicate of flavors and a searing, sweating, intense heat. And now mix all that up with the smooth and sexy haze of slow motion, so that every touch, every sigh, seems to last an eternity.

That's how it felt the first time: Hazy but dream-world sharp as his fingers traced their way delicately from my cheekbone to my jaw, lightly brushing strands of damp hair from my face. Slow-motion sullen but almost unbearably electrified as his fingertips continued their agonizingly slow progress down my neck and to my exposed collarbone.

I remember shutting my eyes, then, and throwing my head back, the better to experience his touch. And I remember thinking, in my pseudo-stoned state, that these sensations don't happen in real life. I began to feel like a character in a movie, acting some delicious part.

Oh, but I wasn't acting, the feelings I was experiencing were far too intense for that. This was reality, baby, and I was loving it. As his fingers slid farther, across the expanse of my chest and to the swell of my breasts, I did question for a moment how these delicious sensations could possibly last. But I hardly cared, as long as he didn't stop 'now.'

He kissed me then, on the mouth, as his fingers slid lower still. His lips were gentle against mine, his tongue only slightly probing as his hands dipped under the cotton of my bra, cupping my breasts and raising them slightly in his palms. Ordinary breasts, they are, only average. But, oh, in Evan's hands they felt so extra-ordinary. Swollen and warm and thick with sensation. That, perhaps, is Evan's special skill, one of his many keys to my sex. He can, with one kiss, one touch, one glance, make me feel more beautiful, more sensual than I've ever felt before. Than I really am, perhaps.

His kiss grew slightly more intense then, as his fingers began to explore. His tongue licked my parched lips with small, catlike repetitions, and the strange eroticism of this gesture was almost unbearable as he moved to the sensitive corners of my mouth. I remember opening myself almost drunkenly to his wet tongue, astounded that a man could kiss like this. That a man could, with the barest flick of his tongue, catch my breath and weaken my knees.

It was at that moment that his fingers, crawling delicately over the sensitized flesh of my breasts, reached my already painfully swollen nipples. Caressed their fat tips. Stroked the thick areola that surrounded their bulging hardness. And it was, a mere second later, that I imagined his mouth on them, his tongue playing lightly with the thick nubs.

Was it that he read my mind? How else would he have known precisely what to do, known exactly when my need changed, deepened? Because it was at just that very moment, when I first imagined his lips on my swollen nipples, that they were there. I remember gasping slightly at the wet and almost cold feel of his tongue tip, drawing in my breath as his mouth closed firmly, irrevocably over my right nipple. I took for granted then how well he was able to play me, as though I were his tightly strung fiddle and he knew all the right notes. All I knew was that my body was singing.

Evan knew, too. And he also knew that the time was right. His hands began a slow and inexorable slide downward.

Oh, Lord, his fingers slithering down the curve of my waist, my hip. Slipping over and across the expanse of flesh that is my sensitive belly and down again. How can I explain how incredible that felt? How can I tell you how sensual and completely erotic his touch was? How can I make you see how different it was from every other man who'd ever stroked me before?

I can't, I know. I suppose in the end all you really need to know is that when his delicately probing fingers parted my sensitive lips, I knew without a doubt that there was no going back. And I knew that I'd lost all control, was tumbling head over heels into an unfamiliar yet exhilarating place. A place I'd never visited before. A place from which there was quite likely no return.

And, as his mouth moved from my sensitive nipples toward the nub of pleasure that he'd found, as his tongue slipped wetly down the flat of my belly, I knew also that I didn't care. Returning was not an option anymore, especially as his tongue dipped into the wet and fleshy cave that was my center; the end, the beginning, of my desire.

It was there, you see, 'down' there, that Evan managed to...well...to conquer me. It was the moment that his lips touched mine that I became his. His and his alone. As I melted into his soft caress, lost myself in his probing exploration, I knew that I could and would do anything for him. And as his touch quickened, as his lapping tongue began to rhythmically stroke my swollen clit, to deliberately draw it out of its soft, safe folds, I wondered -- for the first but not the last time -- how I had ever managed to survive without him. For Evan truly was -- is -- an expert at what Evan does. And what Evan does is sex me. Endlessly...perfectly.

At first, after I'd learned that Evan would give me exquisite loving whenever I wanted, would quite literally service my every oral need, I thought him so selfless, so giving. Now, of course, I see that it's not quite so one-sided as that.

Imagine, if you will, that your man did the same; licked your pussy, and licked it well, whenever you wanted it. And imagine that you wanted it a lot. Imagine that your orgasms were intense, surreal, more mind-blowing than ever before. Now imagine how your pussy would feel. Hot, like mine, perhaps. Always moist, always thrumming with satisfied desire, yet always eager, no, 'anxious' for more.

Now imagine how often I fuck Evan, how often I let him, no, 'beg' him, to invade my oh-so-sensitized depths. Imagine how often Evan says, in his leg-parting drawl, "Fuck me, Lacy," and now imagine how often I do.

I couldn't have known that then, of course, wouldn't have believed it anyway. After all, I was, then at least, in charge of my destiny, my life, my sexuality. But as Evan demonstrated his extraordinary technique on my willing pussy that first time, I began to wonder how many hands he had, how many tongues, how many thumbs. And I began to lose myself -- lose my sex? -- in his touch, his caress, his wet flesh.

Still in my dreamlike state, I was overcome by sensations, his wet and fleshy tongue flicking rhythmically on my swollen nubbin, his lips rubbing almost obscenely on mine, his fingers and thumbs probing, prodding, reaching deeper, asking for, and receiving, more. He knew then, as he does now, just when to take me, knew exactly the right moment to plunge his fingers deeply into my suddenly greedy pussy.

And he also knew when I would be hopelessly unable to resist the ministrations of his thumb, circling now, gently around my other opening. He knew when to relentlessly attack my clit, throbbing now under his stiff tongue. He knew when and how to work me into a pure sexual frenzy, a place I'd never been allowed entrance to before, a place I barely knew existed.

Have you ever seen colors when you come? I did, that day, and now always. Swirling red as I felt the pressure down deep in my belly begin to build. Vivid orange as the feeling spread outward, overwhelming me with it's intensity. Painfully bright yellow as my sensitive clit began to swell in Evan's mouth and I lost track of everything save my sex, my orgasm, my pleasure. And then a blinding flash of white -- is that a color? -- as I surrendered to the feeling, the overwhelming need, the all encompassing explosion of ecstasy that Evan so skillfully provoked in my quaking body.

And when the blurred edges of reality began to come into focus, when the white gave way to reality, suddenly all the colors were sharp, clean, well-defined. Suddenly, everything was clear. And there was no going back.

Carolyn doesn't understand. She shakes her head at my obsession with Evan. She is derisive about my practically slobbering devotion to him. She can't know why I wait, breathlessly -- for his call, his presence -- because I am afraid to tell her. And so she thinks me rather pitiful, I know, and I am quite helpless to dissuade her. It's beyond my control.

"Spread your pussy for me, baby," Evan said to me tonight when he came home.

And, Lord help me, I did.