Down to socks and a grimace.

You hold out well for the three minutes she takes to very slowly remove her topmost layers of clothes. Reduced to white panties and a bra, she stares back at you with irritation. "You need more?"

"Yes," you answer, trying to imagine that Devi, the lesbian apple of your childhood eye, was instead irritable Mr. Grieger, the old man trying to demoralize you in-person when you wanted a raise from your office manager. The office manager too was a wrinkled old codger, more bitter than anyone else for his lot in life, and the thought of both slayed whatever arousal you were facing. Devi, with something akin to a sob of disbelief, undoes the last cotton layers of her decency, and only now, as she stands there in your living room, do you focus your eyes and take her in.

As you suspected, she wasn't eating well, save perhaps her terrible breakfast. She looks thin and frail in her limbs, but just a bit chubby around her midriff, and her thin arms did they best to cover her crotch and ample chest. You see now that she doesn't shave religiously: she has stubble on her legs, her pubic mound has a violent bush of curled black hair, and no amount of spreading her fingers can hide these things from you. She looks away from you as you take in all the skin and secret places of Ms. Waltz, forbidden to you when you wanted it more than anyone. She was your half-Punjabi Venus, and you her unloved Vulcan. "Drop your arms," you command with a hunger you didn't intend. Surprisingly, she complies without argument, and you see her nipples: two inverted, puffy mounds that crown her perky breasts. Her bush, now fully in view, puffs out from between her legs and is totally unkempt. She wasn't a porn star, she wasn't some sexual fantasy that stepped out of an erotic text adventure, and she wasn't some hairless doll from one perverted foreign cartoon or another. This was Devi, tout naturel. ****. An uncomfortable lesbian, perhaps terrified of being naked in a room with a naked man who lusts for her, all in the name of some poorly defined science.

"Well, get to it," she bitterly notes, pointing at the plank of wood standing up straight from your crotch. You nod dumbly as you look at her, your hand stroking automatically with a grip stern from need. When she realizes that you're making no effort to point it towards the receptacle, as if you'd be content to just paint your ceiling with it, she walks towards you to grab the cup on the coffee table. Her proximity makes you pump faster, even as she holds the cup out to you. "Into the receptacle, Derek, please."

"Hold it for me," you gasp, using your other hand to caress your balls as you look at her. She complies while looking away, bending over slightly to align the cup to its shallowest angle. You sit up in your chair, first to line up with the cup and second to bring her ever closer to your eyes. You drink her body in by vision and scent: she has a slight odor to her, perhaps from skipping a bath as you did. Her hair is oily, she has two small hairs between her eyebrows, and a pimple on her right temple. Her inverted nipples make more apparent their respective clutch of areolar glands, there were no veins visible on her smooth, light-brown skin, and her pussy was shrouded in totally untrimmed pubic hair. These oddities and imperfections were things you scoffed at in porno, or criticized whenever your old friends would brag about their sexual conquests, but here now they seem so apt, so perfectly Devi... and so arousing. "I'm close," you whisper, looking finally at her face, where tears that started to well up were now refusing to fall as she stared, without blinking, at your crotch.

You look down at the cup... and realize through the fog of arousal that it's practically at her side now, impossible for you to hit. Devi is breathing audibly now, her chest shaking with her **** gasps. Her face tries to lift to look you in the eye, away from your crotch, until her knees suddenly give out. She falls into your lap, face buried between your cock and your left thigh. It dawns on you only now: the constant sighs, the shallow breaths, the strangely compliant nature of her complaints, the fact that she was down here doing any of this at all. You realize now that she was never fine: she was, from the moment she had her breakfast and met you here, drowning in your apartment, suffocating on those pheromones she warned you about, in the jizz you left in her breakfast, and in this heated moment. She rolls her head to her left, and pauses. Her gasping, open mouth is pressed against your shaft, one eye hidden by the head of your cock, the other flicking between you and your meatstick. She moans into it with something between arousal and dread. "The... sample..." she pants. She was losing the fight... and you were never swinging in the first place. Your stroking hand withdraws as her mouth engulfs the head of your dick, pushing you over the edge and filling her throat with your seed. Clumsily, she tries to seal her lips around the first cock she'd ever touched, a dribble of cum leaking down your shaft as she tries to keep up with her swallowing, gulp after audible gulp, as you fill her stomach. The sensation is overpowering, and you find yourself gripping your armrests just to avoid smashing her face down into you.

For a blissful moment of almost painful cumming, the living room and the lab equipment and all the beeping falls away. Her rejection of you in high school, her declaration of being a lesbian, the greater distances that life put between you two... it was all fading to black, now. You were here, in this realm of your fantasies: you, cumming inside your lover's mouth, watching her drink it eagerly, happily, perhaps for the first time of many. You realize now, as most men do with this experience, that you want so much more of your lover.

And that lover with Devi Waltz.