Chapter 1

I guess it started when Stacy was telling me about all the fun she and her boyfriend Ty had had on their trip to the amusement park.

“Ty wanted to go on the Ferris wheel for some reason,” Stacy began, “and so I went along, whatever. Once we were seated we started making out and stuff. Then once we were high, he revealed his real plan and started pushing my head down toward his crotch.”

“That sounds kinda uncool,” I interjected doubtfully.

“No, it was cool - I like it when he does stuff like that,” she explained. “Anyway, I wanted to blow him. But you know those safety bars across your lap? I couldn’t bend enough to get my mouth down there. But my hands were free. So there we are, going round and round on the wheel, and he’s kissing me while I’m working my spit-filled hands up and down his cock like a champ. And then near the very top of the wheel, he groans and squirts. I never stopped to think about where the come would go...”

“Oh no...,” I said.

“Oh yes!” Stacy replied. “It shot out, like, feet in front of him before falling out of our sight. And there was a lot of it. Then a second later we heard some angry man shout, ‘What the fuck?!?’”

“Oh god!” I reacted. “So then what happened?”

“Obviously we played it cool for the rest of the ride,” Stacy said. “The park was closing, so we went back to his SUV. But everyone was trying to leave at once, so we messed around for a while before driving home. Thank god for tinted windows, huh?”

I eyed her suspiciously. “What kind of ‘messing around’ are you talking about?”

Stacy grinned. “The kind where he pulls down my pants, bends me over the back of the car seats, sticks his nose in my ass crack, and fucks my hole with his tongue until I come.”

“Holy shit, you can come like that?” I asked, astonished.

“I did this time!” She said. “Then, of course, he was hard again, so I fucked him sitting in his lap.” She added with a certain naughty pride, “I’ve got bite marks on my boobs.”

“God, I am so fucking jealous of you!” I said.

“Hey, just because I managed to think of one sex act that you didn’t do first is no reason to get upset,” Stacy teased.

“It’s just been so long!” I whined. “I miss sex! And I’ve never even had romance.” Then, more somberly, I added, “Hell, it’s been forever since a boy even smiled at me.”

Stacy picked up on my change of tone, and reacted sympathetically. “Kaitlyn, it’ll happen. Your condition sucks, but you’ve been doing a really good job of managing it.”

“Maybe too good,” I muttered.

“What do you mean by that?” Stacy probed.

I sighed. “I just mean that sometimes I wish I could go to a party somewhere without you or any of my other caretakers, rip off my mask, unbutton a few buttons, and just let whatever happens happen,” I confessed.

Stacy didn’t say anything more, but just side-hugged me.

See, the thing is, back in my freshman and sophomore years, I was a notorious slut. Seriously, everyone at my high school, and a lot of people at neighboring schools, knew me as “Vanilla Slut”.

A big part of that was the fact that I have this neurological condition: any time I smell or taste vanilla, it triggers in me this overwhelming compulsion to have sex. I can’t help it, and I can’t fight it. It’s like the song stuck in your head. It’s like the sneeze that you feel coming but won’t quite happen. It’s like starving, or running for your life, or being so tired you can’t sleep. But it’s not any of those things; it’s my body telling me, “Kaitlyn, you must have sex right now - your life depends on it.”