Tongue Tied and Terrified
by Eric Ross
Copyright© 2025 by Eric Ross
Fiction Sex Story: He wasn’t planning on developing a specialty, but three unforgettable women sent him down a rabbit hole of fixation, and late-night cravings. From a bar bathroom to a hotel sky-suite to a backyard barbecue, this is the story of one man’s obsession with "Dining at the Y". Contains bonus music track (details in authors end-note).
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual Fiction Vignettes DomSub FemaleDom Rough Interracial Black Female White Male Cream Pie Masturbation Oral Sex Squirting Public Sex AI Generated .
I can’t help it, I like to eat pussy. I mean, I love eating pussy.
It’s the moment right before she loses it, when her hips start chasing my tongue on their own and I get to decide whether she gets there fast or if I drag it out until she’s begging. That little slice of time is better than any drug I’ve ever tried. And yeah, I know what that makes me.
I wasn’t always like this.
It started on a Tuesday that felt like the end of the world. I was three whiskeys deep at that dive on Sunset, staring at my phone like it owed me a damn explanation. Then Sarah walked in, ripped Motörhead shirt tied under her ribs, denim skirt so short it was basically a suggestion. She had this tiny scar through her left eyebrow and a laugh that started in her chest and exploded out like she was daring the room to laugh with her.
She caught me staring while she lined up a shot. Didn’t smile. Just raised the scarred eyebrow and said, “You gonna stand there all night or buy me a drink before I die of boredom?”
I bought her a tequila. She licked the salt off the back of her hand slow, eyes locked on mine, and said, “You look like someone who needs to forget his own name for a while.”
We never made it out of the bathroom.
She locked the stall door, leaned back against it, and hiked her skirt herself. Red lace already soaked. I dropped to my knees on the filthy tile because the idea of standing felt impossible. First taste: lime, smoke, and something metallic, like she’d been chewing on pennies. She grabbed my hair hard, tried to ride my face the way she wanted, fast and messy. I caught her wrists, pinned them to the wall, and took over. Slow circles, then long licks, then sucking her clit until her breath hitched and her boots scraped the floor looking for purchase.
She fought me the whole time, hips jerking, cursing under her breath, “Fuck—slow—don’t you fucking stop—Goddamn it—” until the words ran out of air. When she came she didn’t make a sound at first, just went completely still, eyes wide open staring at the ceiling like she was surprised her body still worked that way. Then the shudder hit and she bit my shoulder so hard I still have the faint scar. After, she sagged against the door, breathing hard, and did the thing that wrecked me: she laughed, soft, almost shy, and brushed the hair off my forehead with shaking fingers.
“Jesus,” she whispered, voice cracking on the word. “Nobody’s done that to me since I was seventeen.”
I looked up at her and saw it for the first time: under the attitude and the loud laugh and the don’t-fuck-with-me armor, she was exhausted. Not tired, exhausted. Someone who’d been running so long she forgot what it felt like to stop. For a second she looked older, like she’d just set something heavy down. Then she straightened and it was gone. She zipped me up with steady fingers, kissed my cheek like a sister, and said, “Thanks for the reminder, baby. Don’t fall in love. I’m not the staying kind.”
Six months later she disappeared exactly like she warned me she would. Left my hoodie on her chair and a voicemail that just said, “You’re too good at that. It scares me.” I listened to it a hundred times anyway.
I never saw her again, but sometimes when I’m on my knees for someone else I still taste lime and pennies and hear that soft, cracked laugh right before she came. She wasn’t just the girl who started the obsession. She was the first one who let me see her break, even if it was only for three seconds, and then walked away so I wouldn’t have to watch her put herself back together.
Gisele never told me her whole story; she dropped pieces the way other people leave cigarette ash, careless, like it didn’t matter if I picked them up or not.
She was thirty-one, Paris-born, raised between the city and the sea. Her father was some minor diplomat who disappeared when she was nine; her mother answered the absence by marrying richer and colder men until Gisele learned that love was a transaction and control was the only currency that never lost value.
At nineteen she was the kept girl of a famous photographer twice her age. He shot her naked on marble floors and white sheets, sold the prints for small fortunes, and taught her that desire was a leash you could hand to someone else or wrap around their throat; never both, never at the same time. When she got tired of being the subject, she stole his Rolleiflex, sold the nudes he’d taken of other girls, and bought a one-way ticket to New York. By twenty-five she was styling shoots for French Vogue, and collecting lovers the way some people collect passports. Men, women, didn’t matter; she kept them on short leashes and shorter notice.
I remember one night in the third week, when I knelt in her room at the Standard on the thirty-second floor with the city bleeding neon through the curtains. She wore nothing but a black silk robe half-open, cigarette burning between her fingers like she owned the rules. She looked at me still dressed and said, “Undress. Slowly.” I did. She watched, but every time our eyes locked she glanced away a fraction too late, as if looking straight at me might let something slip.
When I was naked she crooked a finger. I knelt. She opened the robe the rest of the way and sat on the edge of the bed. “Come here.” I crawled. She threaded her fingers through my hair, then tightened until my scalp stung. “Lentement,” she whispered, voice steady, but I felt the smallest tremor in her thighs when my breath first hit her.
She kept me slow, rocking in tiny circles while she smoked and stared out the window like I was furniture. Every time I tried to speed up she pressed my forehead back, but her hand lingered a half-second longer each time, thumb brushing the sweat at my hairline like she couldn’t help herself. Another crack. Another heartbeat where the ice thinned.
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