Like all addictions, the big lie is that by getting IT, the cravings will subside, and the need will end.
I know this well enough, and yet in my four or so days with him each month, as my Kevin-fix is delivered again and again in repeated injections, I fall for this lie that Kevin’s thick manhood will fill me full and leave me satisfied once and for all. Yes, it does often take me to La-La-Land and does leave me in a puddle of satisfaction, though not so much sitting in it as covered by it. But the respite is short, the cycle quick, and soon enough I am there again ingloriously kneeling on the floor, my lips rich with matte red lipstick about to be made glossy., as if this time will do the trick.
This is the ejaculate deception of my life with Kevin.
It doesn’t help that Kevin has a low threshold for erected development. That is, it seems Kevin considers any slight stirring — any faint tensing or early stiffening — as a Problem, a near-medical condition that needs Shae attention. He turns to me, unzips, and I, in subconscious Pavlovian response, drop to my knees, and, well, nurse him back to health, so to speak.
The other scenario is that I beg for it. He finds this amusing, and he laughs at me despite it being his addiction as much as mine. Sometimes he demurs, if only for a moment, mostly because he wants to see me beg and say “Please?” once and again. Of course. he usually doesn’t deny me — which is just another way of saying he doesn’t deny himself.
However it occurs, the outcome is the same: his need explodes into my need, and he drenches me in his glaze, making me a decadent dessert of white fucking chocolate.
Such is our codependent lust.