At the Tedeschi/Trucks concert I saw you, your pendulous breasts sweetly swaying as you danced in a too-short sundress. Your gorgeous fat thighs called to me through the haze of pot and my desire.

I caught your eye and you looked away, then back. Then back again. I vee'd two fingers and licked the apex - it was a crude gesture; a gross suggestion. A desperate plea.

You laughed, shy but interested.

By the middle of the third song I was dancing behind you, my fingers splayed across your plump belly, my little breasts pressed into your back. When the stage lights went down I licked and kissed my way across the back of your neck and posed my question.

"You wanna get out of here with me?"

"Uhm…"

You shuddered, but when I hooked your finger in my belt loop and pulled you toward the exit gate, it was like I was the engineer of this torrid little train, bound for our last stop - a place called PARADISE.

You blurted out, "My car. Out there in the field."

Was I your first girl? Probably. You weren't mine. You weren't even the hottest, my little slut-in-the-making.

You wore yellow panties with red hearts. How adorable they looked! How coy! How utterly useless, hanging off your left ankle as my fingers caressed your soft wetness and you moaned into my hair.

Your hands in my hair were like quotation marks, enclosing the guttural sounds I uttered as I taught you to use my face in what had become your quest. I loved you taking control!

I ate you like pumpkin pie, and after you were through with me, you gave me those panties.

I have them still.

And when next they hang from my own ankle, my legs raised and quivering in animalistic intent, they might even remind me of you.