We arrived at a typical Pacific Grove Victorian. It had been sectionalized into four or five smallish apartments, each of which had a view of the bay. Lane invited me in and offered me a seat on the couch. She lit the fireplace that was next to the bed in this Bohemian, oversized studio.

The furnishings were very artsy and somewhat antiquated, with lots of candles and oil lamps. I also noticed the walls decorated with paintings that, even to the untrained eye, seemed a fair distance above her pay grade.

Lane went into the kitchen to make us tea, and I commented on one of the paintings in an effort to impress.

“I like Maxfield Parrish,” I said, in an effort to impress. “This looks like earlier work.”

“You can read the signature from there, huh?” she replied, smiling from the kitchen.

“No,” I replied. “We do live right over the hill from Carmel. I’ve been to the galleries,” I added, trying to convey that I wasn’t just a long-haired, culture-less boob.

“That’s very true,” she agreed. “I’m surprised that we’ve never met.”

“How so?” I asked.

“I run a couple of the galleries down there. I’m responsible for acquiring new art directly from the artists and allocating it to the galleries that I manage.”

“That’s pretty cool,” I commented. “Rather an unusual profession.”

“I suppose it is, but discovering new talent is very exciting. Many of the artists I work with have me to thank for getting them in galleries and essentially launching their careers,” Lane said, walking back into the main room carrying a tray with teacups and a pot. “I’ve even managed to get one or two artists placed in museums. But let's not talk about that. Let’s talk about us.”

“Us?” I said, a little taken aback. “There’s an ‘us’?”

“Maybe I spoke too soon,” Lane said, pouring tea.

“So, what does ‘us’ look like to you?” I asked, accepting the cup.

“Oh, well, ‘us’ can take many forms. There’s a spiritual ‘us’, a creative ‘us’, a physical ‘us’. It’s a multifaceted discussion,” she said, leaning back against the cushions, making herself comfortable and flashing a Cheshire Cat smile.

“And where should we begin?” I asked, meeting her curious expression.

“I think the physical ‘us’ might be an interesting place to begin,” Lane said, placing her hand on the bulge in my trousers and firmly rubbing the salient beneath the fabric. “A great deal can be discovered when exploring the physical ‘us’,” she said, wetting her bottom lip with her tongue.

“A fact-finding mission?” I said, reaching out and stroking her curled red mane.

“That’s a unique way to put it, but yes. A fact-finding mission,” she replied, unzipping my pants for the second time that evening.

She extracted my very erect and attentive member, and I clutched a fistful of her red curls, firmly pulling her beaming face down into my lap. Her mouth opened, and she completely swallowed my cock, nuzzling her nose into my crotch. She did something with her throat, and I could feel her muscles squeezing my beating head.

I exhaled deeply as she withdrew my now glistening lance. She looked up at me and smiled widely, saying:

“Now that’s a nice cock. So nice and straight,” she said, stroking my length in her hand. “You fit into my throat perfectly,” she said as she made a show of licking my shimmering head. “I want to taste your cum…smell it…feel its heat on my skin,” she added lustfully.

“Fact-finding?” I suggested.

“Think of it as an ongoing research study,” she said, once again swallowing my cock in a single stroke.

I fastened my other hand into her sea of crimson curls and started pumping my cock in and out of her mouth, causing Lane to moan.

She briefly extracted my cock from her oral depth and began licking the shaft like an ice cream cone on a July afternoon.

She smiled her wide smile and said, “Baby, use my mouth. I want you to fuck my mouth and slide your cock down my throat,” she requested, breathing heavily. “You don’t have to be gentle. I don’t have a gag reflex,” she divulged, to my absolute surprise and satisfaction.

Without relinquishing my grip on her long red locks, I stood up from the sofa, practically pulling her into a seated position. Lane passionately gasped as my cock loomed over her open mouth, while she stared hungrily at the tip as though it were to be her last meal.

“Pull your dress down,” I stated firmly, having gathered a few facts of my own.

Lane instantly swept the dress from her shoulders, revealing two perfect 34C breasts, with nipples that pointed toward the heavens. And then in a breathless voice that I’d grow to yearn for, she said, “Please…please, I want you to pull my hair and fuck my mouth,” she uttered in an almost desperate, trans-like tone of voice.

I was more than happy to indulge her. Tightening my grasp on her fiery red hair, I thrust my cock into her mouth until her nose was buried in my abdomen. She never once broke eye contact. I could easily feel the head of my thick cock assaulting the back of her throat, and each time I did, her dark eyes grew wide with excitement. She voiced muffled sounds of arousal while her chest heaved.

I briefly removed my cock from her supremely talented oral cavity and rubbed the head all over her angelic face.

I clearly understand how people can become lost in the throes of passion, and, being our first experience together, I took the opportunity to conduct a safety check of sorts. I didn’t want to be too rough. I tried to be as subtle as I could without killing the momentum and said, “You look beautiful, Baby,” I whispered, and the words seemed to affect her like a drug.

She smiled a huge, joyous smile.

“You like that cock in your throat, don’t you, beautiful?” I said, tugging on her hair.

She exhaled deeply, still beaming with satisfaction, and said, “Yes, I love it. Please fuck my mouth harder, Baby. Make me your slut.”

That seemed like pretty clear instruction, as far as I was concerned, and I pulled her head forward once again, thrusting my cock into her warm mouth and down her throat.

I then noticed her hand, vigorously rubbing her pussy through the dress gathered in her lap.

As I pistoned myself deeply in and out of her oral captivity, I began to speak to her in a low, authoritative manner, saying, “You want to be my slut, Lane? Then you better take really good care of my cock,” I said, forcefully fucking her beautiful mouth. As my effort escalated, her muffled moaning became louder and louder. I also became aware of her hand, now under her dress, essentially assaulting her still, yet unrevealed firebox.

Moments later, in what I was to realize was her typical climax behavior, Lane began beating her open hand against my chest. Her breathing became labored, exiting her nostrils like a racehorse. The sights and sounds were just too much for me to process and not climax.

I could feel my orgasm rapidly approaching, and it had been at least a week since I’d had any kind of relief. I very firmly clutched the sides of her hair, driving my pounding cock deeply into the depths of her throat as the first geyser of cum propelled itself into her being.

She removed my cock from her mouth, grasping the base, and directed each successive eruption exactly where she wanted it. I coated her lips and her outstretched tongue, dripping down her chin, before she directed the final deposits onto her heaving breasts.

She then lay back on the sofa and proceeded to rub my sticky offering into her skin, collecting what remained on her chin with her fingers and greedily plunging them into her mouth, with that satisfied Cheshire Cat grin.

“Oh my god,” she panted and then inhaled deeply through her nose. “It smells like freshly cut grass,” she said with deep satisfaction. And, though I’d never thought about it, it did smell like freshly cut grass.

I simply stood over her, watching her enjoy absolute ecstasy. Her entire torso glistened in the firelight, and she licked her fingers like kids used to lick batter from a mixing bowl. I’d never seen anyone enjoy themselves more. Just a complete display of uninhibited joyous abandon.

I have no idea how long this went on, as I, in my own right, was mesmerized for completely different reasons. But the next thing I recall was that she sat up and said, “Damn, my dress is soaked,” she declared, standing up and turning around to show me the back of her gown. It was, indeed, soaked. She simply let it fall to the floor, saying that she’d take care of the later, sat back down on the couch, in front of where I stood, announcing that she should ‘clean me up’. This was also to become just part of the routine.

She took my semi-hard cock back into her mouth, saying, “I want every drop, Baby. You taste so fucking good, I’m not going to waste a single drop.”

I watched her tongue bathe every inch of my spent cock, thinking, “This can’t be real. This is just pure fantasy shit.”

I was to learn that this was nothing in comparison to what I’d yet to experience. Lane simply loved sex. Everything about it. She loved participating in it, watching it, talking about it, whatever the case may have been. Nothing was off limits; nothing was out of the question. I was almost constantly in a state of disbelief.

So there I stood, watching ‘Julia Roberts’ lick my cock clean, and enjoying herself more than I’d ever witnessed.  I was thinking this had to be some kind of joke.

Once satisfied with her efforts, she reclined back onto the couch, completely nude, all five foot seven of her, and proclaimed with her infectious laugh, “Fuck, I love being naked.”

‘This just keeps getting better,’ I thought to myself, simply staring dumbfounded at this nymph lying in front of me. “How was this person unclaimed, unattached, undiscovered?” I thought to myself. Time would tell, and in the worst way possible. Deep inside me, a tiny red flag was furiously waving, but I was far too enamored to see it.

Once Lane had completed licking the remaining cum from everything she thought might be concealing a minute, overlooked trace, she rose from the sofa and announced that she was taking a quick shower and that I should make myself comfortable.

I wasn’t certain what she might define as ‘comfortable’, so I simply sat down and drank some lukewarm Earl Grey and watched the fire.

She soon returned, sat next to me in her silk robe, and we talked about all the things people speak of in the ‘getting to know you’ phase of any relationship. I thought it was going to be pretty normal. I was wrong.

She started telling me about how she moved out of her mom’s house in Beverly Hills at 16 years old. Shared an apartment with Roseanne and David Arquette, learned how to make English tea from Peter Frampton, then she lived with a friend and his Hollywood producer/director father. They lived next door to the Jacksons. And Tito and Jackie attended the same high school she did, and they would come over frequently to swim in the pool, while Michael peered over the fence, giggling.

But the one I couldn’t comprehend was being told that she and Carrie Fisher were best friends at the time Carrie was making the first Star Wars film, and that she had attended the premiere, sitting in front of George Lucas and Steven Spielberg.

I must've had an incredible look of confusion and disbelief on my face. So she went over to the closet and pulled out a photo album, and remember, this was long before Photoshop or anything of the kind. Then she proceeded to show me photographs that verified and proved everything she had just said. These pictures were mostly Polaroids. And yes, she was in all of these pictures as a younger woman, and yes, there were a couple of pictures of Carrie Fisher and Lane, along with Steven Spielberg, a young Mark Hamill, and Harrison Ford. It was one of the occasions in my life where I couldn’t believe my eyes. This was just too much to process mentally. But she wasn’t done.

Then, she pulled out a couple of issues of Hustler magazine, Oui magazine, and National Lampoon, all of which featured her as the centerfold. She and Roseanne were both supposed to pose for Hustler, but Roseanne had an audition that day and missed the test shot appointment.

This was a ridiculous amount of incredulous information and documented experience for one person to digest in such a small amount of time. I was kind of dumbfounded. I mean, most of this happened for her in the mid-1970s and the early 1980s, but for me, it was all brand new.

Up until that point, I was certain that we were going to pick up where we’d left off before her shower, but I was sitting there in some kind of shock and just wanted to go home! This was just too much, and there was more. Before Lane could continue, I mentioned that I had to be on a job at 7 am, and it was already 3. So I excused myself and tried to make a polite, tactical withdrawal so I could decompress. She graciously said she understood, and we said our goodnights and fled to my car for the short ride home.

Before I’d made it to my door, I got a text on my Razor phone from her, gushing over what a wonderful time she’d had and that she was very hopeful that we’d get together again soon. I agreed and we made plans for the following evening, back at her house. There’s no possible way I could have anticipated what I was in for.