It was one of those hot, languid nights of latter June, the air full of moisture, and emotion, and, most of all, the tension of erotic anticipation.

Jerry sits alone, awaiting the return of Annique, out for her "night with the girls" in the present, a pre-wedding party for a workmate, expected to become, in Annique's carefully-considered words, "a drunken debauche". Ah, Annique. Were Jerry God, Annique would be Eve; no more perfect creation, in Jerry's wildest fantasy of what a female should be, could exist in any universe real, known or unknown. Their three months of cohabitation had been sheer heaven. Talk was great; sex was magnificent. She was so totally open, inhibited about nothing. He had, many times, seen her in orgasmic ecstasy, by his efforts and by her own lovely hand. He had seen her dress, and undress; seen her shower; seen her pee. In fact, their most sensual moments seemed to revolve around the bathroom, impeccably and erotically decorated by Annique, all in pure, snowy, monochromatic white. Casablanca, she called the salle de bain... the white house. All of Jerry's fantasies had, singularly and in succession, been fulfilled, save one.

He had never seen her puke.

Jerry was an emetophile; more than anything else, he liked to watch women throw up. It began, when he was about nine, with a visit to his aunt and his cousin Sherri, about two years his senior. Both had been to a mother-and-daughter picnic at the school. It was hot, and the food was junk. Both had eaten far too many hot dogs, snow cones, cotton candy and assorted variants of grease and sugar; both returned ill, Sherri somewhat more than her mom. Looking through the open bathroom door, Jerry watched his cousin kneeling at the toilet, trying, without success, to vomit. She looked at her mom pleadingly:

"Mom, I feel awful... I really want to throw up, but I can't."

Mom replied. "Sherri, just stick your finger down your throat and make yourself vomit; that's what I do when I'm sick and I need to make myself throw up and get it over with."

"Mom, I want to, but I'm scared... I've never done that and I'm afraid it will hurt."

"It's not bad, and it'll make you feel a lot better... Sherri, I'm sick too, and I need to make myself vomit anyway. Why don't I go first and show you?"

They switched places, Jerry's aunt now kneeling at the toilet with her daughter aside. She pulled back her hair; extended her index finger and, firmly, stuck it far down her throat. She wiggled it, then gagged, then retched, then puked.

"See, that wasn't bad, and I feel a lot better now that I made myself puke up all that junk."

Sherri knelt at the toilet. "Mom, I'm still scared. Help me do it... stick your finger down my throat and make me throw up."

Jerry's aunt held her daughter's hair and extended her index finger then, gently, stuck it down her daughter's throat. Sherri vomited, then took a breath, leaned over, stuck her own finger down her throat and, thrice more, made herself throw up.

A strange excitement grew in Jerry; for the first time ever, he experienced the erotic emotions that accompanied his suddenly emerging erection. Before, when he had one, he had needed to pee; now he knew he needed to do something else and, a few minutes later, in the same bathroom just previously serving as vomitorium for his aunt and cousin, he discovered masturbation.

And so it began. For the twenty and more years to come, Jerry sought the rare opportunities to place himself in the line of sight of females divesting themselves of their gastric contents. He particularly found himself aroused when the act occurred by the participant's own hand; the prospect of female fingers down female throats would drive him to erotic mania.

The trouble was, the event itself rarely happened; females rarely make themselves puke in the presence of males, and the thought of requesting one to do so, while sexually exciting, left Jerry appalled; he chose, perhaps wisely, to keep his perversity private unto himself.

Outside, a taxi arrived and from it emerged Annique, lovely Annique. Her behavior, though, was quite different from her usual elegance and grace. Her hair was mussed, her clothes wrinkled, her gait unsteady. Jerry inquired:

"Annique, are you OK? Where's the car?".

"Jerry, we were exchanging shots of tequila and I had more than a few too many. I felt it best to leave the car at Jennie's and take a cab. I don't feel good; I'm going to bed."

A sudden excitement arose within Jerry's soul and loins. Annique, drunk. Annique never drinks. Annique doesn't feel good. Maybe she'll throw up...

Jerry joined Annique, now semi-nude, on the bed. He gently stroked her hair, touched her breast.

"Jerry, no...I want to but I don't feel well..."

Opportunity! Now, how to suggest it without sounding perverse?

"Annique, maybe you need to go to the bathroom and get rid of some of the booze... you know, like... "

"Make myself throw up?"

"Well, yeah... it might make you feel better."

A sudden glow came over Annique's face; Jerry had seen it before in moments of the heights of passion.

"Jerry, did I ever tell you I have sort of a fetish?"

"Well, I know of a few... "

"Jerry, this one's kind of weird... look, you won't think I'm perverted or something?"

"Annique, what is it?"

"Jerry, I get sexually stimulated by making myself vomit. I used to do it fairly frequently; I still do sometimes when you're not here. I am not, by any means, bulimic; I don't make myself puke because I feel fat or ugly. It's really more a release... the feeling when I vomit is almost exactly like I feel when we're having sex and I come. I'm even more turned on by having someone watch me make myself throw up. So far, that's just been a fantasy; I've never known anyone well enough to actually ask them to do it because I'm afraid they'll think I'm really perverse."

"Annique, I don't know how to tell you this ...my fantasy is the same as yours only with me as the observer and you... "

"As the puker? Perfect. Jerry, I really need to go make myself throw up. Care to join me?".

They walked to Casablanca - the - bathroom, Jerry's excitement (and, unknown to him, Annique's as well) growing with every step. Annique knelt at the toilet and extended her fingers. Then she stopped and looked at Jerry with a look that was, simultaneously, cautious and wanton, gazing pleadingly into Jerry's eyes.

"Jerry, my fantasy goes a little further... in fact a lot further. I'll tell you about it, but if you don't want to do it, just say no."

Jerry, even more excited, couldn't even talk; he merely nodded and Annique continued:

"Jerry, this is probably my most forbidden fantasy. I really get off on the thought of someone else making me throw up; every time I think of someone's fingers in my throat, mine go in my vagina. I never, never thought I'd have the nerve to ask anyone to do it, but I love you so much..."

Jerry reached toward Annique's lips with his hand; she opened her mouth willingly and expectantly and he gently placed his index finger down her throat. Annique coughed, then gently pulled his hand away.

"Jerry, you don't need to be nearly that gentle. When I want to make myself vomit, I use two fingers and I wiggle them quite vigorously. You won't hurt me; I'll stop you if you do."

Jerry extended his index and middle finger together. Annique again opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue; Jerry stuck his fingers as far down her throat as they would go and wiggled them. Annique gagged lightly, then violently; then she threw up.

Jerry was amazed, at her reaction and at his own. Annique looked relieved and excited; Jerry thought his dick was going to explode through his eyeballs. Annique leaned over the toilet again.

"Jerry, this time I'm going to make myself throw up by myself, but I want you to do something. When I stick my fingers down my throat I want you to stick yours..."

Annique gently took Jerry's hand and slid them into her panties. She was soaking wet. She extended her index and middle fingers and moved them toward her mouth. As Jerry's fingers entered her vagina, she stuck her own down her throat; as Jerry's fingers wiggled, so did hers. She writhed and gagged at the same time; then, at exactly the same moment, she vomited and came. She gently wiped her mouth, then, still kneeling, turned. She rose slightly, her hand moving to Jerry's zipper, then lowered herself onto that part of him which now desperately craved attention. Their orgasm was simultaneous and mutual; ultimately, they spent the night, nearly unconscious, on the floor of the bathroom called Casablanca.

A pact was made between Jerry and Annique the next morning; both knew the dangers Annique would face if their mutual passion became an event of every day. They agreed that their visits to Casablanca would be limited to weekly. They have done so regularly ever since; every Saturday night, they buy some tequila to recreate the mood, and, with Jerry's fingers and Annique's received by her loving throat and vagina, they revisit the white house of passion of their bathroom.

Jerry and Annique, you see, learned what the Romans knew two millennia ago: that the orgy and the vomitorium are inseparable, the latter and the former both part of Eros sought, found and enjoyed.