A Drunken Fuck With An Old Friend

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Technically, we’ve slept together countless times before in the five years we’ve known one another. In the same bed, generally nude and occasionally with a third person. For some reason we never quite went all the way, never quite intended to. We play at being risqué, never mentioning respective partners of the time but delighting all the same in the naughtiness and secrecy of our game.

Dares. Who dares to brush the most flesh? How deliberately can you do it? Your hand running lightly over my hip, my breath on the back of your shoulder, rough legs against smooth. Giggling. Sometimes pretending to sleep while following the tentative exploration of semi-conscious hands. In the morning you climb over me and pause, poised above my body, meeting my eyes deliberately for a few seconds before we begin to laugh. A game.

Once I was so aroused I came audibly in my sleep, your hands and mouth nowhere on my skin when I woke.

Any third person would more often sleep than play. Drunken friends collapsing half dressed in bed together after a night out. While they sleep your hand is resting on my skin and then stroking just inside the elastic of my black g-string. I rock back until curve of my ass is touching, just barely, the straining hardness behind me. Scarcely breathing. Smiling in the dark, both turned on by the control, the restraint of not having sex.

***

“Have bakırköy escort we ever actually fucked?” you ask me in the pub one night. Among the laughing banter of our incestuous university crew it is taken for a joke. “I’ve lost track.” “Liar.” my eyes laugh back silently but I remark only with indications to others present that we’ve fucked by proxy.

***

Last night, the responsible left at 2030 and the tired at 2200. The two of us then returned to the first pub of the night. Full circle. By the time you suggest that booze is cheaper at your place, we can barely stand. I think I fall.

I don’t remember our train journey but then I am in your flat pouring absinthe into wine glasses. My partner calls, we chat and I tell him to lock up. Another lacuna in memory. We are now in bed half-dressed, absinthe undrunk. “You could take off your underwear.” you suggest. “I have.”

I match you and then we are sitting on the edge of the bed and a clock is ticking silently, faster and faster somewhere. You caress my breasts purposefully and there is intention in our kisses. The rules of the game have somehow changed. Your hand traces lightly between my thighs and this time you are surprised at the recently shaven smoothness.

“It makes me more sensitive.” I try to explain but you aren’t listening. Your mouth, your tongue are busy at my beşiktaş escort breasts and I am out of breath; the fingers on my slit stroke patiently at the hot outer folds.

“What about Jenna?” I whisper. “Are you two serious?” As if that would stop us now. “What about Drew?” you counter and we laugh distractedly, your fingers pressing, stroking the length of my moistness lightly. Too lightly. I want more. Am too drunk for subtlety

“Drew’s a fairly open-minded guy…Aaahh!” You let two exploring fingers enter me suddenly and slowly, turning my words to moans of pleasure, your thumb against my clitoris. Usually so much drink makes me sexually numb, unresponsive, but now your fingers are slick with my juices as we push our game further than it has gone before. Every touch intended and deliberate.

My hand chances on your shaft and grasps it eagerly. Hard, ready. Your touch is strangely delicate for a drunk man. I begin to ask if you have condoms but you just continue fondling, teasing, tasting. We speak breathlessly and I don’t remember a single word.

I want you. Do I say that? I don’t know but you leave me alone a moment, fumbling in your dresser. Packaging is rustled and ripped and then there are two bodies in the bed again. I cry out as you enter me. You’re not large but I am at a pitch of excitement where this movement of our hips beylikdüzü escort is my only focus.

You know how to use what you have, lifting my ass with one arm to fill and grind against me; I am surprised by your strength. I think I gasp for you to fuck me harder and you oblige, bending one of my legs back over your shoulder like a bow, a hand still cupping my ass.

You drive into me in earnest and at last I feel your cock filling me to the utmost. I forget your housemate in the next room. Are we loud? Probably. You raise my hips a little more, managing to get so deep with each thrust that it hurts a little but feels so good that I can’t stop you. Orgasm burns me.

The rest of the night is a blur of different positions and forgotten conversation. Do we eventually fall asleep? Pass out? My memories are patchy. I am riding you; then, curled sleepily on my side, I feel you penetrate me again and my hips push back to receive you.

I don’t remember anything we said.

In the morning we battle with hangovers; no touching and no desire to touch. You must shower, I must get to work. I decide to leave before your housemate gets up, unsure how well she knows Jenna, whom you have been dating for a month now, and hopeful that she didn’t recognize my voice last night. It feels no different to past occasions.

You stand there in an old dressing gown looking ill and confused as I sweep the room for my belongings. I am thankful that I had worn a non-iron suit for work the day before and have made myself speedily presentable. All traces of my stay removed, I zip up my bag

“Have a good Easter.” I say and leave without looking in the mirror.

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