She knows she shouldn't do this. Knows her conscience should be kicking her to a more sensible course of action, but she can't help herself. So many weeks, months, of should-not, ought-not, though it would have been so easy. The man sits quietly in front of her, sipping his coffee as he has done for countless mornings and afternoons. He's talking about jobs and plans for the week, but she isn't hearing him. He has made offers over the months, covert and overt, ranging from a casual fuck, to running away together. And always, she has deflected. Sometimes acknowledging his affection, but being clear that she doesn't reciprocate, sometimes having to warn him how uncomfortable his admissions make her. She has tried always to be kind. Such one-directional affection and desire do not sit well with her. Were she to feel it in reverse, and be met with such consistent and firm rejection, she'd have removed herself from the man's presence. Pride, she supposes she has pride, because she can't imagine such constant and hopeless devotion in herself. But this man, has never desisted. He's ebbed and flowed around her, letting her know he is ever available, should she say the word.
And she never has.
Has never told him that she's taken many a lover over the years. Never shared how much she enjoys sex. Never shared that she enjoys...alternative sex. Never told him of anyone, or anything, she has ever done. Never shared her extra-marital activities throughout the long years of marriage to her husband, with whom the man is good friends. Her husband knows of the man's affection and desire for his wife, actually feels sorry for him. And for all her husband knows she does get up to, he knows his wife wouldn't go there.
And until this moment, his wife never would have.
But his wife is frustrated beyond words. Things have not panned out as she thought they might with her most recent lover. Argument, disagreement, hurt, an inability to find the solidity of compromise. Different life situations. She persevered, for as long as she could, but has now severed contact. But she is sexually awakened, activated, by the turbulent and satisfying sex she has been enjoying for weeks. And yet, with the crashing demise of the relationship, there is nowhere for that energy to go. She and her husband, they don't fuck. Not in a way she craves and needs.
She is on edge, and the bruises she has self-inflicted, striking herself with a leather strap on the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs, are not enough. They are a day old now, the ache dulled, the sting gone, the red faded. Bruised purple flesh, banded along her inner thighs, is a pleasant reminder. But the physical pain of impact play has dissolved only the very edges of her frustration. Sexual need, not for release, but to feel fucked, claimed, taken, has coalesced into an internal straight-jacket. She feels the inner tension causing outer stiffness, holds herself rigid in the chair. She daren't let the internal seething surface.
But it is doing.
She finds herself staring at his hands, hands she has admired before, but carefully, secretly. Observing skin and tendon, the glint of sunlight on bronzed hairs. A man's hands and forearms are powerful visual stimuli to her, fingers gesticulating or forearm muscles flexing, rippling. She imagines fingers held together, pressed into her. She is gazing at his hand, the width of it, wondering how it would feel, bunched into a fist, curled within her cunt. She's daydreaming the flexion in his forearm as he might draw back his hand to strike her arse, or her face. She gives a small jump of a shudder, clears her throat.
He has asked her a question and she opens her mouth to answer, but feels a familiar micro-second of mind-slip. Before her brain can retrace its steps and halt her intention, she blurts out, "Julian, would you like to fuck me?"
There is a suspended moment, as his eyes lock on hers, and he stills. A weight of something hangs in the air, and she recovers herself enough to choose retraction or elaboration.
She ignores her conscience.
"One time offer. Just fuck. Right here, right now. Mark is at work, won't be home for hours. No strings, no drama. Just fuck. I don't even want you to speak. Just a nod of your head if you want to, or shake your head for no. And I'll never mention it again. It won't change the friendship."
Julian is staring at her, and for once she detects none of his usual affection, his thinly veiled desire to speak of his feelings. She looks at him steadily, waiting. He nods his head slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. She gives a tiny nod of acknowledgement, and smiles. Stands up from the table and walks down the hallway to the bedroom, waiting for him to follow her.
She's already stood by the bed, facing the door, before she hears his chair scrape back from the table, his coffee mug clunk to the wooden surface. He enters the room and approaches, staring at her, not speaking a word. She is much shorter than him, and holds her right index finger up to his lips, indicating no talking. He looks down at her, does not acknowledge her finger in any way. She stands on tiptoes to reach her face to his, kiss him gently, chastely almost, on the lips. Then her hands move to his tradesman shirt, unbuttoning him. She is aware of the bulge of penis within his jeans. She slides the shirt from his body, feeling very small suddenly, this close to him, the usual table or distance no longer between them. She has been so careful up to this point to preserve that space, to not allow him any closer. Lust has washed that care away, and she feels an urgency to touch his flesh, feel him against her, in her. She lifts his t-shirt, silently asks for his assistance in removing it. The bending of his knees, lowering his body so she can slip it over his head, might be comical if sexual tension wasn't brittling the air. She slides her fingers up over his chest, his clavicles, the concavities near his neck, brushing fingertips over tattoos and the small amount of frosted chest hair, his nipples, drawing a sharp intake of breath from him.
She drops to her knees, unbuckles his belt, undoes his jeans, slides them down his legs, pulls them over his socked feet. She carefully removes each sock, pushes the pile of clothes to the wall. She is kneeling now, looking up at him, noting the boxer-shorted bulge in front of her, the dark of puddled pre-cum on the fabric. She almost smiles but holds it back. Her fingers reach to hook over the edges of his boxers above each hip, and she back-and-forths them slowly down over his pelvis, neatly pulling the elasticated waistband over the head of his cock, deliberately brushing the length of the sensitive underside. Her mouth waters looking at the turgid flesh before her. She loves sucking cock. She wasn't sure what she was expecting, but Julian has a nice cock, thick, not too long, but plenty long enough. She licks her lips, desperate to take him in her mouth, feel the familiar twitch and seep of happily engulfed male flesh. But it might not do to be too forward, not yet. Perhaps best to play coy, shy, hesitant, though it may be a little late for that, and she isn't very good at it. She stands up, allowing her clothed body to brush against the tip of his cock. He inhales sharply.
She stands in front of him, very still. This is the wrong way round for her. Usually she would be stood naked, exposed, in front of a clothed man. But Julian doesn't seem phased, looks down at her. She begins to feel uncomfortable under his steady stare, and a flicker of self-doubt flashes through her. A delayed reflection, questioning what on earth she thinks she's doing. But his hands reach to her head, his palms cupping the sides of her head, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. He bends to kiss her lips, and this kiss is not chaste. His lips part, his tongue traces her lips, pressing into her mouth. She gives a little moan as she opens to him, her hands reaching to grasp his forearms, her cunt twitching. She can feel the slick of labial flesh sliding against knickers. He pulls away and begins to undo her top, one focused button after another, his fingertips brushing the pillowed flesh of her breasts above the silky bra fabric. He reaches round and undoes her bra, removes the shirt, then the bra, reaching to undo her belt and jeans buttons. He stands back, and speaks for the first time.
