Covet

I loved him beyond morality. I wanted him from the first moment I saw him. And because he belonged to another, I wanted him even more.

It was a strange threesome sitting at the dinner table in the French restaurant – myself, by best friend and her new fiancé. She had insisted on inviting me to get to know him, to get my approval or opinion. I had heard of him, her frequent descriptions of his sweetness, his gentleness, and his kindness. I even knew he was very well endowed, as she had, in a moment of mildly drunken indiscretion, described to me how he had painfully made her a woman. The cliché was trite, but we can only forgive those so foolishly in love.

I had no desire to meet him, this man who placed himself like a wedge between us, between the bonds of female friendship. I was in fact convinced he was some prematurely balding, simpering boy my friend had decided, at the ripe age of twenty-eight, to settle for. Indeed, there was nothing extraordinary about the fair-haired young man who sat across from me, his strong hand cupped possessively over that of my friend. But something stirred in me a need, an illogical desire to taste his mouth and measure for myself his breadth and girth.

Throughout dinner I flirted shamelessly, flushed cheeks punctuating every salacious sentence. I laughed freely, drank copiously and stared into his hazel eyes brazenly. My dear friend, his little love, had all but disappeared into the periphery of our vision, but when I felt a lull in conversation or an intensity made uncomfortable, only then would I glance and smile at my friend, assuring her that I did indeed approve of her beau. In fact I more than approved. But hers was a blind trust and deaf love of us both.

By the end of the bottle of Shiraz my skin was red-hot and my eyes heavy lidded. I could say that thirst made me lick my lips slowly, or that heat made me wipe dew from my neck, fingers trailing across breastbone; but it would be a lie. I wanted there to be no misunderstanding, no crossed signals. If I could I would have crawled to him on top of the table to whisper in his ear that I wanted him to make me scream that night, but I had to slip into subtlety for the moment. I believed the message was understood, all the same.

My friend excused herself and proceeded to the ladies room, like clockwork, to vomit up the expensive haute cuisine she had just consumed, before returning much later after fastidiously washing her hands and rinsing her mouth several times, and re-applying her lipstick. I did not accompany her, as she prefers to perform this ritual alone.

And so we two were left alone.

His hand rested palm-down on the white linen tablecloth. With a red-lacquered fingernail I traced the faint blue-green vein from just under the cuff of his sleeve down the top of his hand and between his fingers. I looked up at him through a veil of black eyelashes and ran the tip of my tongue along my top lip.

"You're drunk," he said smiling.

"Not really," I replied.

"We shouldn't..." he stammered.

"Of course not..." I concurred.

" I love her, you know." He countered.

"Of course you do." I agreed.

"So you don't..." he faltered, confused.

"No, I don't love you. I don't know you that well. But I would like to make love to you. I have a tremendous need to fuck you." I hissed under my breath.

Just then our poppet returned, smelling of rose soap and freshly applied perfume. We decided to call it a night and while the waiter wisked off with the fiancé's credit card, he offered to hail me a cab. I'll be right back dear, I remember he had said over his shoulder as he lightly touched my arm to escort me to the door and out to the dark street.

Once outside and beyond any view from the restaurant window, he pushed me up against the snow-wet wall and buried his tongue in my mouth. I bit his lip and sucked, panted and moaned against his mouth as his hand snaked up my skirt and along my inner thigh to the damp heat between my legs. My mind was blank, I was a white-hot core burning my skin from the inside out. I had never known such a pure state of lust. Then just as suddenly he broke away, leaving my mouth open and sore, the cold wintry air rushing in and setting my teeth on edge. I touched my fingers to my raw lips as if to confirm that I had felt the kiss after all.

"We can't!" he breathed heavily on my face, his warm breath melting the flakes of snow that had landed on my cheeks.

"Not here," I offered.

"Where do you live?" he asked, for himself or the taxi driver, I was not sure. I mumbled something, an address and suite number, as he helped me into the back seat of the car. Would he come? Would I wait for him? The door slammed and the car lurched forward.

I reached my apartment feeling ashamed and incredibly stupid. He was a decent man humouring the drunk, sluttish friend of his fiancée. I felt horrible. I took a cold shower and got into bed naked, hoping I would freeze to death and never have to see either of them again.

I had just started to drift into sleep when the doorbell rang. At first I assumed it was the neighbour's and ignored it. Then it rang again, several times, insistently. I grabbed a red silk dressing gown and wrapped it around me tightly, then went to open the door.

He was standing there, breathing heavily as though he had been running. A few wet flakes of snow still clung to his hair. For a split second I wanted to close the door in his face, but perhaps sensing this he pushed open the door and stepped in. He grabbed me by the shoulders and drew me to him, to his mouth for another ravaging kiss. The white heat was lit in me again. He took two more steps into the apartment with me, our mouths fused, and kicked the door closed behind him. He untied the sash of my dressing gown and let it fall to the floor at my feet like a shimmering pool of blood.

I dug my fingers in his hair and pushed his head down. He paused to bury his face between my breasts; the stubble of his beard scratched the delicate skin. He took each nipple into his mouth in turn and sucked lightly. I moaned softly and continued to push his head down further. He licked a trail from breastbone to abdomen, kissing and biting the soft skin. He was on his knees, and I remember thinking that the dust would dirty his black pants. He still had his coat on. I tried to slip the coat off of him, but had to stop and steady myself on his shoulders when I felt his tongue slip softly inside me. He eased my legs a bit further apart and slid his tongue down further. My legs shook and my breath became ragged. I slipped down onto the floor like slipping into a dream. I helped him shrug off the coat, pull off the tie; I even tore a button of his shirt in my haste. He fumbled with his belt as I slipped my hand between zipper teeth to grasp his cock. He stood suddenly, shucking off pants and shoes, underwear and socks.

I sat cross-legged on the floor and watched his cock bobbing a few mere inches from my face. I slowly got to my knees and took him into my mouth. I heard him moan softly as I slid my tongue along the entire length of him. The tip butted against the back of my throat, and I pulled back. I concentrated on the first few inches, sucking and licking and occasionally tickling with teeth until he came. He shuddered, but I never loosened my grip, my hand pumping at the base and my mouth churning at the tip. He pulled at my hair gently, trying to extract my mouth from him, but I only let him go once he was hard again.

I stood up slowly allowing my body to rub against his legs, brush his hardened organ. Up on tiptoe I kissed his cheek. I murmured against his jawbone "Can she do that?"

"She doesn't like to, says it's demeaning." He replied hoarsely, bitterly, into my hair.

I thought to myself, how selfish of her. "But you do it to her?" My curiosity was piqued.

"No, she doesn't like it either." He replied. I saw a shadow of pain steal across his face, and frustration.

I took a half step away and stared into his face. The moonlight seeping through the window gave his eyes an otherworldly glow and shone on the wet film across his brow. "I'll bet you're great at it, too." I smiled seductively and took his hand to lead him to the bedroom.

I sat on the edge of the bed, keeping my eyes locked onto his. I slid across to until I could throw my head over the other side. I stared at the ceiling it seemed, forever. Then I felt his weight on the bed and his hands sliding along my thighs. I bit my lip and fingers twisted the sheets in anticipation. Then came that tongue, tentative at first, parting gently my vaginal lips, caressing the coral folds slowly, then his teeth bumped my clitoris and I had to stifle a scream. He pushed my legs further apart, as far as they could go and then some more until the muscles ached. I grabbed handfuls of hair, clawed at his neck, attempting to pull him in further. He rolled my clitoris between his tongue and teeth before plunging his tongue deep into me, lapping at the moisture from the very source. I saw flashes of coloured lights behind my tightly shut eyes, my back arched, my neck ached and my body shook uncontrollably. I pushed my chin into my shoulder in a feeble attempt to still the trembling, but the tremor only cascaded down faster. I pushed him off and then pulled him up to me, kissing and licking my own wetness from his mouth. I breathed in his smell and mine, and it was wine, I was drunk again.

I could have gone on kissing him, sucking at his tongue and lips, but like a thief he slipped into me. I didn't even realize what he was doing until he had flipped me over top of him, took a firm old on my hips and broke in with a single upward thrust. I screamed; it was like being impaled, like an invasion, and I thought I could never take pleasure in it. But it only took a few more thrusts before even the pain became it's own distinct pleasure. I straightened my back, my palms on his chest for balance. I rocked and swayed and matched his rhythm. I bucked faster as his orgasm crested and shut my eyes tightly. I no longer saw him, not even acknowledged him. I felt I had lost my identity as well; it was only that core, that centre of the universe that mattered, that even existed. I gasped and whimpered when I felt him erupt inside me, we panted breathlessly into each other's mouths.

I collapsed on top of him, is cock softly recoiling inside me. I licked his sweaty shoulder and savoured the salty taste of him. I even wiped his tears with my fingers, sucking the moisture from my fingertips. Nothing tasted so sweet; nothing ever has, as those tears.

"Shit," he cursed softly against my cheek, "shit, what am I doing?" he sounded miserable, lovely and pained.

"Indeed," I whispered menacingly, "she's your fiancée after all." I conjured her like a phantom third in the warm room, an unspeaking third in the dark corner watching, envious.

Suddenly angry, he pushed me off of him. "She's your best friend," he retorted, trying to make me share in his remorse.

"Yes," I said "But we were never really very close." I smiled and kissed his thigh.

"I love her," he whispered meekly, but his body betrayed him, his cock hardened as I inched a trail of kisses along his thigh.

"I know," I murmured against a still-wet patch of skin between his legs. "I know."

And I do.

I don't ask for his love, she can have it. I want what he can't give her, what she is unwilling to ask for or take from him. I want his open mouth after he has innocently bussed her goodnight or good morning. I want his bruises, shaped like fingers, on my thighs. I want his cock hard beyond enduring. I want his hunger and his thirst. I want all the things he cannot do to her – fingers and tongue in places and doing things she cannot possibly imagine. He tells me that she reads the Kama Sutra in short teasing passages before kissing him goodnight and turning over to sleep. He and I write new chapters together. We share a secret, an equal shame, a preternatural carnal knowledge that belies polite smiles at dinner. We can be debased, profane and savage together, wisps of debasement and profanity and savagery slipping into our other life together, as friends connected by the ties of love and trust to another purer soul. In her presence we feel guilt and shame burn our skin, every nuanced word and accidental touch is kerosene on that flame.

And yet, we do not repent. We can fall no further. If this is evil, we burn happily in our mutual inferno. At parties we look like old friends chatting nicely. But if you listen closely, you can hear the song our drowning souls sing. "I want you inside me," I'll whisper then laugh. "I'm going to fuck you sore," he replies and refills my drink. We are chums, she says to anyone who asks, "my two best friends."

Ah, his hands on me, rough skin on tender swollen breasts; his teeth and my tongue clashed in war. In parked cars, in alleyways, in the elevator to my apartment, in darkened shop doorways. Once even in her living room when she hurried upstairs to fetch a scarf. We are reckless, dangerous, and desperate. If more than a week goes by wherein I do not touch him, I go slightly mad, snapping at everyone, throwing books and dishes, running until exhausted so I can finally sleep and dream his hands on me.

Our meetings will become ever more frequent, our risks greater to be together. He says he does not want to hurt her, but a small evil part of me does. The part that no longer wants to share, does not want the crumbs. But I know better than to make him choose. Besides, if he only belonged to me, I would no longer want him, the desire for his body and his touch would diminish. So long as he belongs to another, I will always want him, I will always covet him.