It had been a long shift, at the end of an even longer week. Shift work had always gotten the better of him, but while the hours sometimes got the better of him, he appreciated that his job allowed him time to see his friends and the (occasional) sleep in.
Still only just beginning the long drive home, his mind was already drifting, the dark expanse of road in front stretching away into oblivion. He was already thinking about rest, and how his recent frustrations had led to relaxation by masturbation, rather than an intimate moment with his partner.
It wasn't that she wasn't willing, far from it, it's just that her sexual drive was not as high (or as refined) as his own. He needed, wanted, that physical connection more than she did. And like most men, he loved getting head. Having his partner lower her warm lips around his swollen cock and having her gently suck him off was an amazing experience, and he was always appreciative, but she would do it to please him, not because she enjoyed it herself. He had come to suspect that she actually didn't like blowing him at all, that it was more of a 'chore' for her, than a sexual act.
Which is what has led him to be thinking of that very same act as he drove home. He wanted to feel lips around his shaft, a tongue on his balls, and the sensation of his orgasm exploding in her throat. She never let him finish in her mouth. He didn't want to ask her in case she retreated in repulsion. But he wanted that now. Craved it, even.
Realizing that she would be well and truly asleep by the time he arrived home, (if she wasn't already), and that she would be reluctant to stir from her own dreams, he remembered his long lost friend. A girl he hadn't seen, nor spoken to in nearly three years, but who had changed his life forever.
Jasmine.
Jasmine had been riding shotgun on a night they had both been enjoying. They had spent it out in town, just as friends - both had partners after all - but they did have history. They had shared a short but meaningful relationship, but had stopped seeing each other because she was leaving the country, and his work at the time left little for much else. Jasmine had returned six months later, but both had moved on. This was dinner in town to celebrate their friendship, and their continued support of each other through hard times.
They had finished their meal, and walked along the banks of the Yarra River, Southbank, Melbourne, looking up at the stars, talking about life, love and where they were headed next. They had both consumed a few glasses of wine, he stopping at two, being the responsible driver, she, unrestricted, drinking the rest of the bottle. As they strolled through the night life, she took his arm, and placed her head on his shoulder.
He wasn't sure what to make of it, and stopped walking. Jasmine turned her head to him, and kissed him, softly, sweetly. To his surprise, he found himself kissing her back. Their lips parted and his tongue massaged hers gently, fondly. The familiar scent of her body filled his heart with desire, but he reluctantly pulled away, and broke the moment.
They walked in silence back to the car, the unspoken argument in both of their minds about the taboo to which they had both succumbed hanging thick in the air.
Jasmine hardly spoke in the car on the way home. It was a fair drive back out of town, especially in Saturday night traffic, and whilst she made general conversation, she seemed to be conflicted.
He asked her what was bothering her. Jasmine replied that it was nothing really, and she was just tired. She stretched in the passenger seat beside him, and he couldn't help but stare at her shapely legs contained in her sheer black lace stockings. He plucked up the courage and asked her if it was the kiss that was bothering her.
Jasmine turned to him and said, simply, "It's not the kiss. I loved it. It reminds me why I fell in love with you. You're so passionate."
"Then what is it? Have I done something?"
