The Space Between Words

Note to Reader: This is a fictional piece of erotica featuring people above 18 years of age, written solely as entertainment. In no way has this story ever happened or will ever happen in the author's reality. Please enjoy this fantasy for what it is: fantasy. Also, a big thank you to my deeply insightful editor JackBellend41, for whom this work would not be as eloquent. I appreciate your editing and feedback, you're the best.

Thank you for reading.

Space Between Words

I never contemplated doing what we did, not until I was in the moment, but now that night resonates within me in the quiet space between words. I can't help but chase the moment within that space, hunt it down, and savor it whenever the time allows.

What we did was wrong, I know this. The religious doctrine ingrained within me since birth, along with the society in which we live, practically shouts at me from my subconscious (usually in my mother's voice) every time an image of that night pops into my mind.

This is why you and I don't speak anymore, even though you've reached out to me more than once over the years. I can't allow myself to ever respond. Not ever. It's too tempting. You are too tempting. It would be so easy to fall back into the reality of you. Better to stay safe and let you exist as you were then, within me, in that space between words.

Really, I shouldn't even be writing to you, but I find myself here, lost in the reverie of you. My fingers ache with the need to bring you to life in some small way, even if it is just on these pages you will never read.

Sometimes I wonder if my husband knows how much I think of you and our night together. You are one of my husband's oldest friends. I get a little shock, an inner thrill, each time your name drops from my husband's lips. I get an overwhelming feeling of elation followed swiftly by shame when I hear your name, laced with longing. I am jealous the two of you speak so easily and effortlessly when I have starved myself of the delicacies of your voice and face to remain loyal, faithful, devoted to my husband and our marriage.

But that ends at the surface of my skin. Beneath, within me, there you are.

Really, my husband only has himself to blame. He introduced us after all, brought me to you. You have been friends for so long, since college. You two met when you were a senior and my husband was a freshman. You've always been that older example, the inspiration and aspiration.

My husband knew what you were into. You've had conversations about your play times with a lady and a friend or two. You even discussed me, talked about me like I was his to share. Of course, I am, and share he did. He told you about how insatiable I can be, how passionate, and how I make him feel every night. He couldn't resist bragging to a known womanizer. What was he expecting to happen, talking about me like that to someone who delights in swinging with his current flavor of the month.

At least telling myself this helps me cope with the shame a bit. He may have brought me into your line of sight, but didn't push me into your arms, didn't force me to take the step. I could have said no when it came down to it. I took that step myself and must now live with this secret shame for the rest of my life. Especially each time I attend Sunday morning services.

I love him, you know. I love my husband so much. He is my best friend, lover, a true partner in every way. Our children are a joy, and it warms my heart to watch him with them. He is so good to them, the best father. I think it is this love for my husband which made me agree to do what we did, for him, to make him happy. At least that's what I told myself in the heat of the moment. Now, looking back, I know I also did it for myself.

We can never be together again. There, I've said it. We can never touch, kiss. We took it too far. I think my husband is a little worried he'd lose me if we went that far again. He saw something that night which worried him, I think, something in our eyes when we looked at each other. I think what he saw was the potential of more... what the "more" is, I'm not sure, but it's there. It was there that night, and it's here with me now.

Do you think about it like I do? Is it why you reach out to me randomly? Does the image of us splayed out on your bed come to you like it does me in these quiet moments of internal contemplation? Do you feel hot and flushed when you remember what your hands did, what your mouth did? What my mouth did? Can you resist touching those secret spots when you think of me? Feel that hot, thick member between your legs? Does it ache for me? Does it hurt for me? For what you know I can do?

Do you remember how it happened? It still seems like a dream, like an impossible stolen moment. I look back now and can't believe how bold we all were, how daring.

It was fight night at your place. There were more friends over than just my husband and me. It was the first time in a long time I had been out of the house, away from my motherly duties and I was enjoying the small stolen moments of freedom in a seemingly unending life of diapers and bottles.

It was a rare treat to have a night to ourselves. They were so young then and I craved little pieces of freedom to listen to actual music with a beat and not nursery rhymes, to disappear for a bit and find myself in adult conversation.

I had dressed up for the first time in a long time, too. Hair, nails, makeup, soft satin dress in a pretty peach hue with a sweetheart neckline that was way more than fight-night worthy, but my husband had encouraged it all, drooled at the sight of me in a way that boosted my confidence in my "mom-body" enough to attend a friendly gathering filled with mostly parentless people... and you noticed.

You had been stealing glances down the curving v of my dress all night. Finding little excuses to be near me wherever I was. In the kitchen, getting a drink, I could have sworn you smelled my hair when I asked you to reach for a tall glass for me. On the deck when I spoke with the other wives and girlfriends while our partners watched the prelims, you'd come out to "stretch your legs" and stare at me, even going so far as to press the front of your crotch briefly against my satin-clad ass going in and out of the door, making me gasp at the bold, hot press of your semi-hardness.

Later, during the main event, you squeezed in next to me on the small loveseat, my husband on the other side, all the while grazing a hip or exposed thigh with the back of your hand, or brushing the tips of my breasts with a forearm when you reached for a snack on the coffee table. All seemingly innocent touches, but by the time the fights were over and all the other guests had left, my skin was on fire, so sensitive and eager for another glance, touch, anything from you.

By the end of the night, it was just the three of us, sitting around finishing the last bottle of scotch. My husband was in no rush to go home, though I'm sure he had noticed all of your little advances, grazing fingertips, and hot glances. He could certainly feel my flush, my heat as I sat next to him, feel me squirm in my seat with every little throb of desire that lanced through me. Maybe it was that attention which kept him there, a kind of boost to his ego to know that you, his oldest and best friend coveted something he possessed.

I don't know how we got on the subject, but somehow we started talking about sex, more specifically my sex. The particular quality of sex I am capable of. It might have been the influence of the alcohol or just the bend of the conversation, but I felt myself growing even more hot and slick, flushed all over, when the subject of my mouth and it's great prowess with a cock popped up.

My husband was a little sloshed, bragging about how good I am when faced with his cock, but you were clear-headed. It certainly seemed that way whenever you caught my eye. Your eyes were silver and hungry, shining in their focus as if you hadn't had a drop to drink. When I remember the intensity of your gaze, a little shiver runs across my belly, the same way it did that night long ago.

You reached out to me with the back of one hand, your fingers tripping over the exposed skin of my upper arm, warmed from our heated conversation. This was no accidental touch this time, but a deliberate gesture of admiration and desire. He saw and the arm he had draped across my shoulders stiffened a bit before he pulled me a little more snugly against him.

I am so amazed by what you did then. It still shocks me, and I lived through it.

You said "Prove it," with a straight face and a challenge in your eye.

I could not believe your boldness. Your calculated risk. My husband's eyes widened, and tried to focus on your face.

"What do you mean?" He asked, with a kind of half amused smile, almost joking but not quite, while his fingers curled possessively around my neck, his thumb stroking the hollow beneath my ear.

You smiled back and my heart thumped beneath my breast bone. I thought for sure you two heard it beating so hard and fast in response to the tension, the bated breath, in the room.

But oh, how good you were! You knew just what to say! You knew... you knew what you were doing, you knew your friend and his weaknesses. You knew his pride of possession would be his downfall.

"Well," you said, "have her suck your dick, and I'll watch. Maybe I'll learn a trick or two to teach my next girlfriend."

I was shaking at this point, talked about as if the thought of my having a choice in the matter never crossed either of your minds. The whole time you watched me, watched my face, my quick breaths, the rise and fall of my breasts beneath that sweetheart neckline which made it so easy to see the little shake of my heart beating underneath those soft mounds of milky flesh. You knew I'd do it before you even suggested it.

And how? How did you know the thought of showing off for you would make me wet and slippery in my matching peach panties? I mean, this flies in the face of everything that exists within my core. Everything my mother and pastor has ever taught me in all my years on this earth. Why was it so easy than to slip slowly from the couch and kneel between my husband's knees?

I felt possessed, somehow, a true out-of-body experience. I was like a puppet on a string, wobbly and unsure, but commanded by your stare all the same. My hands shook as I slid them up my husband's thighs.

We had a silent moment of communion, the two of us, while you watched. His eyes narrowed, asking me if I was ok with this, if this was what I wanted, while his thumb stroked my bottom lip. I couldn't give a verbal response around the pulse in my throat, so I simply smiled and sucked his thumb into my mouth, giving my accent.

It was easy enough in his inebriated state to fish out his hard cock, though my hands trembled more than a little. By the third swipe of my mouth down his shaft, all protest from either of us ceased. His head lolled back on the couch, his eyes closed, enthralled with the sensations, the intolerable ecstasy of my mouth. The exact opposite of you and your enrapt attention. You were all eyes and hardness yourself, as you sat there in the leather armchair beside us on the couch. A glass of scotch dangled from your fingertips, your ankle propped on your knee, leaving your hard crotch open to my sight.

I angled myself so you could see better, flipping my long blond hair out of the way. I caught your silver eyes with my green as I licked his shaft, sucked his balls, squeezed his dick, then sucked the precum that streamed from the tip. I took him deep. As deep as I could from that position, kneeling between his legs.

It wasn't long before he was splashing across my face, jerking out of my mouth as he came. I stared you down as I licked up every drop I could reach with my hot pink tongue. You disappeared for a moment to retrieve a moist towel from the kitchen to clean me up.

When you returned, you stood over me and wiped the hot, damp towel over my face, wiped away the sticky streaks of his cum that painted my cheeks and nose. It was then that I caught the deep flush that had gathered on your cheeks, saw the full thickness of you trapped in a way I assumed was painful in your jeans, with a damp spot blooming where the crushed head of your cock must have been.

My husband stroked my hair, pulling my attention from your crotch and the promise of it. He looked sated as I helped tuck his soft cock back in his pants, flushed now, and fighting the pull of the post-orgasmic high all men succumb to, made deeper with the lateness of the hour and the alcohol coursing through his veins.

"Well," he slurred, "what do you think?" I could hear pride in his voice as he continued to clumsily stroke my long hair. I didn't speak, but I did notice I was still being talked about as if I were a toy, a tool, a thing for his use. The only truly concerning thing for me in that moment was how much I enjoyed being talked about this way, how hot and greedy it made my hungry little pussy.

"Yep, you're right, my friend. She knows what to do with a cock. You are one lucky sonuvabitch." Your eyes burned into mine as you said this. The intensity of those silver orbs pierced through me and made me squirm there on my knees before you. You were still standing so close to me I could feel the heat radiating off of your crotch, felt it bathing my face, sending a pure spike of lust lancing through me, wetting my panties.

"Damn straight," I jumped at the sound of my husband's voice as it pulled me from the transe your nearness induced. "She's so fucking good at all the rest too," he slurred; pride, love, and admiration making his voice soft and gentle despite the blatant bragging.

"I'd love to see that, too, if you're able, that is." You smirked, still staring down at me. Your hands clenched on your hips. I could tell that you were itching, and aching, to touch me. But oh how smart you were to resist, to hold out. I still marvel that you knew just what to say and just how to say it.

"Oh, hell, there's no way man. Whisky dick wins this round," my husband said.

"That's too bad... unless..." my heart, if possible, beat faster, hanging on that word. What would it mean, unless... unless I could do the same for you? Unless I could cross that line for the sake of his pride? You smiled at me before you looked away, catching your long-time friend in that same silver stare.

"Unless?" My husband asked, prompting you, and you answered, holy shit did you answer!

"Well, would you mind if she helped me out with this and I can learn for myself how lucky you really are?" you asked, your tone daring, gesturing to your still hard cock in your jeans. I still cannot believe your audacity, your courage in asking that, and I wonder still at the hot throb that question prompted in my belly. Nor can I believe my husband's response.

I didn't look at him. I was frozen, hanging on his answer.

It seemed to take forever and the silence hung in the space between us, the space between words.

"Shit, brother..." he sighed, stroked my cheek, "sure, yeah. I guess that's ok. If it's just this once. You deserve it, as a thank you for all you've done for me. Hell, I love you, man." He slurred with a smile and you laughed indulgently.

"Awe, I love you too, buddy," you teased back.

Once again, I wasn't asked, I wasn't consulted in the least bit. Somehow it made it easier for me to accept this was happening, if I went along and pretended I didn't have a choice, that I was his to give to you. It was as if we were in the medieval era and I was but some hapless wench in his kingdom he was giving to a trusted vassel.

Of course the fact that I too wanted this to happen certainly helped in convincing me along with the idea of being a tool, a toy, a possession my husband could freely give you increased the desire to take you didn't hamper things either.

"But," he said, finding a bit of sobriety to meet your eye. "I don't want to see. I can't watch that, man."

"All right. I can respect that. You're sure, then?" You asked my husband. He met your eyes and something passed between you two, an almost tangible trust that even I could feel built upon years of strong friendship and mutual respect.

In answer, my husband turned to me and searched my face. I tried to keep my face passive, to not reveal my shameful hunger for his friend, but the flush, I knew, was still high in my cheeks, my mouth slightly parted, panting in need. He traced a finger down my cheek acknowledging this, then caught my lip once more, before cupping my face and pulling me to him. His kiss was sloppy and wet, a kiss of a drunk man, not with his usual finesse, but he did what he intended to do, lay one last claim to me before releasing me to you.

After his kiss, he pulled my ear to his mouth, whispering words of encouragement. I won't tell you what those words were, they are for me, and me alone. I think of them sometimes when I fail at something and feel doubt in who I am and what I am capable of. I think of those words and know I can do anything as long as he believes in me, that he wants me to find my happiness in all things, even in the arms of his friend.

Even so, I sat by his side on the couch after those words, hesitant, reluctant to leave him and go to you. I felt shame, like I do now, amidst the lust that I had for you. I had never, before this night, thought of being with another man outside of my marriage. I had certainly never lusted after any of my husband's friends. I don't think I would have been able to do it all if it weren't for what my husband did next.

"All right then, I'm off to bed. The spare room ok?" he asked you.

"Yes, of course," you had the grace to smile gently, gratefully, hiding your eagerness despite the incessant hardness within your pants.

He stood then, wavering slightly on his feet, but more sober now than before, and turned to me. He pulled me to my feet, looked me deep in the eye and kissed me one last time. I felt his kiss pulling at the core of me, sealing me to him in love.

"Be safe and gentle, and give her back to me when you're through, all right?" he said, and you smiled, nodded your head.

I watched him disappear down the hall, listened to the door to the guest room close with a snap, and my heart thudded out of my chest. This was it, this was really going to happen. I was going to be fucked by my husband's best friend.

You pulled me from the room, I was a limp doll in your arms by then, a puddle of need. I felt a twinge of protest once again despite my husband's consent, a spark of shame for what I was about to do that combated with the flush of lust and slowed my feet as we fled down the dark hall. I think you sensed that reluctance looming because you pulled me to you, kissed me senseless, and picked me up in your arms, cradled me to your chest while you kissed my breath and doubts away.

In your room, once the door was closed, you became a different man. You became the man he warned me about, the womanizer, the seducer and user of women. You are the exact opposite of my sweet, gentle, kind and tender husband.

Your hands were everywhere, in my hair, down my back, unzipping my sun dress and letting it fall carelessly to the floor, and then tugging my panties down my thighs. My panties clung for a moment to my wet lips, and I blushed from embarrassment, my pale skin pinking even more somehow despite the fact that I was already suffused with lustful heat from head to toe.

But, as you soon showed me, there was no need for embarrassment, for you dropped to your knees and buried your face between my thighs. I took a step back and nearly fell to the floor with my feet all wrapped up in my dress and panties. You caught me with your strong hands, gripped my ass and steadied me as you burrowed deep into my slit.