The evening is fun but tension-filled. Your invitation for dinner and a movie at your apartment was not surprising -- it has been a familiar gambit between us for the last couple of months. I was surprised, however, when I arrived to discover you already had a visitor; a friend from "out-of-town." You lightly hold his arm even while you kiss my cheek hello. We chat inconsequentially until dinner arrives, which I eat without tasting. You are subtle, but we've shared too much for me not to feel an undercurrent of sensuality in the way you move, in the glint in your eye. You have something planned.
I sit in the arm chair closest to the TV while you and your friend lounge on the couch slightly behind me. The flickering light of the screen sends shadows chasing across the darkened room while I pay no heed to Japan's latest cinematic effort. I am worried that is only my hyperactive imagination creating that certain "energy" in the room, and it takes every bit of restraint I can muster to not turn around to see if my suspicions are justified.
The movie ends, the credits roll, and the screen goes dark. I should yawn and stretch loudly. Someone should ask me if I liked the movie. I should start my good-nights. But no one says a word. In the sudden silence the whoosh of a passing car on the street outside is startlingly loud, and I realize that I have been straining to tune out the movie for the last hour. I have put everything I can into listening for any small sounds from behind me; a rustle of clothing or the creak of weight being shifted on the sofa -- whispers, murmurs, sighs, anything. My world shrinks to my sense of hearing as I tune everything else out.
There! That's the sound I've been waiting for! It's almost inaudible -- the small whisper of fabric moving followed by a small, sharp intake of breath. Without moving, I make myself smaller, minimizing my presence in the room in case I am right. In the darkness I sharpen my focus on the couch, creating a mental picture without turning around.
During the movie you must have moved closer to your friend. You are now lying on the couch, leaning back against him, your head on his chest and your legs pulled up under you . One of his arms is stroking your hair gently while the other... I strain my ears even further. Oh God, yes ... that is unmistakably the sound of one of your blouse buttons being undone! I quiet my breathing over a suddenly thudding heart.
New sounds come to me over the ever present sounds of the city outside: the breaking of a soft kiss, maybe? Another small gasp? A slight shifting of someone's position? I am painfully aware of how swollen I've become as the aural clues I hear suggest your head tilted up, his lips, mouth and tongue playing over yours, his hand sliding inside your blouse to caress or fondle your breasts, or maybe just to crush them cruelly. My own hands burn with the remembered weight of your breasts; the hardness of your nipples as you beg me to be rough with them. I can taste your laughing kisses on my own lips.
I am frozen in place now -- the night is now endless and eternal; a timeless bubble of stolen sounds and imagination, teasing and arousing me. I don't know how long I am lost like this, perhaps a minute, perhaps a lifetime. But out of the darkness an unmistakable noise pulls me back to the now. My heart stops. Faint though it is, I distinctly hear the halting purr of a zipper being undone. What was arousal before become pale in comparison to the feelings that surge through my body now. There is less subtlety now -- someone shifts and there is the a low murmured exchange. I cannot make out the words but the passion is clear. I hear you whisper, then sigh. I don't need to hear the next gentle, damp sounds to know that his hand is now in your jeans; in your panties, and your legs are open to him. I have a flash of irrational jealousy -- I don't know what color panties you are wearing and now he does. It's silly and it passes quickly as the whisper of fabric becomes rhythmic, and your breathing grows heavier. Now it is clear when his kisses cover your mouth and when they cover your face and neck. I hear you whimper, once; a hungry, plaintive sound of desire.
I burn. My face is flushed and hot, and my cock strains at the fabric of my trousers. Silently I slide out of the chair and move into a dark hallway. I feel blindly for the entrance to the bathroom and slip inside without turning on the light, closing the door behind me. I turn on the cold water in the sink, and sit down on the edge of the tub, resting my head on the cool of the counter top until the trembling stops. In my imagination I see his fingers sliding through the swollen wetness of your lips, teasing them apart, sliding around and over your clit, over the opening of your pussy, sliding inside of your warmth. I feel the heat of your arousal trickling over his fingers as your body responds to our touch. I feel your arms around my neck pulling me into a savage kiss as he explores you; feel my cock respond to your arousal.
I find myself at the door of the bathroom, ever so gently turning the handle and opening it with the greatest of care. Noiselessly I glide into the hall, pulling the door mostly closed behind me. I haven't turned off the faucet; and I should feel ashamed at this cheap subterfuge, but I don't. Instead, I am breathlessly exhilarated as I let my eyes adjust to the dim light trickling into the living room.
He is kneeling in front of you as you lean back on the couch. A crumpled stain on the floor is all I can imagine of your jeans in the darkness. Your legs are draped over his shoulders and your feet, still wearing your signature ankle socks, rest on the edge of the coffee table, where your lace panties lie discarded next to your forgotten wine glass. With an internal smile I note that they're white. Your head is tilted back, your eyes closed, and as your blouse is completely unbuttoned, I can just see the creamy whiteness of a breast pouring out over one cup of your bra. His head moves gently as he tastes you, his hands under your ass. I imagine his fingers, already well-lubricated with your pleasure, sliding into the tabooed opening they find there. Your fingers alternately rake his shoulders, or push him down more firmly on you. He apparently knows your body well, and soon you are shaking and sobbing his name out loud, over and over. When you come I see the flash of your teeth as you bite your lower lip and arch your hips into his mouth once; twice, three times, then collapse back onto the couch panting.
As he stands, his back still to me, I hear you both speaking softly. His trousers slide to the ground and he steps out of them. You don't resist as he gently, but insistently, turns you over so you are kneeling on the seat of the sofa, your arms resting on its back. I know the second that he enters you from the sudden lines of tension in his back and in his buttocks. From the tilt of his head I know he is watching in the dim light as he slips his hardness inside your swollen pussy lips. I can see your sex in my own head; your dampness glistening on your cunt in the faint light; sparkling in the trim patch of hair you allow to remain. I can feel the head of my engorged cock parting your lips, every fiber of my being hungry to bury myself inside of you. I am only barely aware that I have pulled my erection out of my trousers and am touching myself.
