Andrew Woodrow is a stranger to everyone. To his friends and to his family alike; in his nature and his passions. He is the quiet type and speaks little about his hopes, dreams or ambitions. As a student he is perfect; as a companion... well, not so much.
I only understand this now. We're best friends, you see. We talk about shit every day, laugh every day, complain about people we can't stand and the course we both find difficult; me more so than him. It's changed though. We're friends, which people can see -- but they also know something's deeper than that. We don't make it obvious -- as a matter of fact, we don't even hold hands. But, despite all of this, they would never guess how far we've gone.
We are best friends, and we are fucking.
It isn't flowers and roses fucking, either. Andrew was a virgin before me, but he was far from innocent. I had gone through the relationship blues for a while, whilst knowing him. I was with a man who I could never be satisfied by but for some reason, kept holding on to. Living next to him, being forever in his company, however, awoke something in me which I thought had been dormant for a long time.
I didn't understand it at first. On the outside, he's perfectly normal. Cute, yes -- but not extraordinary. Slim, with brooding blue eyes and a posture to match. But one thing he does have is a handsome mouth. I wanted to feel it on my skin and I didn't know why.
I told him all of this right after I let go of what I'd been holding on to. I told him everything and cried a little. His face was blank, expressionless. He told me that we were friends and could never be more. He said it bluntly, whilst lying next to me on my bed, his lips inches from mine; his breath whispering pain. Oh, it hurt. It hurt a lot.
It also turned me on.
He gave before I did and kissed me, his tongue clumsy. By the end of the night, it was pliant and experienced; giving and taking pleasure masterfully with mine. We fucked hard, to old style rock and roll records, my legs around him as I pushed him in deeper.
After then, I did understand my attraction to him, but also realised how vain I was in thinking it would be so easy. He was not handsome; but he was... Something. Something, as I came to understand it, isn't a thing you can acquire -- you're born with it. The ugliest people and the most attractive people in the world both have it, and the results are all the same. The Something they all have, like the Something Andrew has, is that they are all truly, toe-curlingly fuckable.
Afterwards, we lay for several hours thinking about what we'd done. It had been a while and the ache afterwards, reminding me that he'd been inside me, made me insatiable and I played with myself repeatedly as he dozed. I wasn't one for meaningless sex and the experience felt strange to me. The meaning was still there on my side and I understood that -- but it didn't stop it from being the hottest thing I'd done for a long time. We were in my room, away from prying eyes. Nobody knew, nobody would know. It was our secret world; mine and his, for nobody else but us. He woke, his messy blonde hair strewn over the pillow and matted slightly to his forehead. I kissed it and we fucked again, my teeth buried in his shoulder.
So it began the facade between me, him and the people we knew. Sneaking and fucking, sneaking and fucking; pulling hard when people weren't looking, repeat. It wasn't just good or fulfilling; it was something we'd both needed for a long time and had known was going to happen for a long time and was better than we'd ever hoped it to be. We were horny and we were shameless and we loved it. Still love it.
One night, two weeks after we started, I asked him what he liked.
He didn't understand me at first.
"What do you mean?"
I toyed with the hairs below his belly button, swirling them. I felt shy and I didn't know why, all of a sudden. After all, we were naked as the day we were born on the floor of my room. He was still panting, his hand across me, holding me to him. I trailed kisses from his shoulder to his earlobe. I nipped gently and he groaned.
"Well, what are you into? Come on, you can tell me. Who knows, you might even get lucky."
He laughed, running his hand through his mussed hair.
"Becky, you'll think it's retarded. Honestly, fucking you is more than enough."
In response, I bit his ear again.
"Ow!"
"Maybe it's not enough for me," I replied, coyly. "Tell me."
He rolled his eyes, but he couldn't stop his smile broadening.
"Get some stockings," he replied, kissing my head, "and I'll show you."
I didn't feel ashamed buying them. I always used to blush a little if I bought condoms or lube or anything to let the cashier knew what I was getting up to. I hated the prying, judgemental eyes. Slag, easy, whore. Yes I'm fucking -- so what? Aren't you? It's more open than it used to be, sure -- but being an adult seems to be today's big taboo.
I loved breaking it that day. I went up to the counter with my holdups -- grey and sheer, topped with black lace -- and the woman blinked, smiling that fake smile that companies tell you to give.
"Costume party, then?" She asked, sugary sweet as she gave me the bag and my change.
"No, for the guy I'm fucking," I replied smoothly, enjoying hearing her splutters as I left the shop, gear in hand.
I couldn't wait to put them on. The anticipation was killing me. I pulled them up over my legs and went into the kitchen as normal, big smile on my face which I'd have felt stupid for having if I hadn't been alone. As with the majority of most Saturdays in university, my flatmates came in sporadically; one at time as I was cooking spag bol. It amazed me how normal everything was when I spoke to the others, when I could feel the sheer nylon caressing my legs, tops gripping and riding my thighs beneath my casual linen trousers. I was grinding my teeth together between speech when Andy finally came back from his cycle.
He looked at me.
He looked at my feet.
I hadn't worn slippers on purpose. The others wouldn't notice, but I knew he would. I could feel his frustration from here and that feeling was God. I loved the fact that he'd have to sit down with everyone and talk perfectly normally, knowing that I was wearing them. That he'd have to wait for me, writhing, whilst he waited for the others to leave. He'd chosen this night for a reason. The others were going out for a movie and then town, so were dressed up to the 'half' nines as they ate the dinner I'd made. They'd be another hour getting ready. It wasn't a question of whether he was going to fuck me -- it was a question of waiting to fuck me. We had coursework to do that was due Monday; a nice, simple alibi.
I left for the bathroom about halfway through. He muttered some excuse a few seconds later and followed me. I didn't get to shut the door behind me before he pushed his way in, and then my body was up against the wall.
"Andy --"
He cut me off; his tongue penetrating rudely, smothering my words. His hands brushed up my thighs; feeling them underneath. He pinched the top of one of them, snapping it between his fingers -- his groan muffled by our contact. I could feel him pushing into me, his cock hard and willing, but yet so far from achieving satisfaction.
"I want you," he murmured, his hand slipping between my legs. "I can feel you through here. Oh Becky --"
I licked my lips at his taste. Underneath a heady Italian musk, I tasted his want. I loved it, the darkness in it; so unlike what I'd first thought of him. He smelt like sweat and man, from his earlier cycling.
