A visit from her ex enters unexpected dimensions~
We had been in a band together during college, for a few years; he was the drummer, the sure, steady beat over which I played. We became lovers, fucking hotly after our practice sessions. One summer we had toured for a few months; he'd enticed me to fuck both our bandmates along the way. You had heard the stories before in our shared bed; you were a good listener, fascinated by my wilder past.
We hadn't seen each other for many years, had gone our separate ways, not too much to say. He happened to be coming to town for work for a couple weeks; a mutual friend had told him that I now lived here and he had tracked me down, curious about my new life. I invited him to join us for dinner Friday night.
It wasn't difficult to convince you to cook; you make a better housewife than I ever would. He had a wife and two kids now, the pictures were cute. I worried too much about whether you would like eachother; I wondered if there would still be a spark between us. you had similar concerns, unvoiced, not wanting to seem insecure.
I felt it immediately when I opened the door for him; not overwhelming but most definitely present. His smile was warm and affectionate, unassuming; my yoni started humming when he spoke my name. He smiled and handed me flowers, for the first time ever (married life had taught him a few new things), and a bottle of the petit noir we had favored back when.
I handed you the flowers and the bottle, sent you for a vase, corkscrew and glasses. I helped him take his coat off, wanting a reason to touch him. After I hung it he wrapped his arms around me and held me in a close embrace, my cheek on his chest. "You are as beautiful as ever," he breathed into my ear. We lingered until you returned from the kitchen, setting the wine and the bouquet on the coffee table.
We sat together on the sofa; I filled three glasses while you went to check dinner and bring out the appetizers. You took a seat in the cozy chair across from us, watching us intently, looking for signs, little to say. He asked innocent questions about our life together; I told of our meeting on a chartered sailing trip, recounted mundane details of our married life. You laughed at the right places, smiled and nodded, and were quick to top off our glasses, not your own.
You left to turn off the oven and his hand found my knee, casually intimate; his willingness shone in his eyes, and my pulse and breathing both responded, my nipples rising against the soft fleece of my sweater. He began to withdraw his hand as you rejoined us but I quickly covered it and held it in place with my own.
You said dinner was ready whenever we were; I wondered if you could sense how ready I was. He mentioned that he had some really good hash if we would like to indulge in some before we ate; you declined: "It's not my thing, just makes me sleepy," but encouraged me not to restrain myself on your account. You topped our glasses again, finishing the bottle, your first glass still half full, or perhaps half empty. We passed the small pipe back and forth a few times while you went to finish setting the table and plate us up.
Moving to the dining room; I put on some music, new things I'd found that I thought he'd enjoy. He complimented the sauce you'd made for the pasta, the perfectly moist flakiness of the grilled salmon. You deflected, ever the humble, gracious host. You asked him about the work that brought him here, about the family awaiting him at home; harmless topics. He was moving up in the corporate world, unexpected, and spoke glowingly of his kids, not much of the wife. He didn't seem unhappy but perhaps a bit restless; I'd never imagined him to be one to settle down. You offered to wash the dishes while we caught up.
We returned to the sofa and smoked more of his hash; you brought out a bottle of cognac and tumblers then returned to finish with the kitchen clean up. My position on the sofa incrementally shifted toward him as we reminisced about old friends, gigs we'd played, avoiding the memories that burned brightest in my mind, the way his mouth and his cock had reveled in me. When you returned, you didn't mention how close I had moved to him or our casual touches, but I could tell you noticed.
I asked if he had been involved in any music projects lately. He said he'd been working on a solo album for a couple years, but now that he could afford studio time he lacked free time. I recounted my previous season with a local choir, lamented drifting away from playing my guitar much; he told me I was depriving the world of splendor. Never musically inclined yourself, you listened well.
We laughed together, you joining in conspiratorially, steady counterpoint to my smoldering desire. He referenced an inside joke, a subtle innuendo, and I placed my hand on his chest, playfully pushing. As he caved to my pressure, leaning into the armrest, my momentum carried me forward into my fall. Suddenly I was upon him, like a predator, my hands exploring his firm muscles, my mouth frantically searching his out.
I was dimly aware of your presence, a secondary consideration to the raw lust that was fervently fountaining up within me. He offered no resistance, you no complaint. I straddled his thighs and pressed hard into him, our mouths working fiercely, devouring the distance that had accumulated between us over the years.
His hands slipped deftly under my sweater, molding around my small, sensitive breasts, pinching hard and tugging at my stiff nipples, remembering immediately what they wanted in ways you had not yet learned to touch them. A flush rose from my core to spread over my chest, I moaned into his mouth as my tongue explored and reclaimed this distantly familiar territory.
I was sweltering, stewing in forgotten sensations. I broke the kiss and swiftly removed my sweater, turning only the briefest glance in your direction as he caught a rigid nipple between his lips, unconcerned with the anxiety and judgement that I could clearly sense beneath your stoic mask, your mastery of perfected superficiality alien to the churning visceral tempest within me.
I centered my attention on my immediate desire, taking hold of his hand and guiding it under my skirt; it knew the trajectory, well practiced in past encounters, and his fingers slipped unhesitatingly into my panties to dabble in the engorged, glistening folds of my sex. I pulled his head tight to the breast he suckled intently as first one then two thick fingers plunged easily into the space that had been ours alone for years. I moaned his name as I turned to meet your gaze.
Your blank inaction encouraged me to drive forward, your unresponsiveness stoking my passions. Your eyes silently pleaded with me for normalcy while I fumbled to unbuckle his belt and unzip his fly, then nestled my hands around his firm, naked shaft. Neither you nor I had fully anticipated this scene, and while you struggled to maintain equanimity, I resolved to dismantle the stifling comfort of the placid rut our shared life had worn into my soul.
I slowly stroked this old and faithful companion, my fingers readily remembering its heft and rigor. Our gaze remained unwavering as I spoke my intention: "Darling, you can join in with us or you can leave, or just sit there and watch this unfold before you, but I am going to enjoy this to the fullest extent regardless of whatever decision you choose to make. Tonight I do not belong to you, but to myself alone."
