Tonight

I wonder if you know that I’m going to fuck you tonight?

I wonder if your fingers danced between your legs when you awoke this morning, in dreamy anticipation? How often you’ve been thinking, remembering those times we came so close, without ever consummating our friendship in the way we both inevitably wanted? Needed.

Fifteen years of laughter, caring and deep, deep friendship. In each of our too-regular moments of crisis, the only friend at the end of each other’s phones, to talk to, to cry to. Yet never anything more.

Always restrained. Always scared, perhaps, that we might break the magic?

Remember those giddy spring university afternoons, flicking daisies at one another as we lay in Hyde Park?

That evening after Susan and Matt’s party: the others had gone to some ‘in’ club. Neither of us ‘did’ ‘in’ clubs – at least not when we were honest with ourselves, in a way we weren’t always with the others. The two of us laughing as we picked up those cheap standby seats at the theatre. Drinking not-quite-as-cheap-as-it-should-have-been red wine afterwards, curled up next to one another on the creaky old bed in my final-year apartment; sleeping, cuddling. Clothed.

Or that night at Sam’s so-posh wedding, some years later. The in-crowd posing for the photographer – or was it for each other? The two of us sitting slightly, happily drunk on a bench, sheltered from their view; my dinner jacketed-arm cradling your cocktail-dressed shoulders as we sat, talked, planned, worried, shared, understood, helped.

We could have done more. So much more.

Scared that we might have broken the magic?

The film in my mind leaps forwards. To four years ago. Five, maybe. After our respective then-partners had each headed to bed, following a long and slightly fractious evening. Next to one another, your head resting on my shoulder, neither daring to think what we were both thinking. I can still remember the scent you were wearing.

Scared lest we did the wrong thing? Frightened of what we might unleash were we to do the right thing?

And now…? Both older, perhaps wiser. (Maybe not!). Your series of mistakes, inappropriate matches. The kind, cool wits turned total…..

My newfound freedom, happiness, self-belief.

And a hotel room booked for this evening in a remote Yorkshire valley. “Discreet, comfortable, romantic”, according to the brochure. Exactly. Perfect.

We’ve giggled on the phone. Teased, joked. Our e-mail flirting would have made any eavesdropper grin. Or blush.

I’ve spent so long trying to picture the look that will flash across your face as we make that first physical contact. Brushing against one another for a moment too long? A hug? A gentle, relaxing neck rub? A softly-murmured “That feels good” met by a quizzical “Well, we don’t have to stop?” Emphasis on the question mark.

Stroking, caressing. Hands sliding over places long-desired. Wordlessly answering the question together.

Murmured interrogations: “Is this really sensible?”, “I didn’t realise…” Yet we both did. Or at least, we both have. Realised. At last.

Then the first kiss. Wet, passionate, deep. Long. Longing.

Exploring, hands fumbling under clothes, like frantic teenagers. Like the teenagers who should have taken one another’s hints, years ago, on those lazy hot summer days. Yet we both understand that our passion now will be so much better than that of youngsters’ selfish and too-speedy fumblings.

We pull each other to our feet, still tasting each other, daring to live the dream. We tear off clothes.

Your small, pale breasts even more perfect than in my dreams. Nipples hard, you moan to the touch of my tongue, circling, arousing, my mouth enveloping you as my fingers touch elsewhere, your head thrown back, long hair falling free.

Hand in panties, hand in shorts. Mutual exploration.

So wet. So hard.

We’re laughing, smiles so broad, bodies exhilarated by the long-forbidden touch.

I push you gently back onto the sofa. Slide down, kissing, relishing your sweet skin. My fingers entwine in the frail white fabric that protects your nudity. Fingers descending, your hips moving up to meet me.

Lips against your inner thighs, now. Hands everywhere. Groans, cries, shivers. I open you, wanting your clit.

Kneeling, licking. Circling, darting with my tongue. You’re noisy, responsive, rude, demanding.

You want me to fuck you, you tell me. I keep kissing.

To screw you now.

I suck your sex into my mouth.

Fuck me. Please.

Well, if you insist. I smile, scrambling amongst the debris of our garments to find my wallet and extract that carefully-stashed condom. You sit up, forward, legs apart and around me. You pull down my shorts, eyes widening, satisfied, taking the rubber from me. Your mouth envelopes me, quick, hungry, eager, as you slide it down. Prime me for action. You’re good. Very good. I close my eyes and purr. And then open them, and look you in the eyes, seeing you sparkle, and lay you back down.

You stretch out, alluringly, along the cushions.

Rubbing my prick over you, up and down. Teasing slowly, purposefully. More gasps. We pause, and smile at each other: a final check, for those wasted years.

I sink in. Deep. Smile. Kiss you hard. And we fuck.

Oh how we fuck. Fifteen years of pent-up fucking. Fucking gently. Fucking rudely. Wet and hard, hard and wet. You underneath – how conventional. How good.

I wonder? I grasped your wrists tightly and force them back, taking you harder. You stretch backwards, softly call me ‘sir’. I like that. I note it, for future use. Or abuse.

I turn you over. Head buried, hips in the air. So open. Fingers group then probe; yelps and satisfied murmurs. And I kneel behind and take you again. Deep inside. Screwing you. Doing you. You shudder, call out my name.

My hand now underneath you as I drive in, touching and stimulating. A finger, wet, probing other, more secret entrances; but not this time.

And then I roll you over under me once more. Hold you close. Kissing, caressing like those teenage wannabees, moving and sliding slowly and gently, stroking, we bring each other close, close, so close.

And then it’s over.

But it isn’t. Not over in terms of holding, talking, reminiscing, laughing, delighting in our shared bravery. Not over in terms of exploring – reasons, preferences, experiences. Fantasies.

Was it coincidence that you craved, needed spanking? Had you known my secret for all of these years? Or was it part of our mutual attraction all along? Your blush as you tell me: ‘admit it’, as you put it. Not that it needed an ‘admission’, with all that implies about guilt. An acknowledgement, perhaps. A revelation that you want, need to be lectured, put over my knee, and spanked until you beg for forgiveness. To hear my belt slide out, and holler in pain as it marks your soft skin…

—

I park the car in front of the hotel. You’ve already arrived, I see with a smile, noticing your smart little convertible.

I wonder if you know that I’m going to make love to you tonight?