I pick you up. It's been fifteen years since we last saw each other; but in the last few months we've swapped photos. Spoken on the phone. Spent hours emailing explicit sex fantasies to one another. You get in the car. I kiss your cheek. It's rough with a three-day growth, but not unpleasant. I study your face, your eyes, your lips, your ears. You've changed so much yet you're still that boy who fucked me so tenderly when we were kids. It's as if we never lost touch.
We go for a drink. Surprisingly nice hotel in the middle of a seedy part of town. We grin stupidly at each other over the table. Make small talk. Bait each other. Out of the corner of my eye I catch you glancing at my body: my breasts, my legs. I'm making you nervous. You tell me I haven't lost my looks. That I'm still pretty. I grin even more.
I look at my watch. We don't have a lot of time. I'm chain-smoking your cigarettes. You're onto your second bloody mary. I put the hard word on you. There's a bathroom upstairs. You readjust the erection in your jeans. You ask me to pash you right there in the bar. I say no. You say please. Please please please. I give in. Your tongue is in my mouth, your hands around my waist, squeezing my breasts, pulling me to you roughly. I nod my head in the direction of the stairs. Let's go.
We lock the door behind us. (Where do you want me? Right here.) You press me up against a wall and kiss me again, thrusting your hips against my body. Any fears, any doubts, any nerves or anxiety or guilt I may have felt has vanished. This is right. You and me, doing what we did best. What we do best. I slip my hands up inside your shirt. I feel your stomach, your chest, pinch your nipples. I unbuckle your jeans and slide them down your hips. I feel your butt, cup your balls, caress your cock. It's the first one I've had in nearly a decade. We're both breathing hard. "Are you OK?" you whisper. I nod.
I roll on the condom with shaking hands. We try in a standing position but it's too awkward. I direct you to the toilet seat and I straddle you. You're in. I grab your shoulders and gasp as you pull my body toward you, onto you. My feet don't reach the floor; it's not working. I get off, push our discarded clothes out of the way and lie down on the tiles. You're quickly inside me and you go hard, your hips slapping against mine. I claw at your body and cry out over and over again, my eyes squeezed shut. Somehow, my right foot finds the doorway; my left, the wall; and I push my butt up off the floor to meet your thrusts. My head keeps bumping into the wall behind me and I ask you to shuffle back. I look up at your face and you're watching me as you're fucking me.
You slow down and pull out. I'm bewildered. "Did you come?" You shake your head. You pull off the condom and drop it into the bin, then stand over me, rubbing your cock. I understand. I take you in my mouth. It's beautiful, smooth and warm. You entwine your hands in my hair and thrust forward. "Do you like that?" you whisper. Yes, I do. I do indeed. I grab the base of your cock in my right hand, and with my left I feel your balls, your perineum, then creep my fingers up to that special place that excites you so much. If I had more time, I'd lube up and slip a finger inside you. I know you'd like that.
You're heading for the edge. "Do you want me to come?" you ask. I shake my head and pull off.
I ask you, "Do you want to fuck me up the ass?" You nod. "Where do you want me?"
You bend me over the sink. I guide you in. "Slow, slow, slow." It hurts. I forgot to bring lube. I hover, waiting for the sensation to pass. You wait patiently, poised. A few gentle thrusts and you're in. I gasp (oh god oh god oh god) and whimper, my face pressed against the vanity. My right hand is clutching the tap, the other the wall. You go hard. It feels so good. Your hands are all over me, on my butt, my hips, my breasts, in my cunt. I wish I could see your face. You urge me to come. I have my fingers down there working at myself but it's not going to happen.
I want you to come. You can't with the condom on. You pull it off and wank yourself to orgasm in front of me. I watch as it dribbles out; next time I'll let you come in my mouth. You don't make a sound but your face is covered in sweat.
You grab some toilet paper and mop up the cum from the floor. We dress quickly, I wash my hands and face, and we slink out of the bathroom and down the stairs. I have to go. I wish I could stay longer. Share another drink, a chat, maybe another pash, but I have to get home. I feel so bad.
I drive you home. I ask you, "Was I as you remember?" You shake your head in disbelief. "Better... I can't believe you took it up the ass on your first time." I reach out my left hand and clasp my fingers around yours. I'm worried that you feel as though I used you.
I drop you off. Kiss you on the cheek. You get out of the car and walk away without looking back. I feel a twinge of something - guilt, perhaps - and wish that it didn't have to be so rushed. But I don't regret a minute of it. You have no idea the favour you have just done me. Thank you. I owe you.
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