You and Me

“Mm-hmm?”

I mean, who answers their front door like that? Like: “What have you got to say for yourself?”

Only someone whose smiley eyes and massive pout are more feline than aloof. Only someone who, right now, gnaws the inside of her cheek as if to hold back from bursting into song. Only you.

I’m pinned by your gaze on the doorstep, like you’re waiting for an answer. I hope my intentions don’t leak onto my face.

You and I have been ‘together’ for just one week, exactly, today — if you can call a declaration, a pint and a corny, delicious, kiss in the rain, ‘together’–but we haven’t sealed the deal, yet. We’re both still with other people and have promised not to tear each other’s kit off until we’ve properly broken up with our existing partners. We owe them that, and somehow, waiting to consummate makes our relationship seem more considered and less of a sordid fling. However, it’s 11am on a Friday in October and I’ve sneaked off work to visit you on your day off, and when you let me in and skip up the stairs to your flat, the bounce of your be-jeaned and bedazzling bum leaves me weak.

Even more difficult to resist is the part of me that’s certain we’ll be together for the rest of our lives. The part of me that knows without a shred of doubt I love you. It says, “What are you waiting for? Come on, let’s make the future!”

You stop suddenly to hug me on the stairs, up on tiptoe, even though we’re on different steps. After just a few days, albeit with plenty of practice hugging and snogging in the lifts, your firm curves seem to fit easily against me. I refrain from squeezing your bottom, and hope my hard-on isn’t too obvious against your stomach. When you pull away, your body leaves an imprint of itself on my front, and your discrete — no doubt deliberate — lack of a kiss creates another longing on my lips. You offer tea, at least.

We sit in your lounge, side by side on the couch. It’s chilly and the hot mug warms my hands and, I hope, will stop them trembling. You’re sat into the corner of the sofa, facing me, with a foot up on the seat. You’re dressed in jeans and a tight wool top and your hands don’t seem to shake. I admire your cool, despite the dangerous aura of cheekiness radiating off you.

I’m drunk on my luck. A chorus of jealous men sing in my head: A work-colleague who calls you “The French Sex-kitten”. A sweaty, smirking client who refers to you only as “Head Girl”. The scaffolder who, every time you cycled past him, bellowed, “Lucky saddle!” and who, when you pointed him out, was the first guy I punched since high school.

You sip your tea and I’m jealous of your mug and somehow you seem aware of that. You clear your throat. “What did you tell the orifice?”

Your nickname for our office always makes me chortle. I choke on tea. “Dentist.”

“Clever.”

Big glassy eyes flick about my face, as if to draw out more, but I don’t have it. Only half my brain is engaged because the rest is screaming.

Gradually, you tease me out and we talk. About how great it feels, finally finding each other. About why it took so long when we’d worked side by side for years. About this not being a fling. About going on a weekend break. Where we might live together. We even discuss kids–a big deal because our existing partners don’t want them and we’re in our thirties.

It’s as if we’re back in the orifice, in a meeting, scheming the perfect lives of perfect characters in a perfect story. I even tell you that I can’t believe my luck and that I’m sure you’ll find me very dull because I don’t go out much, and am just as happy in front of the telly on a Saturday night. You seem relieved to hear this, excited even. You really are my dream girl. As dull as I am, I cannot disinterest you.

However, we’re dancing around the real issue. The need to fuck crackles in the space between us. Ecstatic sex-static. Your physical presence tugs at my midriff like a new kind of gravity. You must sense my tension, because you scooch up beside me. You give me a little shoulder shove.

That’s all it takes. I put my arm round you, and kiss you.

You have a plucking, nibbling type of paddy kiss. It’s addictive, and I give into it like the you-junkie that I am. Your mouth opens. You sigh and I want to cheer. The slip of our tongues reminds me of the song: “Danger! Danger! High voltage! When we touch! When we kiss!”

“We shouldn’t,” I say.

“A little snog is ok,” you say.

“But it’s getting me madly hard.”

“I’m afraid that’s your problem.” You ponder my lap. You press a hand to the front of my jeans. I flex against your palm. “Mm-hmm…” I swear you can make that mean anything. It’s like a cat’s meow. You squeeze the outline of my pent-up member. “I quite like that,” you say, quietly, like it doesn’t count as betrayal if whispered.

When you look up at me, your eyes suddenly fill the room. We kiss again, and there’s need in it this time. My head whirls. You’re up on your knees, arms around my neck.

“Fuck,” I say, intelligently.

You giggle, swing a knee across my lap and, knelt over it, stoop another kiss down to me. I’m being fed upon, trapped between your mouth and between your legs. I love it. I give in, grab your buttocks and you settle you on my hips. You push down on my hardness. I push up against your softness.

“I could have a cheeky grind.” You wriggle. Your bottom half seems unconnected to your top half. “That doesn’t count does it? We still have our clothes on.”

“A perfectly normal, everyday thing to do,” I say. “I do it on the bus.”

You shove your fat tongue in my mouth.

My official girlfriend is a serious soul. She’s never come. Not once in her entire life, not even on her own, and is perfectly happy with that. She considers sex “weak and weirdly immature.” I’ve spent three years believing I’m the actual worst lover in the world. Shit, I probably am. So, as you rock on the rock-hard lump in my jeans, humming in my kiss, I feel like I might faint with desire and joy. You gyrate, find just the spot, and then you can’t control yourself enough to kiss, resting your forehead on mine, lightly panting. I squeeze your bum and push up at you and believe this is helping you get off, even though I’m just really enjoying the hungry chew of your hips.

You burst into a series of sweet snorts and then flop on me, tittering. The first orgasm I’ve witnessed in years, other than my own. I gulp, dead proud of the achievement, even though I had little to do with your climax other than providing lumps.

So you’re slinky and done and I’m pulsing in my shorts. Then you sheepishly cut me a glance and I realise — in the blush of your cheeks and the flame in your eyes — that you’ve only just started.

You tumble off my lap, back into your seat, tucking dishevelled strands of your tawny bob behind your ears. “Thanks, I needed that.” You take a slug of tea.

Unacceptable. My hard-on forces me up off my seat like the puppet master it is and shoves my mouth to yours. Our tongues are like little puppets, too. Dancing in a secret show, naked and loving each other up.

My hand slips under your top, strokes your back. Rough on smooth. You growl. “Too nice.”

“Take off your clothes,” I hardly say. Lips to ear, it’s just a breath, escaping like steam.

You falter. Stiffen. “Not here.”

In a blink we’re in your room.

Your bedroom: A mattress on the floor, and an old chest of drawers and lots of neat piles of stuff in dead straight lines. Your curtains are repurposed ethnic throws, nailed at the top and knotted in the middle, and you unknot them, dimming the room to a few dusty beams of sun. I yank off my boots and socks, watching you make the room private. The thought that you’re doing this so you can strip for me shoves my cock at my clothing.

We kiss and I grasp at your clothes, self-consciously, as if we’re in a movie. You step out of my embrace to make me watch you. You’re wearing, and then not wearing, a thin turquoise cardigan and underneath a matching t-shirt. I kiss your naked belly when you pull the t-shirt off over your head. Your skin is smooth and creamy, and very warm on my lips. I trace the soft crest of your ribs while you unfasten and remove your bra. Kiss a perky breast.

Annoyingly, you get the giggles when I try to play with the first secret parts of you I’ve seen. Your tits are so inviting, with delicate pink nipples, it seems a crime to leave them un-adored.

Barred from bare boobs, I kiss your neck, enjoying your soft, pale toplessness against my thick black shirt as you tug at it. But I’m self-conscious about my weight and — even though I’m certain you won’t care, that this is my own vanity — I don’t want to make a bad first impression, with my belly hanging over my belt. So I take my jeans off for you instead.

I reckon you just think me keen, and your hands are at the lump in my underwear the instant I kick my jeans away. Your grip tests my hardness, but also my strength because I want to come there and then. I pull off my shirt, suck in my stomach, and hold you.

The first time our bodies touch skin on skin makes us sigh and then laugh like idiots. Your nipples are knots against my ribs. Our hands explore naked backs and our lips each other’s necks. You squeeze my arms and my shoulders and say, “My very own Hulk!” I react like that’s a joke, but you’re so convincing that I really do feel Hulkish. Suddenly I want to chuck out all my mirrors and see myself through your admiring eye forever.

“We’ll tell the others later, won’t we?” You push me back. “Promise.”

I nod but your reminder stings. We’re betraying two people right now. Still, our touches — though new — have such a sense of familiarity about them, that I’m certain they prove you’re the love of my life. So this is natural and good. It’s our existing relationships that are wrong. My girlfriend calls me her “butler”. Your boyfriend calls you his “sex doll”.

And now we’re both half-dressed, and committed to stripping entirely, I’ve another worry: What if the sex is awful? My lacklustre relationship surely proves I’m crap in bed. My girlfriend calls me an oral perve. You told me your boyfriend was a great in bed but shitty out of it. What if you’re disappointed by me? Disgusted even? Next to your prim beauty I’m lumpen and basic. An elf with a caveman.

But even though these doubts grind my gears, my hips still rock at yours, and my Hulkish cock clamours to burst out of its cage and rampage inside you. Every bit of me is desperate to please every bit of you.

My cock must control you too, because you unfasten your jeans and wriggle them down your legs. Just what it wanted. I drop behind you so I can watch your buttocks pop out. You have, bar none, the world’s roundest, pertest bottom. You push it out to me, yank down the back of your knickers and jiggle. You indulge me in my cooing and squeezing and kissing, even though I’m probably enjoying it much more than you. Your skin is so soft I can hardly feel it even against my lips.

You turn to face me and your gusset is suddenly right there, in front of my face. I can’t believe it. After years of adoring you across the office, here I am, knelt at your feet while you push your still-knickered hips toward me, offering your most secret gift for me to unwrap.

My heart pounds at my ribs and for a moment I just can’t do it. Don’t ask me why. I press my thumb to your damp-bloomed cotton, relishing the plushiness of it. My dry mouth waters. You shiver.

At last, I peel your panties down over your hips, down your thighs, to your knees. I tease myself, sit back and regard you from your feet first as you kick your knickers away. You have very cute toes and strong ankles. Strong cyclist’s legs. Round and muscular with dimples for knees.

I want to kiss your legs, would that be weird? I do it anyway. You giggle and call me a loon. I have already told you I admire your legs, but you never believe me, you wish they were longer and slimmer. I prove my admiration anyway, with my lips and a rumble in the floorboards that turns out to be my own growl.

Oh but there, in between. There.

If I wasn’t on my knees already I would have dropped to them. Your sex is more florid and puffier than I ever dared imagine. And I’ve dared to imagine it a lot. You watch our reflection in your dressing mirror. I’m knelt at your feet like a shovel-jawed primitive in front of his queen. Your hands knead your buttocks behind you, uncomfortable with my scrutiny, itching to cover yourself. I like your discomfort. I think you do to. This moment will stay with us the rest of our lives, why rush it?

I reach behind you, grip your naked bum cheeks, and all but heft you toward me. I nuzzle a kiss to the yielding, intimate skin under your caramel fluff. A warm aroma of musky soap. Your lips give me a little stringing kiss of moisture. You taste of the sea.

“That makes my tummy flip,” you say. So I do it again, focussing on your fat clit. You catch your breath. I open my mouth to taste more of you but you pull me up, and settle to your own knees.

You pull out the waist of my underwear and peer inside. My cock pops out and nods happily under your smirk–which on your supersized mouth is bigger than my (ex) girlfriend’s broadest grin. Now I know how exposed you felt, as you remove my boxers and eye me up. Inches from your face, my familiar, veiny, blunt brute is shocking next to your smooth prettiness. I hope I’m clean enough. I spent ages scrubbing this morning, even though we weren’t supposed to go this far today. Suddenly your pillowy lips seem dangerous.

“Lovely big balls,” you say, cupping them, and I think that means you’re disappointed with my cock. I wish it were bigger for you, thicker. Even though you seem enraptured by it, stroking and squeezing while it nudges back at you for more.

I couldn’t be harder, at least. You flick your eyes between my face and hard-on, deadly serious. You seem to know what your exploration is doing to me, and like the power. You brush your cheek along my length, and whisper, “Oh God, at last.” Then it’s like I’m not even in the room. It’s just you and it. Suddenly the lips I’ve gawped at surreptitiously while you’re on the phone, or bored during meetings, the lips that greet clients with a polite smile, nestle my cock.

I must groan because you grin. You pull back my foreskin, un-sheath me, and press more plump kisses to my hypersensitive underside. I fight the urge to blub with happiness. I lock my knees, dizzy, even before you dab the soft, wet pad of your tongue to me.

You laugh at my curses and run your tongue all over me, your breath rolling down my length.

“I need to do you,” I blurt.

“I’ve come.” Lick. Kiss. “I owe you one.”

You don’t owe me, you own me. I clench hard at the warning spasms behind my balls as you watch me in two fists and with a slow, firm grip pull a bead of pre-come to my tip. “Yes…” You sigh. “God look at that.” You drop your mouth over my taut bulb with a long hum that vibrates right through me and out of my own mouth.

I can’t take it; I cup your cheeks and hold you still. “I’ll do you first.”

You pull off me, flushed, and flick a frown at my (your) club. You squirm, sparkle and then grab my hand. You press it to your inner thigh. “You’re doing me already.”

Your skin is slick with arousal almost to your knee.

“Fucksake.”

You cackle and suck me into you. I shudder, and pick you up.

I will take the sensation of your nakedness in my arms to the grave. Your bottom in my hands, your neck to my lips, and my cock flexing at your belly. That’ll be my heaven.

Our hands ping back to each other’s bits like they’re attached by elastic. My fingers cheek their way under your bum to stir the impossible squishiness between your thighs.

You purr against my chest. Your approval has me giggling like a schoolboy. I savour your fleshy wetness, hoping you feel the same delight at my rigidity as it bucks in your palm. I slide a finger into you and you whimper and your knees wobble.

We aren’t in any hurry. Something about your bedroom, the orderliness I admire, is reflected in our first-lovemaking.

We could be groping each other, rolling all over the bed, ramming our mouths together, humping and romping. But we’re not. I feel a kinship with you in the calm, one-thing-at-time orderliness of our sex. Nice, organised piles of kiss, grind, strip, fondle, lick. I’ve worked with you long enough to know we share a desire for tidiness and calm. It’s only then that everything can be properly appreciated.

I kiss beneath your earlobe. Work at your clit and hole. You must feel my heart hammering against your cheek. You melt, your breath ragged. I take your weight.

“Lick me,” you say. And there is no sexier order than that. I point to your bed with glossy fingers.

“Mm-hmm.” You lie on your back, grip behind your knees, and pull them back and apart.

“Like this?” You bite back a smile of knowing that of course… exactly like that. I guess I have a look of pained lust on my face. I swallow. Your toes wriggle as you laugh at me again.

We make some silly banter about tasty spreads and buffets. Anything to get us past the fact this is a very unusual and explicit situation. It’s all so deliciously, awkwardly new to us. I let you squirm again for a moment while I enjoy the sight of your indecent splay. I settle between your thighs. Your juices loop between thigh and vulva, which is glistening already. Even more juice rolls out and gutters between your buttocks.

“Oh stop!” You wave your feet in irritation, not something I’ve ever seen anyone do before. “Do me!”

I kiss your clit, you catch a breath, and then I’m lost. All turns to warm, slippery tongue plunge and buttery wriggle. I try to control myself, do all the things I think you’ll like. I flicker my tongue at your nub. Rub it. Suck it. Curl a finger inside. I’m probably enjoying it as much as you. You once let slip that your boyfriend was a good shag but hated going down on you, so it’s sweet that you seek proof of my excitement now. “You hard?”

“Mm-hmm.” Me, on your clit.

“Show me.”

I present my scaffold to your narrowed eyes. You slide a foot down to monitor, and play with my erection while I work.

What with your toes fidgeting on my cock and your soggy marshmallow in my mouth. I have to hold back with all my strength. There is a primal, illicit thrill in drinking you, too, and you taste great, spilling over my tongue while you tip your hips at my mouth. You even look great, spreading your labia, pulling the hood off your clit, and curling down to watch me lick you, muttering breathily, “F-fuck…”

I want to spend the afternoon down here. But when I lift you by your buttocks to my mouth, suck your clit like a nipple and patter it with the tip of my tongue, you delightfully/frustratingly puff three long breaths, and yammer — with startling bluntness — “My cunt’s coming! My cunt’s coming!” You pulse at my lips, wriggle, then arch as if struck by lightning and burst into falsetto squeals of laughter.

You shove me away and cover yourself. “Stop-stop-stop!”

You can’t even touch your pussy. It spasms under hovering, trembling hands.

I am king-cock of the world. I wipe my chin and grin at you while you slink all post-orgasmic below me. There is nothing on earth more wondrous than the sight of you, right now. As you recover, you regard my ready-to-burst erection with big, sleepy eyes and languidly roll over to get something from beside your bed.

The condom you give me is not the type I’m used to. It fits too tight and feels too flimsy. My condoms are super-thick, super-safe ones my girlfriend buys in bulk. I get a pang of guilt as I roll it on. These weren’t bought for me. To your old boyfriend, they’re familiar, maybe even exciting. His heart would break, watching me now, squeezing into one of his sheaths, preparing not to just fuck his girlfriend, but worse, to make love with her.