She looked the same. Well, not exactly; the same body with, apparently, supernatural tits and an improbably small waist above a heart stopping ass, and her skin was miraculous. But there were fine lines at the corners of her eyes, and she was dressed far more sensibly than he remembered. But who looked the same? He was beginning to grey and, worse, his hair was thinning. He had weathered. But he’d quit smoking and gotten into shape (mid-life crisis put to good use), which made him just barely confident enough to deal with her. Mostly, he thought, her edges weren’t so sharp, she had become softer. She’d been more than a little crazy; emotional, demanding, and my god, all the crying. Wild sex made it worth it the constant turmoil. He wondered if this sweeter, even-tempered, sane woman had made it into her bedroom. He hoped not.
But here is the question: why, in the name of all that is holy, did his wife friend her? What was she thinking? Keeping an eye on her territory, probably, for all that she never seemed to want it for herself. Of course it was because he had friended her, seeing her on Facebook after all these years. They had all known each other; she’d recognized the face, if not the last name, when she saw the addition to his friends list. But it was harmless. It’s only Facebook, for God’s sake. And what, five thousand km? At least. Maybe six.
And what was he thinking, friending her? Who knows – maybe nothing. Maybe something. Facebook is wasted on the young. For people who have grown older, have a past or two, have moved around, lost touch, it’s magic. It’s a time machine. He had only wanted a quick look into an old mirror. Throw out a Hello, and a Sorry I Was an Adolescent Dickhead.
She was a sexy, moody, homesick girl studying abroad, and he gave her a rough shove away. He had exams, and she was leaving soon anyway. But it must be admitted he’d been a dick. So it’s twenty years after — what? A romance? A fuckfest? Both. Screwing their way through the endless twilights of the German summer, the Northern Lights a perfect aphrodisiac. He could still hear her voice, the fourth time she’d come out with his crowd. “Honey, one of these nights I am going to climb you like a tree, you watch.” After all this time, a particular American accent could go straight to his dick.
Then here comes fucking Facebook riding in, with its painless, riskless, costless time machine. He had been thinking his thoughts, no harm, no foul, and then his wife had to friend her, and invite her to stay for a long weekend.
This bears repeating: His wife friended her. And invited her to stay. For a long weekend. Four. Nights.
So he rolled with it. He was working, so his wife picked her up at the train. They’d all gotten on famously, and why not? They’d enjoyed teasing her about her terrible German, they’d seen the sights; it was fun. He tried not to look at her too carefully or for too long, and was mostly successful, until the evening of the second day. The three of them came home comfortably tired after a long walk in the Bergisches Land, and sat around looking at photo albums and watching movies. Fine, right? Sure. Then it got late, movie number three was not one his wife liked, and she was tired, making noises about bedtime.
“I’m kind of a night owl. Do you two mind if I stay up a while?” So he’d stayed up too. Sitting in the dark watching Kill Bill with her, watching Michael Madsen put the final nail in Uma’s coffin, thinking, “I am a Bad Person.” Her voice was quiet, cutting through Uma’s travails: “I am a Bad Person.” She straddled him, lightly and quickly. One moment she was sitting next to him, the next moment they were nose to nose. She took his bottom lip in hers, let him feel her teeth.
They kissed until she slid to her knees before him on the couch, and as Uma lay in the hospital gathering her strength and plotting her revenge, it happened. The moment he might as well admit he had been planning for, since the moment fucking Facebook’s time machine had careened off the edge of the world and she showed up at his job in his wife’s company: She was on her knees at his feet.
Kissing his belly, opening his pants. Jesus. “We cannot.”
“We should not, you mean. Not can not.”
She clasped him in her hand, kissed the tip. Circled him with her tongue, tasted him. “See? It’s absolutely possible. Should is a judgement call. And a problem for another day.” And then she was sucking his cock. She had given fantastic head, and she had not changed.
“My German never was great, honey, but I do know “sweet little cocksucker” when I hear it.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” And just like that, they were back in the game.
“Hold my hair out the way, sweetheart.”
Gathering her hair into a ponytail. “It’s important to keep a handle on you.”
“Germans are so managerial.”
Watching her circle the head of his cock with her tongue. “You were not easy to control.”
“You’re older and tougher, and I’m nicer – less combative – these Osmanbey travesti days. You can drive, baby.”
“Can I? Ok. You can go further than that. Let me feel your throat.”
“I need a minute to get used to you, it’s been a while.”
He pushed her head down. “Do it. You always had a flair for the dramatic; give me a show.”
She took a long time about it, making sure he could see himself entering her mouth. She stroked the shaft with a spit-slick hand, sucked hard on the head, but when he got close, she held him back. Took the temperature down, teased him with soft wet lips, made him wait. Same again, her soft lips, wet hand, teasing tongue making him fucking nuts. Finally losing his patience, he stood, took himself in hand, tangled his fingers in her hair and urged her forward. “Schätzchen, come on, suck me. You can take it.” When she opened her throat to him, he groaned aloud. “Shhhh.”
Fuck, her mouth was still a slice of heaven. Managing a stage whisper, “Jesus.” She relaxed her shoulders and moved her stroking hand down to his balls, giving him the freedom to fuck her mouth, to push his cock down her throat, which he was able to do three times before came hard, disbelieving.
All this, in his living room. She had not become sane.
§
They got through the weekend without bloodshed. Without fucking, either, although that was rough sledding a couple of times. “Not here,” she kept saying. “Not here. I’m a shitty enough person. I’m an extremely shitty person, but not here.”
“Later,” he kept promising himself. Looking at her mouth as she chatted, her throat as she drank, at the ass she kept swinging at him, at the tits she kept finding ways to put unto his face. Risking life, limb and self-image to help her cut the bread, “Later.”
She played the coquette, offering an oblique look over her glass of wine, then looking away, dimpling. Saying something shockingly direct, designed to draw him out, but only at carefully chosen inopportune moments. She’d made more than one inflammatory joke. At an ice cream shop, she’d been difficult to please, and actually asked if she’d earned a spanking, which set his dick to weeping in his jeans. And she looked him right in the eye and watched him remember it.
Their arguments were fierce, but always ended the same way, with him enraged and her laughing in his face. Making up for it by climbing on top of him, riding him into a sweat, losing her mind and taking his with it. Except one night toward the end. Christ, that night. She had gone out of her way to be provocative. Further than usual, she’d stopped teasing and was in an actual temper, pushing hard. Going so far as to slap his face on the street, in front of the shops. Pushed and pushed and pushed as they walked to his house. Pushed at him until he lost all of his composure, all but threw her over his knee. He could still see her in his room, lit by the dusk of midnight, skirt up, panties down. Blushing to the roots of her hair, absolutely livid, wriggling on his knee as he spanked her ass in what started as genuine anger and ended in the most brutal orgasm of his life.
There had been this moment, at about slap 3.5, when he drew back, appalled at himself, glad he hadn’t spanked her very hard, hadn’t really hurt her, hoping she wouldn’t scream for help, ready to beg on his knees for forgiveness. But before he could process much of the thought, she had moaned. Arched her back a bit, pushed her ass up at his hand. Still furious, but her hand was between her legs, she had been fingering herself as he slapped her ass bright red. “You are such a fucking dick …” He almost had to laugh at Young Him’s shocked realization that she was getting off on this. Imminently.
“It’s not required that I be an asshole to be driven crazy by your insane bullshit.” Each word punctuated by a slap. Each word jiggling her ass. Each jiggle stiffening his cock. Finding himself directing the smacks to the sensitive place at the top of her thighs, knowing by now that each one was pushing her clit into her fingers. “Are you going to cum for this? Are you really going to get off getting your bottom spanked, like a misbehaving little girl grown into a misbehaving little slut? Is that what all this shit has been about?” And then she was cumming, shuddering and gasping and grinding her hips as he spanked her, cumming and calling him an asshole.
He felt like he could still remember the smell of her skin when he leaned in and said, “I’m the asshole that just put a misbehaving little girl into order.”
§
He had never before, and possibly never had again, wanted to fuck anyone as badly as he wanted to fuck that girl that night. But he’d been so careful putting her on her belly, so gentle spreading her legs, so tender stroking the swollen, ready pussy that met his fingers. He’d been so careful to not press against her reddened skin, and been shocked anew when she pushed her ass back at him, pulled his hand hard against her and rubbed herself Ayrancı travesti against his palm. She whimpered at the sting when he cupped her ass in his hand, but came for him again, sending him over into his own blinding orgasm, and both of them into physically and emotionally exhausted sleep.
The flash of irritation he felt, as he saw her register all of that going through his mind, was familiar, as was the jolt to his cock. She was always a tease, and sometimes she was ruthless. Twenty years ago, she once suggested his brother join them, for fuck’s sake.
“Did you mean it, the time you asked if I thought Lars should join us?”
“Why? Do you regret not having taken me up on it?”
“He would have buggered you, for certain.”
“And you wouldn’t have?”
“Would you have wanted it?”
“We’ll never know, will we? I mean, we’ll never know if I wanted it then. I suppose we could investigate whether I want it now.”
“You were always a fucking tease.”
“Don’t complain, you got to fuck a tease.”
This, whispered, waiting at the bar for the drinks, like a pair of thieves. He got very good, over that weekend, at the strategic disguising of a hard on.
He had given that spanking its fair share of rumination, wished that it hadn’t happened so near toward the end. But anal? She could joke now, but he didn’t remember any hint of that twenty years ago, and he would have noticed.
Maybe it was her being her. Provoking him. Bluffing. Back then, though, get her alone and take the first step, and she’d take the second. And third, and fourth. A woman to recycle a quip, she’d been fond of saying, “Call my bluff — go ahead. See what happens next.”
Indeed.
All good things to those who wait, even impatiently, but she didn’t make it easy. But then, that was never her style. She always found a way to make everything hard.
§
The following weekend, he read her text. She joked (or not, who knows), ‘bring lube’. Christ. So here he stood, pondering the choices. There were a lot. He wondered if she had a preferred brand, or if some were particularly gay. He would rather not choose one of those. Here was one in a package with two bottles, his and hers, one hot pink, one dark blue.
What the hell. American product, guaranteed. Those people. Never see a titty on TV and the wrath of God on your head if it pops out accidentally. And cock? Forget it. But their forty-year old middle-class women request lube on the first Official Sex Date. Probably get it from the British, their cultural parent. He was standing too long; a clerk was watching him stare at the lubes. He came back to himself, and picked up two different ones. One sort of clinical looking and one recreational, from the packaging. Better get out of there before someone yelled deviant.
He didn’t know how to present the bottles to her. He briefly considered wrapping them like a gift, and then thought, you fuckwit. And tried to blow it off. Maybe it would come up, maybe it wouldn’t, pun intended.
Dinner was over, wine drunk, she was on top of him, him mostly dressed, her mostly not, on the bed at a flat in Bonn. She was down to her bra and panties. He could tell they were new. For him. She kissed him, running her fingernails along the edge of his belt, driving him crazy.
“You asked for this.” And pulled the brown paper bag out of his rucksack. Astride, she looked inside, pulled the bottles out. Held them up to him, one in each hand, labels forward, with a questioning look. He shrugged, hoped she wouldn’t laugh. But she examined the clinical one, turned it over, squinted at the label. And then did the same with the other. Muttered, “I’m getting old.”
She leaned over him to put the bottle into the bedside light, peering closely at the tiny print. “I need glasses.” He didn’t tell her that her German had never been up to much and it hadn’t improved, because her interest in active ingredients had her tits in his face. He was more interested in the pretty pink nipples showing through the lace, hardening between his teeth, than in anything she had to say at that particular moment.
She sat back from the light, and set one down on the bed next to his thigh. The clinical one she unwrapped, figured out the top, put a tiny dot on her palm, tasted it. Set it down, other bottle, same procedure, other palm. So there she was, still astride, trying each palm, with the smallest tip of her tongue. He was reminded of the envelope scene from ‘Two Weeks Notice’, which he had watched with his wife.
She put her right palm forward. “This one,” she said. “The other one tastes like hand sanitizer. Wanna try?” He shook his head. “You better get your preference on the record. Once this stuff gets everywhere, if you don’t like how it tastes, that sucks. Or doesn’t. Y’know what I’m saying?”
So he tried them both, licked them from her palm. She was right, one did taste like hand sanitizer. That one went back into the bag. The other, she set firmly on Cebeci travesti the bedside table, as far away as she could, almost out of reach. “We’ll see.” He still didn’t know if she wanted or intended to use it, but he figured if she did, she’d maneuver him into a position to make the first move, so she could make the second. And third, and fourth. He put one hand on her ass, the other on the back of her head and pulled her in for a kiss.
He wanted a taste of her. He rolled her over onto her back and lay beside her propped up on one elbow so he could draw little patterns on her belly with his index finger. He kissed her just below her belly button, lightly, in a line along the top of her panties. Unhooked the bra, took it off her. Seriously, those tits, with the sweetest pink nipples, and that skin like milk. He kissed her where her breast met her ribs, letting her feel his teeth. He moved the index finger designs further south. Teasing her, running his finger along the edge of the fabric at her thigh, slipping his finger just inside the edge of her panties.
She sighed, “Oh, yeah, I remember this.”
It’d be fun to make her be the one to take her panties off. He couldn’t count the number of times she’d provoked him into taking them off with one hand and pinning her down with the other, and then acting like it was all his idea. He figured kissing the outside of her panties might do it. Let’s see. He nibbled at the increasingly damp fabric, ignoring her squirming.
“Take your panties off, if you like.”
She pushed into his face, so he drew back a little and pressed his thumb right in the middle, gently, rested his cheek there, in the heat.
“Take them off, if you like.”
And she did. Lifted her hips and took them off, dropped them on the floor. Bluff called, she was all in.
He dropped a little kiss there, she sighed. He rested his elbows on either side of her hips, her thighs close together, and parted her lips with the tip of his tongue, searching her out. She flinched away just a little, so he slipped his hands under her ass and pulled her to him, spreading her legs, laid his tongue against her clit. Lots of spit, soft, nothing pointy, just touching her with the thickest part of the flat of his tongue, slick with saliva. Inviting her to rub herself against it.
That’s the ticket, she seemed to melt into him with a long exhalation, held his head still, and gave him a nice little swivel. He pressed his thumbs into the tendons where her thighs met her body as he kissed her, wondering if his stubble was bothering her, but she asked for it. He hadn’t shaved in four days because she said not to, that she liked his beard. He was willing to look like a degenerate at work for a few days, and who could blame him? She’d be gone soon enough, he could go back to grownup-face then.
He licked his thumb and pushed it into her, but only a little. Let her ask for it. Remembering her, back then, asking him to french kiss her pussy. Seeing if that still worked, he kissed her with warm, wet lips, as he might her mouth. A minute or so of that, she’s pulling his head in closer, bearing down on his thumb, making a sound half groan, and half something else, unnameable. He remembered that sound. That sound meant he was about to get run over by a pornographic truck.
She’d brought it up, after all, so he stroked her asshole with his finger, pulling the flesh of her into his kiss, nibbling gently along the sides of her. “Oh, my god, please.”
“Please what?” The flat of his tongue on her clit again, rubbing her gently. Now, both a thumb and a finger inside her, moving, but just barely, spreading the moisture inside to outside. For a girl who liked to be held down and fucked pretty roughly, she wanted the lightest touch he could manage, on her clit. A sensitive girl.
She sounded hoarse, “I don’t want to cum yet.”
“You don’t want to cum for me?” Whispering into her pelvis, “Why not?”
“I want to wait a while.” He pushed his thumb and finger in deep. “For what? Another twenty years?” And pressed her clit hard under his tongue, sucked her into his mouth. She went tumbling over, her breath high her chest, fingers knotted in his hair, pushing her pussy into his face.
The tendons of her thighs taught, creaming his mouth and chin, her heels pressing into his shoulder blades, her body gripping his thumb and finger, they pulled the lever on the time machine. Twenty years were gone in the blink of an eye, the flicker of a tongue,
§
He rested, face down in the soft inside of her thigh, hearing her ragged breathing slow. He asked, hoping, “What would you like now?”
“Stand up, please.” He stood facing the edge of the bed, she scooted up to the edge, her legs outside his, toes on the tops of his, hand sliding up the inside of his leg. “Shirt off, please.” He took his shirt off, and went for this belt, but she stopped him. “I’ll get that.” A few dizzying moments later, his pants were off, her mouth never more than a millimeter from his dick during the process, licking up the slick trail it was leaving on his stomach.
She took the head of his cock into her mouth, and ran her tongue around it. “I have the advantage of more recent experience now. Maybe I’ll do it better than the other night.”