Francine held her coffee mug like it was holy. “Then what?”
We were at Aroma catching up. After an eons-long dry spell, I’d finally had a winning date and she expected every erect detail. Even if there weren’t people within earshot on either side of us I wouldn’t have given her the full skinny, but I had to tell her something. She lived for these moments. So I said, “I walked past the door and glanced into the bathroom.”
I did. And what I saw was magnificent: Mike’s pale ass and tan legs as he bent down to turn the tub faucet. He and I had been mountain bike riding and he surprised me with the old Mind if I Take a Shower line. Family friend Mike. New-in-town Mike. Practically my cousin Mike. Mind if I take a shower? No one had used that line on me before. From him, it seemed a utilitarian request. But within minutes of my reply, he was in my bathroom–door ajar–in all his startlingly naked glory.
“Did you see it?”
“His fucking cock!” Her whisper-yell drew a glare from the Mom-haired woman at the next table.
“Of course I saw it. How else do you think we ended up in bed together?”
“No no no. Back up.”
I smiled and squeezed lemon into my water, sweet tartness misting. “What? We had sex. It was nice.”
“Specifics!” She’d been like this ever since seven of us car pooled together back in tenth grade, piling into her older brother’s Chevy Malibu for every football game. I used to sit on Joey Haugen’s lap in my cheerleading uniform, his hands under the skirt. “It felt nice, really nice,” was never a good enough answer for Francine. I think I had my first orgasm in the back of that car.
“Come on!” she said. “Tell me about his–” She widened her eyes and lifted her brows in the direction of Mom Hair at the next table.
“It’s not crooked like Brian’s was.”
“He looked mauled by a bear.”
“He did look mauled by a bear.” We laughed. Poor Brian Pauley always made us laugh.
“Or a bear cub.” More laughter. Still, the guy managed to find his way into both of us. Functioned quite nicely, appearance notwithstanding.
“Back to Mike. Tell me!”
There was no way I would tell her how he knelt down as soon as I followed him into the shower. He didn’t even wait for me to rinse the California dirt from my calves. His forearms locked my hips in place and held me steady while his tongue writhed deep between my labia.
I would never say how long he breathed at my clit: nuzzling, lapping, pulling away and rushing back in.
I wouldn’t describe how I had to palm the glass door and tiled wall just to stay upright. My pelvis flinching—reflexes twisting away from his (too much too much too much) mouth—while his grip kept me anchored. The only way to move was into him and over him, rolling my every nerve against his swallows until my breath gained sound. Indecipherable, deep, moans. And even then, he didn’t let go.
Before I could answer she asked, “Did you come?”
“I did.” And left it at that.
Photo: Public Domain | Used under CC0 1.0
This post was written for Wicked Wednesday, a site where writers share erotic stories (fiction and non) every week. The fun is hosted by the magnificent Marie Rebelle of Rebel’s Notes, whose endeavors you can support at Patreon.
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