Through the fug, I look up at the multi-coloured squares of fabric pillowing down from the ceiling of my basement bedroom den. I float and swirl from the joint. Battling the haze, I become aware of my arm being softly stroked.

Phillipa and I have been soulmates on our course for nearly three years, not that we see much of each other. She misses more lectures than she makes, but she is a great study mate, her raw intelligence making up for in abundance her lack of attendance.

Some people just connect. We connect. But, we don’t connect in each other’s worlds. I am five years older, with considerably older mature student friends; hers are fresh out of school, raw and blissfully immature. We exist where two large circles of a Venn diagram imperceptibly cross.

Her fingers edge lightly, rhythmically, further up my arm. Time is slow, but now her fingers are edging towards the hem of my T-shirt sleeve. She is feeling my bicep, not a big bicep, but not one without tone, and my emotionally-challenged mind recognises this as teetering on the boundary of the affection of close friends and the intimacy reserved for lovers.

Her hand wraps round my arm, under the cotton sleeve and up around my shoulder. It circles the muscle and descends into the pit, caressing its hair.

The drug-induced fog of ambiguity lifts and in an instant she is flipped from her side to her back and I am astride her, kissing her passionately. She responds. I gave her no time to think. Three years of wondering are extinguished in a moment and leave room for only animal instinct.

“We shouldn’t be doing this.”

She is shocked. I am shocked. Why is she shocked?

She rolls out from under me and sits up. “What do we do now?”

“I don’t know.”

I kiss her tenderly. She responds equally as tenderly.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

I nod.

She sits on top of me, reaches for the bottom of my whiteTee, hooks it under her thumbs and slowly runs her hands up my sides and pulls it over my head.

“Your turn.”

Phillipa never wears a bra. For three years, I have been tantalised by the sight of her young breasts roaming freely under various tops. But the tops had never quite hung open enough to expose a nipple. She crosses her arms and pulls her black lacy-frilled one off for me now. Her breasts are perfect, exceeding even my most imaginative hopes. Not large, not small, just perfectly milky white and pert. I lift my head to take one in my mouth and I take the other in my hand.

Her hand glides down over my chest to my twenty-seven-year-old flat stomach and stops at my belt buckle. Slowly she starts to ease the thick leather through the clasp. She pulls it tight to release the tension on the pin and pulls it from the eyelet.

Throughout our three years of academic friendship, I have always been the advice-giver; the older, more mature, marginally more sensible, and definitely more dominant half.

Having released the clasp, she methodically unbuttons my flies. I arch my back and she inches the jeans from my thighs, over my calves and off my ankles, taking my socks with them.

My cock is rigid, bucking frantically betwixt my stomach and boxers.

She stares intently at the dancing profile, then the back of her fingers start to lightly stroke from the base of my cock to its tip. A dark patch appears on the cotton, and grasping me firmly, she rubs her fingertip over the dampness, caressing me through the thin barrier.

Releasing her hold, she leans forward and kisses my mouth, her hard nipples pressing into my chest hair. She kisses my chin, my neck, then down and across my chest, sucking and gently nibbling each nipple in turn. She runs her tongue down my taut stomach, lifts the boxers over the head of my cock and takes me in her mouth.

I feel a little more escape and she raises her eyes to tell me she can taste it. I help her remove my redundant underwear and she takes me firmly in her hand.

“I want to see you cum.”

I feel a finger reach deep into my arse. No one has invaded it before, yet I trust her, she is in control and the violation excites me. Then she strokes her hand firmly up and down my shaft, all the while staring at my cock with the utmost concentration.

I can feel the blood surging through me; I feel she is willing my cock to a hardness no other lover has ever achieved. My stomach is taught, my whole body is tense, and she just continues to massage up and down, one finger probing deep within my arse, another intermittently gathering precum from its source.

Spunk is rising within me. I clench everything and hold on. And on. My belly button will touch my spine if I suck my stomach in any tighter. She stops stroking and her fingers grip tightly around my cock at its base. I look at her, but she is unaware of the greater me, she is focussing her eyes on the end of my cock and her concentration on this one activity is absolute.

Then I let go. My cum shoots out, splashing my face, coating my chest and stomach, then cascading down my shaft over her hand. I pant from the extreme exertion, my body covered in sweat. She sits astride me, sphinx-like, with a wicked smile (especially for a devout Christian). Then she reaches down and runs two fingers deep into my abdomen and gathers up thick globs of cum. She looks me in the eye, as she sucks it into her mouth and rolls it over her tongue with the concentration of a wine connoisseur.