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Calm After The Storm

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I sat at the bar uncomfortable, slouching over, my lower back sore. Behind me, the tawdry lights pumped and pulsed, a sea of bodies writhing together, the air hot and smelling of sweat, other human smells such as fake tan, makeup, various colognes, and perfumes permeating the very fabric of existence inside the club. It was inescapable. My two girlfriends had long been lost to the night, and I was left at the bar, bitter, awkward, and alone, with only the very brave venturing over to try and chat me up or hit on me.

Amusingly, I had eye-fucked a good-looking young man early on in the night, debating with myself whether I grab him by the powder-blue collar, throw him in my car, use him, abuse him and then lose him. But I had not been quick enough. Out in the jungle, the slower animals often lost out, and the only real difference between me and an angry lioness playing the waiting game was that my jungle was the club dating scene, and hers was the savanna.

In the end, the young cub I eye-fucked had been caught by the older cougar, and as I downed my fourth gin of the night, the alcohol seeping into my system, I decided I’d rather be bitter, angry, and miserable at the world, alone. I didn’t even attempt to look for Ember or Sara and tell them I was turning in for the night, I left them to their partying. No doubt, they’d have more fun without me.

It was like I was pushing myself through a blizzard of bodies, there were limbs everywhere, some attached to people, and others flailing around as if disconnected from their owner. I made it out alive, and once safe in the foyer, I took a large, gulping breath in, and then out. My leopard print skirt stuck to me, I could feel sweat running down the backs of my thighs, tickling me. Mumbling a, “have a good night,” the security guard opened the door for me, and I felt a blast of cold, early winter air on my body. Involuntarily, I shivered, but I welcomed the crisp air that held the promise of a good frost in the morning. I stood there for a moment, weighing up my options. I had changed my mind in between the time it took to walk through the club to the outside world; I didn’t really want to go home and be all alone, but then I also did not want to be around people and sweaty humping bodies under club lights.

There was a late-night coffee club just around the corner where talentless hopefuls often played acoustic sets or spewed stand-up comedy at the small crowd of insomniacs that circled around to listen. I considered that option for only a second or two. Did I really want to listen to slam poetry about someone else's menstrual cycle? No, I did not. Standing there, caught like a deer in the headlights not knowing where to go or what to do, I heard a familiar voice grow louder as it approached, and then the soft, throaty laugh of a flirtatious woman.

I turned to leave, but instead of making my escape, I was now faced with the familiar voice. The woman with him was late thirties, petite, no more than five foot two. She had squeezed herself into a red dress that looked like it came from the teenage girls' section of the mall. Natural blonde, round face that gave her almost a babyish appearance, B cups at most. Exactly his type. He noticed me as I was mentally cross-examining Tiny blonde. It was small comfort to see that he also bore that same, panicked look on his face. His expression held a similar shock to how I felt on the inside. Quickly I turned, trying to escape in the other direction, my feet unsure of their destination or where they were taking me, but moving nonetheless.

“Jade,” the voice said. My feet stopped. I wanted to keep walking, perhaps even run away. Run away from here and never be seen again, but my feet halted, and I had pulled to a stop until he caught up to me. “Jade,” he said again.

Slowly I turned, taking a deep breath in, and then out, willing myself to keep my composure and dignity. Any anger I felt, I had to swallow down. I found that I couldn’t quite read him. He wore an odd expression, slightly pleading, but also awkward. Tiny blonde was staring at me too, looking me up and down and smirking. I felt like a giant compared to her, all leggy, awkward, and ungainly. I questioned everything in that moment. His type was almost exclusively petite blondes, so what had he seen in me? Or had it all been a ruse, something to be able to finally one-up his older brother? Had he played me? I wasn’t his type, so why did he try, and succeed with me? I had been the foolish one. The thought crushed me, before slowly sinking deep down inside me, to the bottom of my stomach like lead. “Why don’t you go inside?” Anthony mumbled to Tiny blonde. She strode past me confidently and entered the club.

The chill of the night ran like a bolt up my spine, and I decided I had stood there long enough. With a lead brick in my stomach, and my feet feeling clumsy, I walked past Anthony, still not knowing what I would do for the rest of the night or where I would go, but I walked. “We need to talk.”

Again I stopped and turned, wondering if I had doomed myself to spending my entire night in this state, walk, stop, turn, walk, stop turn. Groundhog night. “There is nothing to talk about,” I said, managing to squeeze out the words, my throat feeling tight.

“There is everything to talk about.”

“What is there to discuss?” I asked. “You told me you loved me and then left the next day, doing what you always did, Anthony. I didn’t know where you’d gone, or how to get in contact with you. I tried, but… nothing. I found out a few months later that you’d gone back overseas again. So no, there is nothing to talk about.”

Cursed to stay in the state of limbo that was my night, I started to walk again, until Anthony then called out, “I heard you divorced Stan.”

I stopped, and once more I turned. I was really getting my steps in tonight. “Yes, we did.”

“And?” He asked, walking towards me.

“And what?”

“And, how did it happen?”

“I confronted him a week after he returned from his business trip. He denied nothing. The split was amicable.”

Anthony’s brow creased in question, no doubt frustrated at my lack of context. My story was patchy on purpose, I wasn’t about to go into full-blown detail about my divorce standing on a cold street. I had to have this one. I had to keep it to myself, I had nothing left to lose, really, but I couldn’t let Anthony win. What he would have been winning, I didn’t know, but my pride was bigger than any ego the man had. This one was mine.  “Does he know that it was me who told you?” he asked.

“No.”

“Does he know that you and I-”

“No,” I said, interrupting him. I couldn’t bear to hear him say it. I couldn’t bear to hear those words come out of his mouth. In my anger, I had suppressed the memories of that night, almost convincing myself that it hadn’t happened. If he said it, confirming out loud that it had indeed occurred, and it wasn’t a figment of my imagination, I didn’t know what I’d do, or how I’d react.

“Did you get anything in the divorce? Have you been well provided for? Are you living okay?”

“You’ve never concerned yourself with my well-being before, Anthony, so don’t start now, it’s disingenuous.”

“Jade…”

“Goodnight,” I said with finality. For the last time that night, I started walking down the street, emotions pricking at the surface, the lead brick in my stomach feeling somehow heavier.

My immediate reflex had always been anger. I had always been the choleric type, quick to fire up and jump straight to conflict. I had gotten better in the few years I had been with Stan. In a way, he had tempered me, calming me down in those moments when I felt that first quick flash of hot anger. He taught me a lot about life, and I was no longer quick to rage or verbally assault others with my tongue, but with Anthony, I was my old self. He bought out something in me that had to be sassy and ill-tempered, always answering back with a sarcastic quip or argumentative point.

In the two years since we’d had sex, or what I referred to as ‘the incident’ I had managed to push aside any thought of Anthony and what had been between us. I thought I had done a good job at learning to cope with my anger towards him, but as was Anthony’s habit, he came back into my life without warning, and a mere glimpse of him made my emotions topsy turvy. Calling it ‘the incident’ was a way for me to downplay everything and give it a label that wasn’t sexy. I suppose I was trying to delegitimize what had happened. Nullify the act and in a way, return it to something base. If I referred to it as ‘the incident’ then I didn’t have to think too hard about it or deal with the feelings that came along with it.

Stan and I split not long after ‘the incident’. I had confronted him about his affair with Jules after he had returned from that business trip. He denied nothing. He had asked how I knew, and I gave some bullshit about the house staff letting slip. I was no tattle-tale, and I didn’t want to implicate anybody. I very easily could have told him that Anthony had been the one to tell me, but I didn’t. In some strange way, I had wanted to protect him from Stan. I don’t know why. After everything he had done to me, I didn’t have to protect him from his older brother, but I did.

Our split was easy. Stan was good to me. The house was sold, and the profits divided, with Stan leaving me most of them. I had protested, but he had insisted. I questioned whether he knew anything about me and Anthony, and what had transpired. Some days I thought he did know, and his being nice to me and giving me sixty percent of the house sale was his way to take a jab at me somehow, let the guilt consume me, but then other days I knew that he suspected nothing. It was a rollercoaster of emotions. In some ways, it would have been easier had he known about Anthony and me. The inevitable nastiness and arguments would have made the divorce easier on me, but his being nice, and the guilt I felt clawed at me, eating away at my insides.

I hadn’t had a relationship since. I was glad to be free of my marriage once the divorce was underway, but my feelings of bitterness and resentment about Anthony and what he did to me, and that he had run away after our night together felt as if it tore at my flesh. I was still young, only thirty, but in many ways, I felt as if I had aged on the inside. I felt like my emotions were all knarled and twisted up, dead like rotted tree roots. My general aura was one that said, “piss off,” so why would men want to try anything with me? I was cynical, jaded, and burnt out.  Sex and my needs as a woman had been the last thing on my mind, the last thing I was trying to look for. True, there were some nights when the horny was almost too much to bear, but pornography and my vibrator helped.

Truth be told, the sex with Anthony was good. Excellent, in fact. I had never had those physical feelings or reactions with anyone else ever. I was scared. Scared that if I went out and found sex or a quick hookup, that my body would forget Anthony. That my mind would forget how he’d made me feel. In my weaker moments, I clung to those memories of his body on mine, of how his tongue had explored, and how his fingers had slid inside me.

-----------

I shut the front door and heaved a sigh of relief, closing my eyes. I was freezing, my limbs heavy and feeling like they’d turn to icicles any second. I had walked home from the club, too foolish and proud to call a cab or uber. My feet ached from the forty-minute walk through town in my heeled ankle boots, my toes stiff and cold inside the leather. Never mind that anything could’ve happened to me, or that it was unsafe to be walking alone at eleven o’clock at night, no, I didn’t want to call for a ride, instead choosing to stew in my unhappiness and frustration at Anthony.

Easing myself under the stream of scorching water, I felt my arms and legs slowly return to life and loosen up. I rolled my shoulder blades back, enjoying the hot droplets of water running down my skin, the cold melting away from my body, the club, and the street corner outside feeling like a distant memory.

I spent an age in the shower, meticulous about cleaning every inch of my body several times over. My feet, and the tiny spaces in between my toes had never been so clean before. I felt fresh from the soap, and relaxed from the hot water, feeling as if seeing Anthony had had no effect on me. It was one small thing, and I had overreacted in my anger. It was nothing. He was nothing.

I felt like I was a baby being swaddled as I sat down on the sofa in my biggest, fluffiest dressing gown. The thick material was all-consuming and I was at risk of drowning in the layers of the garment, but I felt warm and snuggly. I felt at ease as I sat back and relaxed into the sofa, taking a load off, the stress of the world leaving my body.

Closing my eyes, I breathed in and out deeply. In, and then out. In, and then out. In… out.

I was lain down gently, on a leather sofa that felt familiar to me. My legs were parted, a cock slowly penetrating me, the cockhead parting my pussy lips. When I thought about our coupling, I had imagined it to be hard, horny, and fast, but the man inside me was surprisingly tender, his thrusts slow and measured, his soft groans turning me on. I wrapped my legs around him and drew him deeper inside me, the full length of his cock fitting inside me perfectly.

My senses felt alive. I could feel everything. I could hear the rain on the roof, as well as the wet sound of my pussy as he pummelled me deep, the slap of his thighs against mine, his grunts, and my moaning, everything was mixing in together. It was dark, I couldn’t see anything, but I didn’t need to see. I could smell wine on his breath, and taste it faintly in his mouth as we kissed. A familiar deep voice mumbled something into my ear. “Gonna cum,” the voice said. I knew the voice. I’d heard the voice plenty of times before, but it was a faceless voice. I felt a hand on my left tit, the nipple being pinched and rolled. I felt it then. I felt his cock twitch and pulse inside me, and I heard his loud moans as he came deep in my pussy.

The faceless yet familiar man sat back, easing his weight off me. It was somehow darker now, I couldn’t see anything or even make out his form or presence beside me. “I love you, Jade,” the voice said.

"Anthony?” I asked. I sat up, trying to feel around, but there was nothing there. “Anthony?” I asked again. There was nothing.

My eyes opened suddenly, and I felt disoriented. I felt hot, sticky, and sweaty. I peeled myself from the couch where I had fallen asleep and sat up properly. A dull headache thumped at the base of my skull. The thick, fluffy material of my dressing gown now felt heavy and coarse.

Untying the belt, I shrugged off the polar bear-like layer, and felt almost instantly better, the cool air hitting my skin. In the darkness, my eyes managed to find the wall clock. It was just after five. I had slept for longer than I thought, yet my dream had felt so short, over so suddenly. This was not the first time I’d had that dream. Transported back to the night of the incident, the dream always seemed to end the same way, with me not being able to see Anthony properly or find him in the dark. In the dream, unlike in real life, the power never came back, and the light never returned. Aimlessly, my hands would wander, wanting to find a trace of the dream man who had been inside me, but no, I was always unsuccessful.

Once, I’d had that dream not long after Stan and I had first separated. I was in the big house all by myself, the staff mostly disbanded. In that version of the dream, Stan came back early and caught us in the act. Words were said, punches were thrown until finally, we were both kicked out, naked. I had been so convinced that that version was real, and not a dream.

When I awoke, I was convinced that Stan was still in the house somewhere and that I had managed to break in somehow and sleep without him knowing. Foolishly, it had taken me a full week to realize that Stan didn’t know, he hadn’t caught us, and Anthony wasn’t around. I’d lost count of the exact number of times I’d had that dream, but I knew it to be less than five, as I was certain I could count it on one hand. This time had been different, though. I hadn’t woken up angry, feeling that same rage and hurt all over again, I felt alone. And sad. I felt as if I wanted to cry, but the tears would not come. I was mournful, but then I asked myself, what did I have to mourn? Not my marriage or divorce, no. That had passed me by, and what little sadness I felt for that, I dealt with. Stan had been good to me, and it had helped immensely. Was I sad because I was thirty? My youth slowly slipping through my fingertips like the sand from an hourglass? No, not that either. I was living independently, something I had only dreamed of growing up. I was finally self-sufficient, with friends around me, a good-paying job I enjoyed, and a place to call my own. So what, then? What was I all of a sudden so sad about? Anthony. It had never worked out between us. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to.

From the first time we met when I had danced, to the incident, it had never worked out between us. The universe had obviously already decided our fate, and this was some cruel joke being played. I was stuck in limbo, bound to run into Anthony for all eternity but never having a resolution. Jade’s inferno, perhaps? Or Jade’s purgatory. It certainly felt like I was stuck in an emotional ring of hell, bound forever to pine away for him, but never have him, or get over my feelings for him.

I sat on the sofa, staring at the blank-screened TV for what felt like an eternity, the soft sounds of the early morning world waking up just beyond my window. The dawn’s morning chorus started up, birds twittering and chirping their daylight songs. It didn’t sound cheerful, though; it sounded cruel and mocking. Here we were, another beautiful morning, and yet I was stuck, frozen in time.

By mid-morning, I was feeling better. Caffeine and painkillers were pumping through my system, and I had moved far away from the sofa and from the dreams of the night before. Tiny blonde and Anthony felt like a distant memory, nothing more than a small blip. Today was a new day. I would make it my fresh start. Look out world, Jade Gallo 2.0 was here.

Jade Gallo 2.0 lasted little more than an hour and a half. I had arranged the week prior to have lunch with an old friend from school, but she had canceled at the last minute. Bitter, and once more alone, I considered alcoholism, as once more I felt that humanity had let me down. It was only eleven-thirty, though, and probably too early to crack into the vodka or gin. I decided on ordering Chinese food instead. I needed something greasy, something that was hot, salty and spicy, Chinese food seemed perfect. Perhaps it was my need for fast food nourishment or comfort, or perhaps it was a protest for Maia, who always chose the nouveau cuisine; nothing on the plate but everything on the bill. Maybe this was the universe giving me another sign that I should retire from the world and become a hermit? Become a recluse altogether. The idea had some appeal to it, I had to admit.

A quick knock on the door broke me from my daytime wet dream of living a life of solitude and thinking that the food I ordered was here in record time, I opened the door to find Anthony on the other side. I didn’t know what to do. I was torn. Torn between my prideful desire to slam the door in his face, but then also wanting to see him. Wanting to hear his voice, hear what he had to say.

We stood there staring at each other. I made no move to invite him inside off my doorstep and out of the cold, we just stood there awkwardly, silence filling the void between us. He may have been right in front of me, but I had never felt so far away or disconnected from him. “Jade,” he eventually said.

“How’d you find where I live?”

“I found your friends last night and asked them.”

‘So,’ I thought. ‘Betrayed by my own friends.’

“They shouldn’t have done that,” I replied.

“I had to find you. I had to talk to you, and I recognized one of them from your wedding, so I asked. I had no other way, Jade.”

I stared at him. He still looked damn good. His face bore more fine lines and thin wrinkles around his eyes, and there was no doubt that he had aged in the last two years, but it suited him. Like a fine wine, he had aged well. He was a man on the precipice of fifty, yet he carried his middle-age well. I felt my heart thud in my chest and the faint yet distinct rising desire in my panties. Despite myself, I stood aside and invited him in.

I stood with my back against the door, watching Anthony walk in, my gaze on his ass in his tight denims. I bit my lip. He did have a great ass. I watched as his eyes flicked around the room, appraising everything he saw. I wondered if he liked what I had done with the place, if he appreciated my taste in furnishings. A small voice piped up in the back of my head, telling me that it didn't matter what the man thought of my decorating skills.

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I focused myself and walked into the center of the room where Anthony stood awkwardly. “So, Tiny blonde not with you?” I quipped sarcastically.

A questioning look passed over his face, his eyes scanning me, trying to figure what, or rather who, I meant. “Oh, her,” he said after a moment. “Her name was…” He searched again, this time staring up at the ceiling. “Penny… No, Peggy…Phoebe? Look, it doesn’t matter, she’s a stranger. No one.”

“They’re all no one, Anthony. All the women are all ‘no one’ to you, aren’t they?”

"So cynical.”

“Including me. I was no one, wasn’t I? One among many others.”

My words seemed to hurt him, his eyes took on a sad look. “Jade, why are you so cruel?” he said in a small voice. “She actually was no one. We met at another bar, and she invited me to meet her friends. She’s a stranger….” His words trailed off, and, watching him rather intently, I saw he had a lump in his throat, which he tried to swallow. “Don’t accuse me of thinking you were no one to me, because you weren’t. Frankly, you hurt me by saying that. You were more to me than that.”

“You abandoned me, Anthony. You told me you loved me and then ran away. I felt like a cheap nothing, some country wench who no longer had a purpose once she’d been serviced. I had to deal with the fallout all by myself, while you were once more overseas doing whatever you wanted, wherever you felt like it.”

“I didn’t abandon you.”

I let out a snort of derision, unattractive though it was. “Well, what would you call it then?” I asked sarcastically. I paused for the briefest of moments, a further sarcastic response flaring on my tongue, but then dying right down, giving way to my repressed anger. “Because it certainly felt like abandonment when I was left all alone to deal with the feelings of someone claiming they loved you but not wanting to be anywhere near you!” I yelled.

“I did it to protect you.”

“Protect me? How was that protecting me?”

“Because I had caused such a mess in your life, Jade. I had fucked everything up for you. You were doing fine without me, and then the one night I return, I turn everything on its head. I ruined your marriage with Stan, as well as your relationship with some of the other family members, I ruined your dating life, and your sex life-”

I cut him off. “Excuse me?” I asked.

“That friend of yours, little redhead, told me last night you hadn’t had sex since your divorce. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out that I was the last time… The last person…” His voice was small, a look on his face I couldn’t quite read. Shame? Regret?

'That bitch,’ I thought venomously.

“Your life was a mess because of me. One night and I had messed up everything for you, so I figured I’d do you a favor and leave. If Stan found out, it would have been bad for you, and I didn’t want that for you. You didn’t need me hanging around while your divorce with Stan was going down, and you certainly didn’t need me to play with your emotions or try to drive you to get back into bed with me.”

Some of my anger had ebbed now, my initial burst of rage had died down. My head felt somewhat clearer now as if the clouds were starting to lift. In a small voice, I said, “I was a willing participant, though, Anthony.”

I had expected Anthony to be his usual self: arrogant, smug, sarcastic, and goading. I imagined he’d be strutting around like a peacock, proud that I had been another notch on his bedpost, impressed with himself to learn of the fact that I hadn’t had sex since him, but he wasn’t. The man standing in front of me was mournful, self-aware, and apologetic. He certainly wasn’t proud; he seemed sad, perhaps even lost. I had never stopped to consider that Anthony had felt lost too, after that night. I had never thought he’d have been upset or angry. Though we had been far apart, we had shared grief and loss, except mine had manifested itself in anger, and his in sorrow.

I didn’t know what to do. Comfort him? Place a hand on his arm and say, “there there”? A million thoughts raced through my mind. Kick him out and vow never to see him again, or offer him a hot beverage? Curse him and any progeny he has running around out there, or kiss his forehead? In the end, I settled on comforting him, going toward him, putting my hand on his, and squeezing. With that one simple move, it was like I had entered a time warp. He linked his fingers through mine and squeezed back, and as he did this, my pulse quickened and my senses sparked to life, my skin seeming to remember his touch.

When he kissed me, it was like I felt everything; I could feel the blood running through my veins, felt the tiny hairs all over my body prick up as my skin erupted in goosebumps, behind my closed eyes, I could almost feel my pupils dilate. My body seemed to remember him as his big arms wrapped themselves around me, almost crushing me against him. Nestled against him, feeling as if we were the perfect fit, our bodies were meant to be against each other, my mind screamed out for him as my panties dampened. If I tried hard enough in my mind, it was almost like we were back at the old house, as if no time had passed at all. Everything felt the same, except better. His tongue in my mouth felt the same way it did two years prior, but it also felt different. Was it that my response to him was more in-tune somehow? Or was it the longing of years passed?

I wondered if his tongue and fingers would feel the same, or his cock? ‘Oh God, his cock,’ I thought, moaning against his mouth, feeling desire welling up inside me. His hands roamed over my body, down my back, and to my ass, grabbing and squeezing. There was an urgency between us, trying to make up for lost time, but also, not wanting to let slip any more precious seconds.

My hands made quick work of his jeans, unbuckling the belt, feeling his cock grow harder as deft hands moved. His trousers were quickly pushed down to his ankles, the only thing now between me and his cock, were his black boxer briefs. My fingers played with the elastic waistband, slowly pulling the fabric, slipping it over his erection until it sprang free. Wordlessly I sank to my knees, never breaking eye contact with him. Slowly I stroked his cock, staring up at Anthony, looking deep into his eyes. I made sure to watch him watching me as I extended my tongue and flicked it in the tip, and then sucked on the head. Anthony inhaled sharply, his hand on my shoulder, gently playing with the fabric of my top. His cock stiffened further in my mouth as I sucked, the shaft rigid against my tongue. Still gazing at him, I sucked him deeper into my mouth, my lips gliding along the stiff length.

“My God,” I heard him mumble. “You’re so sexy.”

His cock inched its way further in my mouth, and I could feel my throat start to constrict, ready to gag. My eyes started to water ever so slightly. Just as I was about to do it, just as I was about to take his cock, there was a loud knock on the door. We both groaned out of frustration.

On slightly shaky legs I stood, smoothing down my clothes.

“My bedroom is through there,” I said to Anthony, pointing the way. I watched his naked figure walk through the house, wondering if it would be awkward if somehow I had ruined the moment. It had been so perfect, it felt so natural, but the loud rasp on the door had broken that magic.

I answered the door to a fumbling idiot, who didn’t know his left from right. It felt like it took him an age to count out to the change from the cash I’d handed him. I was desperate to get back inside, to try and recapture the moment from before. Anthony’s cock belonged in my mouth, but now this? And all because I had ordered stupid Chinese food. He was counting out loud, starting over twice after he lost his place. It took every fiber of my being to not slam the door on the guy, but finally, finally, the transaction was complete, after a painstaking amount of time.

Leaving the food on the counter, I padded down the hall to my room, undressing as I went, even though I felt awkward. Somehow, I had expected Anthony to have left. Jumped out a window perhaps and done a runner. Slipped past me and the moronic delivery boy without either of us seeing, somehow, but no, he was there on my bed, nude, idly stroking his erect cock. A smile lit up his handsome features when he saw me there, also naked, in the doorway.

I almost ran to him, eager for not only his body but for him as a person. I wanted his mind, his entire being, the depths of his soul. I wanted to reach Anthony and have a connection. Like a bitch in heat I was on him, kissing him, our hands exploring each other. Laying on his back, my kisses traveled down his body until I reached his cock, picking right back up where I had left off. I managed half of his cock on the first try, having to ease off slightly and build back up to it. I tried again, this time managing more of his length in my mouth.  I heard him groan and felt his balls twitch by my chin. Not wanting to leave them out, I focused my efforts lower.

Teasingly, I dragged slow fingertips across his balls, which elicited a shudder from Anthony. I held them in my palm and felt their soft weight, warm in my hand. I cradled them and tugged on them gently. Continuing on with the teasing, I flicked the tip of my tongue and licked them slowly, tracing over them. Anthony’s breathing was heavy now, and he was groaning slightly, however, I would not be put off my course. I wanted to tease him, drive him near to the point of orgasm before I eased off again. I let out a soft giggle, satisfied with my plan. I sucked on his balls one after the other, agonizingly slow with my tongue, enjoying how they felt in my mouth. I nipped the sensitive skin ever so gently with my teeth, smiling to myself when I heard his vocal reaction to my ministrations. I eased off when I felt his balls tense slightly in my mouth. I didn’t want him to cum too soon, I felt selfish, wanting to tease him longer.

I waited a couple of minutes, my mouth hovering behind his balls, not doing or touching anything. When I felt it was safe again, when the threat of him cumming had eased off, I started again. I went lower than his balls this time, using my tongue on the most intimate and sensitive of areas. I lavished attention on his perineum, using long sweeps of the tongue from there to his balls and back again.

“Oh God,” I heard him breathe.

I ventured lower still, my mouth on the precipice of his asshole. Almost cautiously at first, I licked around the area, but when I heard Anthony’s low moan of delight, I grew bolder, and soon I was rimming him. A hand snaked up to his cock, and I gently started stroking. His shaft pulsed in my grip, and his breathing was coming in ragged sighs. Flattening my tongue, I gave his asshole a broad lick. He tensed. Stiffening my tongue, I dove it into his ass, feeling his cock harden further. I did it again, the point of my tongue flicking over and inside, happily rimming him. He let out a loud moan, begging me not to stop. His cock tensed and relaxed several times in my hand, and I felt a warm liquid run down over the fist I had around his shaft. His balls were tensing too, releasing cum.

He was quiet for several seconds as I slowly eased myself up and away from his lower half. His cum had painted my hand and his stomach in long white streaks. Once more watching him, I extended my tongue and licked it all up. He gave a weak smile. “You’re quiet,” I eventually said, watching the rise and fall of his chest.

“Oh hell,” he said. “That was…”  He went silent again, his eyes staring at the ceiling, trying to find the words. “Incredible,” he said, finally settling on an adjective.

My pussy was soaking wet, my own body needy for release, but we stayed fixed in place, trapped in time, just staring at each other. “Your eyes,” Anthony said. “Look innocent.”

“Innocent?” I asked in a derisive tone.

“Yes,” he said. Whether he was intentionally ignoring my slightly mocking tone, or he had never noticed, I didn’t know. “Your eyes have always held a look of innocent wonder. It’s quite wonderful, really, because they look youthfully naive, but then you’re incredibly dirty and sexually self-assured. Your eyes were the first thing I noticed about you.”

I didn't know whether to smile or cry. Was there any way I could do both?

All the years I hated Anthony, and all the years I had vowed to hate him more, seemed insignificant now - how very juvenile of me. I felt terrible, yes, but it didn’t seem to matter now. When I looked over at his face, I saw a solemn look. He looked younger than he was - he’d always had that gift of seeming to age slower than everybody else, yet it was his eyes that gave him away. I saw pain beneath the surface, deep unhappiness, and barely repressed emotion. I wanted to reach out and comfort him, perhaps ease some of that sadness, but something was holding me back. Despite the many intimacies we had shared, both from years ago and only again now moments earlier, I still had my guard up around him. I still was not allowing myself to become too relaxed near him.

“You okay?” he asked.

“No,” I said, my voice cracking slightly,  barely able to conceal the tears I felt behind my eyes. Anthony reached out a hand to comfort me, but I stayed his hand, moving slightly away from him. Swallowing hard, forcing composure on myself, I took a deep breath in, and then out.

“I can’t keep doing this, Anthony.”

“Doing what?” he asked, but I could tell by the look on his face that he knew.

"This,” I said. “We’re either together or we’re not.”

“But we don’t work when we’re together.”

“Okay then, we’re not together,” I said with more finality than I felt inside.

“Jade...” His voice was quiet, his brow creased. “Why are you so cruel? Don’t you at least want to try?”

“You just said we don’t work. I can’t keep putting myself through this emotional hell. I’ve done it twice before in the past, I don’t care for it. You tell me you love me and then leave, I-”

Anthony cut me off. “I’m not leaving this time.”

“You’re not leaving?” I asked dumbly.

“If you’re willing to try, then so am I.”

“I don’t want to play games.”

“No games,” he said. “You call the shots, Jade.”

‘I call the shots,’ I thought, turning that phrase over and over in my mind.

“Look,” he said, sitting up now. “If it doesn’t work out between us after this, then at least we tried? If it doesn’t work out after this, then we both move on for good. No more silly little games or anger or hatred, right?”

“Right,” I replied, whispering.

“But we do this properly. We have to at least try.”

I nodded.

“I just have one request,” he said.

‘Oh of course,’ I thought sarcastically, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. ‘He has a terms and conditions.’

“We promise not to hold each other down too much.”

“Are you kidding me?”

Anthony held up his hands. “Hold your tongue, Jade,” he said calmly. He then smiled to himself and shook his head slightly. “Your quick anger was always rather predictable. I don’t mean not holding each other down, as in me trying to get you to be okay with having other relationships, no. I mean, we start over again, take things slow. Go back to the beginning and see where that takes us.”

I considered everything he’d just said. I had a deep desire to be with Anthony, but I also wanted to avoid any more hatred and pain. But then, was he right? Did we at least have to try and see if it could work? I didn’t know what to think, my emotions were scrambled. When I looked at Anthony, I felt a deep desire, but then if I thought about it too much, I felt the need to protect myself so I didn’t get hurt again.

By now, he had shuffled over to me, and holding my chin he kissed me gently. His stubble scratching my face I found rather delightful, and I felt lust and longing burning back up inside me. Somewhere, from deep down within me, tears were still threatening, however, they were starting to ebb away, the tides of desire dragging them out to sea.

Taking my left tit in his mouth, he sucked on the nipple hard, playfully biting it and pulling. I let out a soft moan, my fingers running through his hair, coaxing him, torn between not wanting him to stop, to stay focused on my nipples forever, but also wanting him to move on. He nipped at the skin playfully, alternating between soft and hard bites, his palm finding my other tit, grabbing and squeezing it, twisting on the right nipple.

I was dripping wet, and almost on the verge of begging him to fuck me, but I didn’t want to stop. His stubble grazed against my tit, and it hurt slightly, but it was a wonderful pain that drove me wild. I was on the verge of orgasm. From the simple touch of my tits, I was on the edge of cumming. I could bear it no longer. Almost violently I pushed his head away from my chest, holding his face in my hands.

“Fuck me,” I said. Smiling, he dove back into my tits, managing to barely capture a nipple in his mouth. He bit down hard. I moaned. “Please,” I said. “Fuck me.”

He bit down a second time and then released, a cool breeze instantly hitting the skin, after the warmth of his mouth and tongue. Anthony eased himself on top of me, my legs on his shoulders. I felt his cock head run up and down my slit, parting my lips. He nudged it against my clitoris and my body tensed.

“Please,” I begged, not knowing how much longer I could hold on. I needed him. I needed his cock inside me.

Slowly I felt his cock enter me. He was almost painfully slow, his cock opening up my pussy lips and entering me. I shifted my position ever so slightly, lifting my head so I could see. My forehead rested on Anthony’s chest, and I watched him sink his shaft deeper inside me. I watched it disappear deep in my pussy. I moaned from the dual stimulation, not only feeling his cock go deeper but watching as inch by inch, I took more of him. When his entire length was inside me, I stopped him. I had to see this, my eyes needed to devour the image that was in front of me. My eyes took in the scene of our bodies connected together; his cock and my pussy, the way my body had welcomed him deep inside, and the way I’d been able to slowly take his length, the delightful stretching sensation of his girth as he pushed deeper inside. His balls rested against me, between my ass cheeks.

It wasn’t just the physical connection, though; I felt a flicker of something deep inside me. A small voice in the back of my head that I found I couldn’t silence. Something was here, something was between us.

I shifted my head again and found Anthony was gazing at me. There was a look in his eyes I couldn’t read. Lust? Perhaps melancholy?

“I love you,” he said in a small voice.

He didn’t wait for me to answer, or for me to confirm to him my feelings. Perhaps he was scared I wouldn’t return the sentiment? Maybe he couldn’t bear it if I didn’t?

His thrusts were slow and measured, and my head fell back onto the soft mattress below, my body feeling blissful weightlessness. I stared up at the ceiling, but I found I couldn’t focus my gaze on anything, I was too preoccupied with the sensation of my pussy being full of cock, my mind wondering why the hell it had taken me two years to have sex again, why I had waited so long. But I knew the answer, it had been right in front of me all along.

His strokes were masterful, the movements of his cock very deliberate, eliciting all manner of sounds out of me, as well as sensations. I didn’t know whether to enjoy the slow build-up or beg him to fuck me harder. I watched his face, saw the crease of concentration across his brow, his mouth open slightly, soft groans escaping his lips. He shut his eyes and I saw new lines of tension in his face as he sped up his fucking. I clutched at his back, wanting to hold him and never let go, despite the fact that my body was almost crushed under his with my ankles up on his shoulders. My nails dug into his flesh, the slow build-up starting in my pussy and gently radiating out.

I felt flush, hot in the face all of a sudden, but my body crept higher toward orgasm. Sensing this, Anthony sped up, his body slamming into mine. “God, you’re wet,” I heard him whisper. It was all over for me. I came hard, my pussy gripping his cock as my hips rolled and thighs trembled. I closed my eyes and swore I could’ve seen stars behind my eyelids. My hearing faded in and out, my senses dulling slightly and then becoming aware again, alive with sensation. I heard Anthony’s voice as if from far away when he said, “I’m getting close.”

“Oh God,” I heard myself say.

“Tell me how bad you want it, baby.”

“Please,” I breathed. “Please cum for me.” Anthony grunted. “Cum for me,” I begged.

“Tell me where you want it.”

“I want it in my pussy. Cum in my pussy.”

I watched his taut stomach muscles clench with tension, and then relax. His cock buried deep inside me, I felt him twitch, his legs shaking, emptying the contents of his balls in my pussy. He was immobile for several seconds afterward, the rise and fall of his chest rapid, his breathing heavy. Only when he started to go flaccid did he slide out of me, his cock hitting the mattress below with an almost heavy sounding thud.

He lay down on his back, closing his eyes, his breathing slowing down. Stretching myself out next to him, a dull ache behind my knees, I wondered if he had fallen asleep. “I love you,” I said in a soft voice.

He didn’t answer me straight away. Perhaps he had fallen asleep?

“I know,” came his eventual reply. “I love you too.” 

Published 
Written by laura
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