I haven’t seen you in four years, but we both know we’re going to fuck.
At other times we might have said it. We might have found our excitement in mutual anticipation, and we’d whisper all the filthy things we planned to accomplish.
But this isn’t like other times. It’s not a time for blatancy or acknowledgment for that matter. You have a million things to lose, and I have nothing, which is a dangerous combination considering our turn-ons.
So we talk quietly about polite things. We sit in the restaurant and laugh from our heads without letting our fingers ever touch. If we flirt, it’s with the bartender or the waitress. If we imply anything, it’s our happiness and contentment. When we lie, it’s about dreams and aspiration.
At your hotel, I come up to your room without us commenting on it. You don’t invite me up, and I don’t ask. But we ride the elevator up to the fifteenth floor and walk the cold corridor to your suite.
Inside you take off your dress and fold it on a chair. There’s nothing sexy about it, and both of us are still denying everything. When you turn to me, stark naked, I can see the four years we’ve missed in every ounce of your body.
I step closer and shake my head. When I touch your shoulder, you flinch for a moment, and I don’t smile.
The change comes in a flash, and it’s not polite. I push you to the ground, and my cock is in my hand full of arrogant aggression. You choke instantly, gagging as you take me into your throat again and again until tears are running down your cheeks.
When your mascara begins to let go, I pull you up by the hair and push you onto the bed on your stomach. I’m still dressed, but it’s not important. It was never important.
You open yourself with two fingers, and for a second it all stops. I can smell old cigarettes on the carpet, and the sounds of traffic are instantly deafening. You moan something that sounds like a growl.
I say nothing as I bury myself within you and grip your ass with both hands. We meet each other with frantic and ugly thrusts which only grow more fierce. We’re fucking again, and we’re not fucking at all. My cock is throbbing, and you’re rubbing your clit so hard you cry.
When I let my weight fall onto you, pushing you into the bed, you finally stop moving. It’s only me, thrusting again and again as you bit your arm to keep from talking. I remember nothing as I let myself go in the blind fury of using your body. I think of nothing as I fuck you except for coming. Except for release.
When you come you sound angry. Grunts and tears and begging for more come from both of us.
At the last moment, I roll you to your back and look into your eyes as I take you again. For some reason, I slow down until all I can feel is your cunt clenching around me–swallowing me as I fill you.
When I come I stop crying. You touch my face, and I kiss you for the first time in four years. On the bed in your hotel, fifteen floors above traffic, our eyes close but our bodies remain motionless. I’m still inside you and that matters.
When we finally wake from our dream, we don’t forgive each other. Only ourselves. Only our battered but unbroken selves, too tired to retain even a hint of destruction.