Mr. M Comes to Visit

She knew that no good could come of it. That's what she kept telling herself as she tidied the house, straightened her skirt, checked her lipstick. No good. And yet the house kept getting tidier. No cancellation phone calls were made. The lipstick was fresh and inviting with just a hint of melon scent. She knew better, but held onto the belief that it had been a long time, and that any concerns would vanish the moment he saw her--saw that she was no longer 17, no longer shiny and new. They would spend the evening chatting up old times, he would try to be pleasant, and certainly not let on that she was no longer the attractive, naïve thing that she once was. She was sure she'd feel the same: just revisiting some old memories with a man who just happened to be there for most of the memories she'd deemed worthy of keeping. They had exchanged photos, she being so careful to make sure she sent 'the family one' where she looked like she belonged. And his photos had been inviting, but, then again, don't we all send our best? The ones that take off the pounds, the years, the discontent?

So there she was, holding on to her contradictions. No good could come of this. Nothing will happen anyway. If nothing happened, would that be 'no good'? It didn't matter, she was sure. Because the evening would pass, and life would remain exactly how it had remained for the past seven years, and she would let the routine break only momentarily enough to catch up with this old friend. She would focus on the common friends, the school days, the moments of laughter they had shared. She would not allow herself to dwell on the other moments-- the first time she felt his lips, the feel of his hand against her thigh, the long slow teases they had shared in the dark. She refused to think about the first time she felt him become hard and about the change that it had produced underneath her panties, about the evenings they had spent hugging and rubbing and, God, how amazing it was the first time those jeans were undone and she had actually gotten to see IT. IT in all its glory. How she'd never wanted anything so badly, and how she had managed to abstain. But not completely. Not without a touch, a smell, a taste. Things she could still pull up from the depths of her memory. But no, she must not pull them up tonight. She must not think about how he looked between her legs, about the pleasure he had taken in making her shudder like that, about the way he clung to her and refused to let go as she bucked against----no, she must not think about that.

And with that, she was wet before he even knocked.

Could he tell, do you think, when she opened the door? Was there a hint of something in the air besides the melon lip gloss? His smile was an unpredictable mixture of kindness and mischief. Most certainly the long distance flirting had been a bad idea, she now surmised. As she stuttered and trembled her way through the formalities of reacquaintance, she wondered if he had not noticed that she, well, for lack of poetry, wasn't as pretty and young anymore. She led him through the house quickly, with no pretense of hiding her nervousness. Actually she was far too nervous to even notice her nervousness. She led him room-to-room, showing him furniture, books, paintings until there was nothing left to do but actually look at him. The silence seemed painfully loud, but he replaced it quickly with a "Come here." She had never been able to deny him (other than that one thing which some young women feel obliged to deny some young men). And so she went to him, standing there, wondering what he might be thinking.

"Don't be so nervous," he whispered. As he wrapped his arms around her, she melted in memories. Yes, this was what he felt like! This was how he smelled! And this was how he brought her comfort, took away her fears, made her feel alive. In that brief moment he managed to sweep away the distance, the awkwardness, the hurt that she had felt when it was over. They were replaced with the warmth of a friendship that was deeper than lust, deeper than the heartache had been. That's when she realized it-- it didn't matter what they had shared in the past. Sure, she had been attracted to him, but that was nothing in comparison to having back such a friend. As he held her tightly, she realized that it was enough. Most likely, she would not have allowed anything else to happen anyway. Even still, she couldn't deny that he was just as beautiful as always--even more so. The years had added a grace to his features, an intellectual superiority, and a maturity that would have made him even harder to resist (had he made an effort).

The hug may have lasted a little longer than usual, but it didn't seem to last long enough. Not to her. As he released her, and reality set back in, she realized that time had not stood still, and that not all of the nervousness had magically vanished from his touch. She smiled at him and turned away to find something with which to busy herself . Maybe she could make some coffee, maybe some tea, maybe just a whole big dinner to keep her occupied. But as she moved away from him, walking toward the next room, she felt his grip again. His arm had caught her around the waist, and he pulled her back to him, nestling his face in her long blonde hair. In a moment of shock, she stood perfectly still, alert to the sudden change in his demeanor. Torn between fear and absolute desire, her body pressed against his without a shudder. She felt his mouth move to her ear.

"I want you." The words fell from his lips to the very depths of her heat. She wondered if he could feel it through his jeans, wondered if the room had actually gotten hotter when her desire escalated. But she took his hand, calmly removed it from her blue dress, and simply replied, "Good to know," with a smile. And it had been good to know. She wouldn't have assumed such a thing...that he would still be aroused by her. But he was, she was sure of it, sure that she felt something extra when he had held her close. God she wanted it, wanted to bend down right there in the family room and taste it once more. Wanted to roll her tongue over it and remember the sweet flavor of her friend. How much she longed to show him that she had paid attention during their tutoring sessions, that she still remembered his pleasure spots, that she was more willing than ever to please him. But certainly, she was in no position to be making a move on this man; surely it was enough to know that the attraction was still...

He began to unzip his jeans and she had absolutely no doubt that she should look away, or ask him to leave, or (at the very least) not drop to her knees and lick it. But there she was. And there it was. And yes, it tasted as perfect as she'd remembered. And the smell, well it was his smell; she'd never forgotten it. So, as she kneeled before him, she watched the expressions of pleasure creep across his face. From underneath his rod, she could lick and suck and watch his need increase. She could grab him from behind and slowly take in the length of him, filling her mouth--her throat--with his desire. God, it was so smooth, so hard, and throbbing for her. Throbbing from the silky hot friction of her lips, from the loving twirl of her tongue, from the sweet sensation of her sucking. She loved every second of it. She loved to feel the head slide between her lips, and to feel how tight the shaft became against her tongue. She gasped with excitement as the first juices dripped for her, and she lapped them up readily, rubbing his cock all over the outside of her mouth in a moment of pure need. She was so wanton when it came to him, so shameless.

Then she was jolted. No good can come from this. How could she? She knew better!

"I'm sorry," she breathed as she arose from her knees. "I shouldn't have."

"No, no, you should have. You should," he replied. Then he claimed the mouth where his manhood had just been, filling her so completely that she couldn't say no. As he pressed against her, hard and ready, she found herself kissing him back, sucking desperately on his tongue, needing more. But again, she pushed him away.

"Is that what you want?" he asked, "Do you really want me to quit? Tell me now and I'll respect your decision."

"Yes, I really want you to quit." The words rolled around in her mind, bounced from synapses to synapses, but never managed to make it out of her mouth. She said nothing, only straightened her skirt and walked away. She knew what it meant to walk away. She'd done it with other men before him, and they had been respectful enough to let her go. Surely, he would be so kind as to do the same. Surely he wouldn't make her say words she didn't mean. It was her duty to say no, to be the lady. So why, when she walked away, did she walk into the bedroom? Did she really feel she'd be safe there? Would her pretty white comforters and fluffy pillows somehow protect her? If only he would take the hint and leave, she thought. But was that really the hint she'd given? She looked down at her big fluffy feather bed and tried not to think about it, tried not to think about how quickly she'd fallen back into him, and how greedily she had wanted to devour him. Instead she would concentrate on the bed, she thought. Straighten out the wrinkles, smooth the corners. She started with the close corner and slowly started pressing out the other lines, bending, stretching to reach them.

She was bent halfway over the bed when he came upon her. Whether she was giving an invitation or not, he accepted.With one strong arm, he pushed her to the bed, her legs still firmly planted on the floor. Lifting her skirt, he found what he had hoped for-- a wet, willing, and surprisingly unclad recipient to his affections. He was rock hard for her now, and showed her so by rubbing the outside of her wet pussy with his cock. It would be so easy to slip inside of her, take her (supposedly) against her will. But this was the one thing she had refused him in the past. Tonight, he wanted her to offer it freely, and he thought that she might. He pushed her legs farther apart, and as one hand still held her down, the other began to trace a path up the inside of her thigh, slowly bringing her sensations to a peak. She could feel his long fingers exploring her. It was more than a little embarrassing to think that he was now aware of how intensely she had wanted him, her wetness told a story that her words could not deny. As he ran his fingers over the entrance to her passion, she felt a warm rush, a swelling of need. And as one sweet finger lightly brushed across it, she heard herself gasp for the first time, found her legs spreading farther apart without any coercion, wanting—needing—just one more touch. Aching for just the slightest little rub. Elbows on the bedspread, knees locked, pussy proudly showing itself, she soon became aware that she was pushing herself closer to him. She needed this. Still, she would not look back toward him; instead she closed her eyes in hopes that she could pretend it was just a figment of her imagination.

But then she felt it—the ecstasy of his mouth. She melted as he lapped up her wetness, and prodded her slowly with his long silky tongue. She found herself pressing against his face, pushing, needing just one more lick, just one more sweet suck. Though her eyes were still closed, she could see him; she could recall the way he had looked as he had spread her legs that first time. The way he had seemed so enthralled as he had taken her juices, and claimed her tight pussy with his mouth. But then, as his tongue encircled her clitoris, the memories were swept away. Nothing had ever felt this amazing. Nobody, no moment could compare with this. She climbed onto the bed and faced him, hoping he would not think she was trying to get away. He didn't. Instead he removed his jeans, his shirt, his boxer shorts, and climbed up beside her. She hoped that he wouldn't try to push this too far; with her current level of desire, there was no way she could let him get away without giving her release, and she knew that she would most certainly show him her gratitude (he would not go away frustrated), but she did hope he realized that certain things were still off-limits. Still as she saw his nakedness there was nothing on earth she wanted more than to claim and to be claimed by him. As he began to remove her dress, she was shocked by her lack of desire to fight.

And there they were. Body to body. Pressed as tightly as two people can be without penetration. As he rediscovered her mouth, her hands explored his precious skin—his soft back, his hard biceps, his perfectly tight ass. As she kneaded his flesh, her desire became more fevered—so much so that she wished there was a way she could enter him, slide into his body, and know what it would be like to feel him from the inside. But her mind was not allowed to wander for long. Instead her thoughts were cut short by the reality of his need. He was hard, pressed against her inner thigh and her mound was responding by grinding against him. It was obvious that he was taking this as an invitation, but it had simply been a reflex of her desire. She was going to say something, tell him he might have misunderstood, but he managed to kiss her slowly, deeply before she had a chance. His tongue danced with her own, giving her a taste of her own bittersweet juices, and filling her with a need for more. And with that he pushed up, away from her, and smiled as his cock neared the entrance to her heat. She stopped her grinding, realizing that he had certainly gotten the wrong impression. No good could come from this at all! She could not allow this to happen.

"No," she moaned, almost convincingly.

"No?" he asked, pulling back.

"No," she managed, more assertively. But as she shook her head, it seemed more melodramatic than meaningful. "No good can come from this."

"Ah." He replied, as if he finally understood her. And pulling back even further from her body, he managed to remove his rod from its threatening position. Then, as she gave a sigh of relief, he thrust his cock deep inside of her, taking her breath away. Her back arched and her mouth opened wide as a contorted _expression of pain (or was it ecstasy?) passed across her face.

"No!" she screamed. "Fuck, no," but he continued to hold her down and enter her again and again, his own pleasure mounting as she bucked underneath him. Her nails clawed at his back with feverish intensity, scratching, ripping at him, but it just made him learn to hold those wrists of hers, and he paid her back with hard... deep...oh-so-powerful thrusts that left her panting underneath him. The more she tried to wriggle free, the harder he felt, the harder he slammed into her, the more fucked she actually was. But she kept trying, pushing, moving side-to-side, and he just kept taking her. The more she tried to break free, the tighter he held her. The more she cried out, the louder he moaned her name. His cock was ripe from the sensation of her pussy, from the silly little fight that she had no prayer of winning. Her every protest just made her feel more inviting, increasing his sensations of heat and friction and godlike power.

He fucked her as she begged, fucked her as she screamed, fucked her until the tears started rolling down her cheeks, and then he stopped. Ironically, he had never really meant to hurt her. He gingerly removed himself from her trembling body and lay next to her on the bed. She sat up, confused at his sudden change of heart. She wiped the tears from her face, but made no effort to leave.

"No," she moaned again.

"I know. I 'm so sorry. I didn't think you meant..."

"No, I mean, 'No, don't stop.'" He looked at her quizzically , wiped a remaining tear off of her cheek and held it up as if to show her why he had ceased from ravishing her.

"I don't usually cry," she said, "but it doesn't usually feel this good." She blushed, and he exhaled with relief, then watched as she gave his hard-on a long, deep kiss and readied herself for more. As she rose to her knees, he came up behind her and slid slowly into her wet, ready pussy. He could tell she was excited now; he could feel her fingers slip down to his shaft as she rubbed her clit. Her need had seemed to increase; once she had finally let herself go, she matched him thrust for thrust. Her moaning was low, seductive, high, almost shrill at times, but it was certainly the product of intense desire. In and in and in, their bodies churned the rhythm as her breasts bounced and her fingers played. In and in and in, their movements sped up as the sweet friction engulfed them both. And as he felt her tighten, he watched her contract, and he listened to how beautiful his name sounded during her orgasm. And he joined her. He clung to her hips, pressing against him, and let go as they rode each other into release. He throbbed and pounded and let his ecstasy flow freely into her until there was nothing left to do, then he laid down beside her again.

She smiled and curled up on his arm, waiting for her heartbeat to slow down and knowing that they would both fall asleep to the pleasure of wonderfully erotic dreams soon.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for joining me tonight."

"Nothing good can come from it," he goaded with a grin.

Ironic after all--.for certainly they had both come from it. And it had been much more than good.

Now they would sleep, intertwined, and they would live happily ever after until sunrise.