Cannon Song

At my gentle tug, she rolled to her back. My hand caressed her breasts and then moved lower. She limply let me spread her legs and rub her wet vagina. With a resigned sigh, she began to pull me between her legs. I began to sense that something was not quite right, a feeling that intensified as I heard an almost silent sniffle while she reached to guide me in.

At the sound, I moved back and sat on the foot of the bed. I wasn't hypersensitive about political correctness or the absurdly strained definitions of sexual harassment and rape that it spawned (they hadn't been popularly reported back then), but I'd long ago decided that recreational sex was only worth the potential hassles if the girl appeared to actively enjoy it, not just tolerate it. With my retreat, the sniffle evolved into active crying. I stretched out and embraced my bedmate as best I could, considering that she had drawn up in the foetal position. I also broke the rules and spoke, trying to comfort her.

After a few minutes, she cuddled to me a little and the crying subsided. When she spoke, it was Wendy.

In fits and starts, the cause of the crying began to emerge. Apparently her first partner had been John, recognized by a mole on his back. She was sure that he had not recognized her as she willingly engaged in sex with him. She was sure he hadn't cared who it was. As best I could tell, she was upset both because he had not recognized her and because he had been so willing to bed a stranger. Words like "just like a goddamn man," "can't think of anything except his dick," and "if he really loved me he would have . . ." came through the sobs. And then, after she had decided to get back at him by fucking the brains out of whoever showed up next, I had rejected her. Or maybe it was something else . . . coherency was not at a premium just then. I suppose I could have defended John, pointing out that anonymous sex in the dark was just what had been proposed and agreed to, by her, no less. But by some sweet miracle of dumb luck, I did the right thing. I just kept quiet and held her.

A few minutes of silence followed her torrent of words, and then I felt a small fingers on my penis. It had drooped, but now fought its way back to full staff. "I haven't been very fair to you, have I," she said quietly.

"You don't have to do anything for me," I said. "You have proof in hand that I find you sexy, but you've always known that anyway. Hey, no obligation."

She kept her hand there and whispered, "Uncle Miles?"

I winced. I had known this was an "Uncle Miles" moment from the instant I heard Wendy's voice, but I didn't want to hear the words. Not now. Not with her hand there.

Wendy and I had a relationship no one else knew about. It started years ago when she thought she needed a male friend to confide in over some problem with John. A Dutch uncle. Uncle Miles. As the trust between us grew, so did something else. A special love. Not the kind she felt for John, nor the kind I was coming to feel for Karen, but special. Intimate. Neither John nor Karen would ever have understood without feeling threatened. The words "Uncle Miles" had come to be the key to that special room where we admitted our vulnerability to each other, allowed ourselves to admit our feelings.

It also invoked the seal of the Confessional. Nothing said there was ever mentioned outside, even between us. She didn't turn that key often.

"Uncle Miles?" This time it was a plea.

"Uncle Miles," I agreed.

"You know I'm going marry John."

"I knew before you did, I think."

"You know I'm going to be that little missus. Faithful and loyal just like my Mom."

"It's the only way you could be."

"Miles, I was ready to fuck whoever came through that door. But I don't want that any more."

"I know. No obligation."

"That's not what I meant. I want you to make love to me. Just this once."

For the briefest instant I wondered whether this was going to be wrong. No more adventure, no anonymous sex in the dark. Something that could kill our relationship forever. Something that could kill my friendship with John. But I had to do it.

The words had been tender; the sex was not. It turned out neither of us was into foreplay. She quickly pulled me into missionary position and guided me into her. I almost came immediately, but fought it off and stayed hard. I continued to thrust until she moaned and came. As I started again to thrust, she pushed me off, saying she had to move. Quickly she was on her hands and knees. Doggy style was new to me, but I figured it out.

I wanted it to last forever. Thanks to a forced mental recitation of Horatio at the Bridge (the only poem I had memorized in high school,) I was not even close to coming when she had her next orgasm and fell forward on the bed. I followed her down and continued to thrust as she tilted her hips up to help.

Suddenly we were startled by the alarm, and I disengaged. Wendy quickly sat up and pulled me back to her as I stood up by the bed. One hand went around to my back, and the other encircled the base of my erection. Then I felt soft lips parted by the head of my penis. Her warm, wet mouth moved down my shaft while her hand moved up. I felt her tongue on the underside of my glans, following the ridges. Although I'd performed cunnilingus on some of my dates, this was my first time on the receiving end of oral sex.

The physical sensations were exquisite, but very idea of me in Wendy's mouth was even more overwhelming. In less time than it took to describe it here, I came. I think it surprised her, but she gamely held me inside until the last spasmodic quivers had ended. Then it was over.

I quickly donned my underwear and left the room. I heard the other two guys already there, getting dressed as I pulled on my own clothes. We slammed the door to let the girls know that we were gone.

For five minutes we stood in silence in the courtyard, scarcely believing what had happened, and, more bizarre yet, that the girls had talked themselves into it. I spent the time wondering whether I had just made a big mistake. When we returned, the girls were dressed in the living room. We quickly parted company, and Karen and I walked back to my dorm room.

On the way, I asked her if she had been able to recognize who she had been with, half hoping that she would reveal what had happened to her. Strangely, being with Wendy had made me feel even closer to Karen. I truly cannot tell you whether I would've rather been assured that nothing had happened in Karen's room, or whether I wanted to hear that she had shed her inhibitions with strangers in the dark.

I never knew, though, because she never said a word about what happened for the remainder of the time we saw each other. But then, neither did I.