“Just come in, we can turn around quick and drop off the burrito, roll a joint.” He made it sound so innocent. Part of me knew this wasn’t all that would happen, but I played along.
“Yeah, sure,” I said, and followed him into his plant-filled bohemian oasis of an apartment. We were “just” friends. The line had been drawn and we were not to cross it. But what was the line exactly? Intercourse? I’d just flashed him in the cafe so not the most platonic of gestures. He sat down on the leather couch and started to roll the joint. I put the burrito on the counter and looked at the photos of his girlfriend on the fridge. She looked so sweet and loving. I came to sit next to him.
“You do this thing with your mouth where you lick your bottom lip slightly. It’s very sexy.” He twirled his mustache like the douchebag hipster he was. I flushed.
“I didn’t realize.” I said, suddenly feeling a bit lightheaded and like I was already stoned even though we hadn’t even lit the joint.
“We’d better get going,” I said, “to the creek.” If we stayed on the couch much longer who knew what would happen. And with the way he was looking at me, it wouldn’t be long. He opened his legs a bit wider and I could see his bulge through his pants.
“We’re not going to cross the line, Rebecca. Just relax.” That was never a good thing to say to a woman, let alone a woman like me.
‘Just relax.’ That was the first chapter of what not to say. But I was still getting turned on. Every door in the apartment hallway opening and closing sent a thrill through me, the thrill of being caught.
She would barge in. “How could you?!” she’d scream. “Our sacred oath! Our intentions and manifestations!” Fucking hippies.
“Can I suck on your nipple?” He said, breaking my reverie.
“I mean, can you? Is that allowed?”
“Do you want me to?” he said emphatically. My thoughts drifted to the wetness pooling in my underwear.
“Yes,” I admitted, and with that he lowered his mouth to my chest, moving the top of my stretchy dress aside so that he could have better access. It felt so good I didn’t want him to stop but then my phone rang. It was James.
“Don’t pick it up,” he said with his heavy-lidded eyes and pouty lips, but I looked at him pleadingly, whether it was pleading for him to keep going or for me to get the phone I wasn’t even sure. I took the call. It was about getting my son from daycare.
“What does he want?” he practically slurred from his reclined position on the couch.
“To control me,” I said with a smirk. As if anyone ever could.
I crawled on top of him and kissed him long and deep. I then moved lower, kissing over his pants, over his package.
“Is this allowed?” I said breathily.
“I’d say so,” he smiled. I slid my mouth over his dick horizontally like it was a corn on the cob and I was rubbing the butter in with my lips, not taking a bite.
He got off the couch and came to kneel in front of me. He lifted up my dress and kissed my mound over my underwear, worshipping it. I just breathed. It’s fine. It’s over the underwear. It’s like it doesn’t even count, I thought.
“I have to go,” I said suddenly.
“Okay,” he answered but proceeded to flop his dick out of his pants. Semi-hard, average size and curving downward, I did not want it. But I still felt like a nasty wicked slut and when I got to my car I dove my hands under my panties, frantically sloshing my wetness around my clit.
The next morning I woke to a long hate message from the girlfriend. I should have felt some remorse about it, but instead, I felt… nothing. I wondered if I was a psychopath. I thought about all kinds of things I could respond with but instead, I said nothing.
