If anyone had told me that I would become this crazy and obsessed just by getting laid, I would have done it sooner.I mean, it’s been 2 weeks after it happened, but I still have it on my mind like it happened 2 hours ago.
People often say they still buzz long after a particular occurrence, I really didn’t understand what it meant until Morire and I did it on the couch 13 days ago.
I know very well that I am not supposed to be like this, it was not supposed to be like this… didn’t we already have that discussion about how it was just mistake and how we need to keep it at that so that we’ll continue being friends as we’ve been since primary 4?
We both agreed it was better left at that one time, we would be better without going down that lane again.
No emotions, no recurrence. We’ll just move on.
But how am I supposed to do that when most of my spare time, every unguarded moment, has been spent recounting and rehashing, reliving every single move he made, and how I, as if possessed, responded with equal fervor, lingering motion, heavily dependent on how intense his touch and thrusts were?
It’s been two weeks and I still remember every tiny detail, the way his lean muscles bunched, and how I raised a hand to wipe the little beads of sweat that crept out of his pores and stayed on his forehead while he touched me with those slightly-callused fingers.
I remember everything, every little detail – the way he tried and failed to keep himself from letting out the occasional moan, the way he seemed to know where to touch at the very exact time, and for how long. The way… Dammit! Enough of this torture. I’m going to call him now and ask to come see him.
We have to do this again.
Promises be damned. I don’t mind losing this friendship. We‘ve been at it long enough, anyway. 16 years is no joke. If I would lose this friendship, so be it.
I just need to let him know how much I need this.
Where the hell is that my phone, by the way? I thought to myself
He’d texted me that afternoon that he was ill and could not go to work. He also got two more work-free days to recover.
By the end of work hours on that third day, I went to visit him.
“Ahahn, Mesoma, you no tell me say you dey come na.” He said surprised to see me.
“I call your phone na. You no pick. I just assume say you dey sleep, and I no wan disturb you,” He replied.
Bla bla bla, we went back and forth. He had fallen asleep on the couch in the living room while his phone was charging in his room.
Apparently, he was a lot better by the time I visited. Feeling well enough for his family to let him be in the house by himself. His boss recently called for him to take the rest of the week off. So he was going to recharge his batteries for the remaining part of the week. He was pretty much my best friend, and though I am not sure I’m his best friend, at least I am certain I am his oldest – 16 years. We’ve been friends since we were in primary 4. I was 9 and he was 8. Now I am 26 and he, 25.
All through the years – secondary school and university- though we attended separate institutions, we managed to remain friends. Very close friends as a matter of fact. His family knew me very well, mine knew him very well.
As it was since we were kids, I was always going straight into his room whenever I visited, and same thing happened when he visited me.
I guess our parents just could not stop it when we grew. My parents only told me to be careful, and that happened only once. They probably thought we surely must be having sex already, and that was only their way of asking me to insist on condoms whenever we were to get at it. By some freak of nature, however, we never had sex. Not even a kiss, or any such thing. We were often on the same bed, most of the time at his place, and few times at mine. Nothing would happen.
Morire had been a friend like a brother… until that afternoon.
He was laid on the couch in one slightly-oversized shirt, with his head on my lap while we both silently fiddled with our phones and exchanged the occasional interjected remark about stuff we found online that we thought the other should know or hear about.
Absentmindedly I ran my fingers through his hair while still playing with my phone.
This went on for a while until he turned his head and made his face just a few inches away from my midriff and cleavage which my camisole gave quite a view of.
I don’t know what was special about how I was touching his hair, or what he had been thinking before I came; he reached out to a breast and confidently fondled.
It was not my first time of being fondled, but I was taken aback. A part of me wanted to smack his hand off, somehow I did not. Instead I just kept my eyes fixed on my phone, but I could no longer make sense of what I was looking at. My fingers in his hair had frozen by now too.
Morire just continued doing what he was doing- fondling and squeezing my boobs. His mastery of breast fondling was quite baffling. I was enjoying it, getting turned on until I couldn’t help it anymore. I heaved as pleasure began to pool in the lower part of my abdomen. Soon as he heard that, he raised his head from my thighs and came in for a kiss.
No slow motion bullshit as the silly romantic movies and books portray. No eye-gazing either. He just swiftly attached his lips to mine as if we’d been doing that since for a long time, as if he was sure I’d have no objection… I actually did not.
I was kissing him back as passionately as I could and by the time he sneaked out his tongue, I took it eagerly. The kissing was fervent in no time, hands roamed as a craze seemingly descended on us both.
His vest went first, leaving him in shorts alone. My camisole followed and that was when he finally slowed down. The sight of my big and firm 36 DD boobs actually took his breath away.
There they were, fairer than the rest of me, with the blackened areola and hardened buds contrasting beautifully against the breasts and the bra I wore – a black one with flecks of gold all over it.
It felt good to see him look at them with such open admiration and that was when he looked at me square in the eye and we both smiled, a sort of acknowledgement that we both understood what we were finally doing.
He came in for another kiss, and I met him half way. Our lips locked passionately, and we were touching each other in some feverish, maniacal manner- letting off that long-held, well-hidden sexual tension was not going to be easy anyway.
I smiled against his lips when he brought only one had behind me and tried to unclasp my bra and failed. He fumbled with both hands and closed one palm on my left breast as soon as the bra came off.
The fingers on that hand were twisting and squeezing the nipple on that boob like I had once told him the exact way I liked it being done, while the other hand cupped a side of my face as we continued kissing.
Words can’t ever accurately describe the thrill I felt when his finger first gently touched my clit, and my brain was so much in another place that I can’t even retell what happened for the next ten minutes. It was that magical.
When I couldn’t take it anymore, I helped him out of his shorts and he took me right there on that couch. (I can’t even remember where the condoms came from.)
I only remember how he did not even bother to enter slowly. Thankfully I was slick enough for it not to hurt. My legs were spread in the air, as my butt perched close to the edge of the couch.
For about four minutes, his thrusts were everything my existence was centered around. He hit me good for some seconds, paused and stimulated my clit, stroked me deep some more, repeat the clit rubbing. When he was about to cum though… his thrusts became really deep and rough… and by everything good in this life… I really, really loved it.
When he finally jerked few times, collapsed on me and we both began the post-ejaculation deep breaths, it felt like a climax indeed.
Where the hell is that damned phone again, I thought in frustration as I rummaged through my phone and looked around the somewhat- untidy table in my office.
I really needed to pour out these things from mind now that I’m feeling confident enough to do so.
If he felt I was being overdramatic because of sex, then so be it. I am really willing to risk his anger or rejection. We fucking need to fuck again. We need to.
Where the fuck in hell is this phone?????
Grrrrrrrrr….. grrrrrrrr…. It began buzzing somewhere around me.
I looked around and found it on the photocopier in the other end. I’d completely forgotten I was charging it.
I went over and found out it was my boss calling me.
“Mesooma, could you please come to my office now?” he asked.
“Errr… sure. Right away, sir,” I responded.
As I stood up and left the office, I knew I would not be calling Morire that day anymore.
There goes another day without my need being addressed.
I wonder how long it’ll take to finally make this desire known to my friend, and I wonder if he’ll grant it to me…