Bashert

It's late, and I'm awakened by soft, occasional moans coming from Jake's room. If this were another time, I would know they are the moans of self-pleasure. But they're not. They're moans of pain and sorrow. His wife just died. I know how much he loved her. I know how, after so many years with her, a man of such passion, such ability to give and receive love will have a very difficult time getting through this. I know all of this because he's my best friend. And my lover.

Jake and I have been lovers for years. And more than that; we were friends first, and have been since. We're connected on more than just the physical level. And yet, neither of us was willing to leave our spouse or to give up the life we each led and so ours has been an illicit affair - a love affair for sure - but never being able to be for and to each other all we wished we could be.

This is most obvious in the very distinct boundary he drew from the start of our relationship; no sexual intercourse. When I first told him of my feelings for him, his response was, "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't attracted to you Kayla, but I can't have sexual intercourse with you." Then he kissed me. And so it began. Jake believed that everything else was not adultery, not really - and we did do everything else - but intercourse crossed that line. I even suggested anal intercourse, but for him that was too close. I happen to disagree with his belief, but I respect it. So we are careful of our passions, keeping them in check and occasionally backing off when things get too tempting. There are times when we are caught up in our passion and I tell him how much I want him, want to feel him inside me. On one occasion I even told him rather emphatically that I wanted to fuck his brains out. Highly unlike me, at least at the time. But it's his love and passion that has awakened in me needs and desires previously buried in my sexual treasure chest. And I say things I never thought I could say out loud.

I'm a widow for some time. Jake was there for me then, as I want to be for him now. I'm here in his home to be a friend, to provide comfort, to offer a shoulder to cry on, and whatever else he needs. I don't entertain the thought of sexual intimacy during this difficult time. When those thoughts enter my head - and they undoubtedly do...I'm only human, after all - I acknowledge my desire for him and brush the thoughts aside, telling myself this is neither the time nor the place for that. I won't take advantage of the situation that way.

I stand there listening. If his were moans of pleasure, I'd gladly join him and offer to help or just watch. We've always been open about masturbating, have even done it while the other watched. I'm always fascinated watching this "tall, dark and handsome", physically fit guy with those big blue eyes, pants around his ankles and hand wrapped around his swollen cock. Of course, he liked to watch me, too and we both enjoyed it just as much when we did it over the phone. He would tell me how I was so much prettier than those girls on the websites; that he loved my dark blonde hair especially now that it was longer and curly and that my breasts were the perfect size to fit in his hands even if I did say they were too small. We always seemed to know what to say and do for each other. But right now I don't know what to do for this man, my friend and lover. Do I check if he's ok? Maybe he's crying in his sleep; would I wake him? Does he want to be alone? Wouldn't he come to me if he needed to talk, to cry, to be held? I want to go to him, to put my arms around him and tell him it will be okay in time. But he's not ready to hear that. It's too soon and he needs time to heal.

I remember how difficult those first days were for me and this past week I longed to help him somehow. I had no magic words, only my usual offer of love and friendship, caring and support. But I could hardly give him that, not with all those people around. As he was surrounded by so many well-intentioned people, I kept my distance. And yet, we always spoke to each other in a private language - gestures and looks that only we understood. So I let him know in our own special way - a gentle touch on his arm as I walked by, a loving smile from across the room, a knowing wink. And in his time of great need, he accepted my offer to stay with him and take care of him for a while. That's why I am here in the middle of the night.

I share this brief history so you'll understand the significance of what happens next.

Maybe I should knock on the door. Or just go in and sit next to him. He's probably asleep. Oh! I hate having to question myself, my every move. If he were a woman friend, I wouldn't think twice. But he has taught me so well that because we are the opposite sex our friendship, even in its most platonic state, was suspect. And so I've learned to think before I act, to question my usually on-target instincts when it comes to him. But there's nobody here now to witness my attempts to comfort my friend. And he is, after all, my friend. Listen to me, defending myself - to myself - alone in the darkness.

I approach Jake's room, knock softly and open the door. On his side, his face turned away from me, he is engaged in a restless sleep. Quietly, I sit on the edge of the bed. My fingertips instinctively caress his forehead. In my head I think of all the things I want to say, and I whisper in his ear, "Whatever you need, whatever you want, please let me be there for you. I love you."

I'm about to stand when I hear the rustle of sheets and feel his hand reach out for mine. "Don't go Kayla... please." He turns to me and I look back at him. As the hall light casts a shadow on a week's worth of unshaven facial hair and sad, teary eyes, I can't help but notice how handsome his face is, even in his sorrow. He pulls me toward him and kisses me. Naturally I respond with the kind of passion that has always exemplified my love and desire for him. Death hasn't changed that. I move on top of him, straddling him without breaking the kiss. I feel different. Technically, we are not committing adultery and that makes all the difference in the world. "This is different, isn't it?" His words echo my thoughts but I hesitate before answering, "I don't feel guilty. And I feel guilty that I don't feel guilty. Shouldn't I?"

"What are you afraid of?" he asks. Jake knows me so well that he knows from where inside my questions come. He probably knows the answers already. Incapable of anything but the absolute truth with him, I tell him, "I'm afraid that when you are with me you will think of her, that..." I hesitate as he awaits the end of the statement "...that you'll call out her name, not mine." He pulls me to him and kisses me, and in that kiss I know he won't ever call out her name.

He throws the covers off and pulls me closer. His hands travel across the fine silk barrier between us. I sit up as he removes my robe. As it falls behind me, I pull the bottom of my chemise up over my head and toss it aside. He touches me all over. I feel the heat everywhere his hands come to rest on me. My whole body is aflame, my skin is burning and my blood is boiling with desire.

Jake wants to give, always has. I let him lead the way, granting him this healing opportunity. He pulls me closer, taking one nipple in his mouth. His mouth is warm and wet as he nourishes his soul at one breast. And then the other. My breasts tingle as they become full with excitement. He pushes me onto my back and lays alongside me, our feet resting on the pillows. His hand trails my body as his expert fingers find their way to my sweet spot. He bathes his hand and my clit in the liquid fire between my legs. The tingling spreads from my breasts, concentrating in a heated pool in my lower belly. My body doesn't understand the fear I expressed just minutes ago. It only knows passion, energy and desire for this man. It only knows that what Jake is doing to me is about to culminate in an incredible explosion.

My passion continues to build, and in just moments the waves will crash against the shore of my love for him. As each wave washes over me, my body convulses and I hear myself moan with pleasure. He continues to stroke me ever so gently. He doesn't stop until I come a second time, harder and faster than the first. Slowly he extends his touch along my thighs and across my belly leaving a wet trail, as if to mark a path to find his way back later.

I catch my breath as my heartbeat slows a bit. I lean over to kiss him. He smiles and kisses me back, pushing up against me. I feel his excitement. I pull his bottoms off, and reach down to stroke him, feeling the paradox between his legs; the softness of the skin and the hardness of his desire. I lower myself to him and take him in my mouth. I never liked doing a man this way until him. I love doing it to Jake. Maybe it was a replacement for not having him inside me all those years. He tastes warm and masculine. With my tongue I wet the head, shaft and balls. I lick him up and down, lavishing the shaft with my hungry licks and kisses. Then I suck on the head while stroking him. His moans tell me to keep going. His fingers gently stroke my hair. He always liked touching my hair while I sucked on him.

Not expecting any change in the previously defined boundaries of our relationship, I fully intend to suck his cum right out of him, as I have done many times before. And then, he stops me. My immediate thought is that he has decided not to go through with this. But he sees the look on my face, and reassures me, "I want to come inside you, okay?" Okay? Oh God, yes! I had fantasized about this for as long as I'd known him, and now he was offering himself to me completely.

So I climb on top of him, feeling the anticipation building as he guides his erection toward me. With one hand supporting my backside, he enters me, filling me, making me feel whole in every possible way. Engaging in the once-forbidden act is a moment to savor, and he takes his time. "I don't want to come yet" he says. So I whisper in his ear, "Fuck me now, hard and fast. We have the rest of time to do this slowly." We start to move, finding a rhythm all our own. His movements become faster, and I meet his every thrust. I know he can't hold back and in the next instant he fills me as he cries out "Kayla!" I rest against him and a tear falls on his chest. He feels it. "I love you" he says. And I know he does.

You may think he's heartless, making love to another woman just a week after his wife died. Perhaps he is. Perhaps I am selfish, because I let him do this. But then we should never have begun or continued the affair while we were married to other people. So, this is who we are. Even for all the times we tried to stop the affair and return to a platonic relationship, desire didn't subside. Sincere efforts, but futile nonetheless. Always, we were drawn back to each other. The moth to the flame, I suppose. So, we have learned to live with ourselves as the people we choose to be. Life is too short for anything less than this kind of pleasure.

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