Lost Time Ch. 02

I know why I am single. It has nothing to do with my looks or how I am around others. Overall, I am an attractive woman, moderately successful, and comfortable with who I am and why. Social situations came easily to me in that I never feared talking to others or making friends of them.

My problem lies with the fact that I am a homebody at heart. I take more pleasure from staying at home with a good book than I do from a night out with the girls, unless of course, the mood to go out hits me. A big night for me is a few good movies, a bottle of wine, and a tub of popcorn.

It never bothered me until I came home from California, a day after my encounter with Chris in my parents' PT Cruiser. Right there in the middle of a parking garage, we had ravaged one another like frustrated rabbits. Never mind that we had no romantic history and had not seen one another for ten years. Never mind that within fifteen hours, I was on a plane back to Louisiana.

Chris had awakened a need in me that I had not felt in a few years, since my last boyfriend and I parted on less than wonderful terms. In the past two years, my outings with friends were punctuated by the fact that I was either a no-show, or the first to leave. I did not date, and in fact, in those two years, excluding Chris, I had engaged in sexual activity with another person only once. That experience is one that I still don't know whether to call tragic or comical.

Now, I felt like a caged animal. I had not yet unpacked, and I needed to get out of the house and be around people. I needed to do something with myself that did not involve much thought, for my thoughts were filled with none other than Chris.

For the most part, the conversation we had before the incident in the Cruiser stuck in my mind. We were so alike, compatible even. It seemed that in those few hours of conversation, we had caught up on the past decade without pause, never a second of awkwardness between us.

I kept checking my email, though he had not written. I kept hoping for the phone to ring, though when it did, it was either my best friend or my mother.

Then, during the quieter moments, I thought of his tongue teasing my clit, his fingers pushing up into me, enveloped in wetness. I thought of the way he felt inside of me as I rode him, and the way he tasted as he shot his load down my throat. In two days I masturbated to those images every time they invaded my thoughts. To count how many times the recollection made me come is impossible. To say that it was satisfying to masturbate to a memory would be a lie.

I wanted him. Of that, there was no question. I supposed that it was lust, a feeling that had eluded me for so long, but a part of me swore that there was more to it. Chris had become all that I looked for in a man, and never did I imagine that I would find it in him.

I regretted not making passes at him while we were in high school. I regretted not being able to get together with him earlier on during my visit West.

Did I bother to email or call him? Heavens, no! I have never chased a boy in my life. The temptation was there, but I resisted it, for I knew that it would only serve to make me edgier in waiting on a response to an email. To call him would leave me tongue tied from the get-go. If he did not email or call me within a week, I would know to leave that night, and most likely, Chris, far behind in my bank of fond memories.

When he actually did call, four nights later, I was too caught off guard to be nervous, even when he brought up the night in the Cruiser after the initial greetings.

"I just want you to know that I really enjoyed everything about that night," he began, and he cleared his throat. "I haven't stopped thinking about you since."

"I guess that makes two of us," I replied with a little sigh. I was sitting on the couch, sure that if I had been standing, my knees would have faltered so watery they felt. "If you had been able to stay, we could have done a lot more."

Did I really say that?

There was a smile in his voice. "Maybe it's wrong for me to admit it, but when I think about it, I have to... you know..."

I smirked to myself, barely aware as my hand slipped between my legs. "No. What?" He was going to say it. I had to hear him say it.

"Masturbate." He sounded embarrassed, and there was a sigh, as though he were kicking himself for saying anything at all.

"I'm glad, because I would hate to be the only one," I told him, made bold by his confession, and squeezing my legs around my hand. I was wearing a pair of boxer shorts, and the flannel felt all too warm against my aroused pussy.

"No way. You have?" He seemed relieved if a little unbelieving.

"If you keep this conversation up I'll do it right here and now," I told him, giggling so that he would wonder whether or not to take my words to heart.

I could hear it in the background, though, the gentle slapping of skin a man emits when he is stroking himself. It was steady and slow, and I just imagined his cock getting hard in my own hand as I tugged my shorts down. "Why don't you? I would do anything to see you spread wide and touching yourself because of me." His voice cracked a little, not unlike when he was a kid.

"You like the idea of getting me all hot and bothered? What would you do if I told you that I was touching my pussy right now, and it's wet just thinking about the way you touch me."

"I would tell you to imagine that your fingers are my tongue, playing with your sweet little clit. I would tell you to moan for me as you told me what you wanted me to do to you." The slapping sound was a little louder now, and my fingers rubbed more frantically at my clit, sticky with my own juices.

The moan was inevitable. "Only if you're stroking your cock for me. I want that cock. I want it fucking me right now." My fingers slid in, pumping in and out of my pussy with a wet noise that I made sure he heard.

His breaths were shallow now, and he seemed shaky. "Oh, I'm stroking it. I want to fuck you from behind. I want your pussy wrapped around my cock and my fingers fucking your ass. Wiggle that sweet little ass for me."

I was squirming all over the couch, fingers back on my clit, rubbing furiously. "My heart was pounding. "You want that ass, don't you? You want more than your fingers in there. You want to shove that cock in there and make me scream."

"You have no idea how bad I want to hear you scream for me. You going to come for me? I want to hear you come while I get off." His voice dropped to a gruff whisper. "C'mon, rub that clit for me. Next time I see you, I'm going to fuck you and watch you rub your clit."

That was it. I whimpered into the phone, breathless as I felt the orgasm hit me. In the midst of all this, Chris cried out, the slapping sound faster, harder, more intense. I tightened my legs together, fingers still stroking, and the words just came out. "I need to see you soon, Chris!"

For a few moments, only our ragged breaths could be heard on the line. It was a slow recovery from a satisfying experience. "I need to see you too," he finally said, voice serious and quiet.

Need. What a strong word. Did he know the strength of that word? Did he know that my need for him was double what it was after our night in the Cruiser?

Somehow, we managed another hour of small talk, promising to talk again tomorrow. I could hardly wait.

I licked my fingers as I hung up the phone and sighed, turning the stereo on and blinking as the same Led Zeppelin song started on the radio.