Permission

I.

Meeting her was a foregone conclusion. He had decided weeks ago that he would go through with it and get together with her for coffee. The prime question, one of many circling in his head on the drive to the coffee shop was: what would happen after? If he was at all honest with himself, the real question he desperately wanted answered: would they fuck?

II.

It had been well over 10 years since they had last seen each other—in person anyhow. If someone said it had actually been 15 years, he would honestly have to do the math in his head to tell them they were wrong. They were lovers when they were younger. And looking back it was plain to see why their relationship had not worked. They were both artists. She was an actress, he was a director. Egos were pitted against each other from the outset. Add in the fiery energy of youth, and the pot would near-continuously boil over. But one thing in particular made their time together unsustainably derisive: they were intellectual giants. A man would be hard-pressed to find two more intelligent artists in the city. Indeed, that same man may even be hard-pressed to find two more intelligent people in the city. When not occupied with rehearsals, performances, or fund raisers, these two found it quite enjoyable to spend their nights together attending public lectures on the Higgs boson or telling the other how wrong they were about their perception of Ayn Rand.

While that may sound conceited, it was the truth. They would intellectually spar with a regularity usually reserved for train schedules, most times ending only after he called her "pretentious", or with her slapping him squarely across the face. But here's the thing: they were kind and attractive people. They never made others feel stupid or inferior, they never lectured, and they looked fantastic. A beautiful couple one might say. People wanted to be near them because they were fun. They just didn't want to be near each other. Yet, each found the other magnetic. To this day he thinks she is the most intelligent lover he has ever had, and he to her. A superiorly attractive quality. Yes. Magnetic. Perhaps, the moth is right.

He arrived unintentionally early to the coffee shop. An hour early. He had debated the option of going across the street and wasting time in the strip mall that was loosely held together by the theme, "useless stores." In their last on-line chat, she told him she would be there working, so anytime he arrived would be fine. He did not want to appear overeager. The mall looked appealing.

She had given up acting long ago. She had a near-complete retool of her life. She attained a degree in political science, and was now a successful author of young adult fantasy fiction novels. Yes, published. And, yes, by an internationally recognized publisher. He learned all this through that most convenient of surveillance tools, Facebook. He kept only loose tabs on her through the years. Never approaching. Just watching. Her success intrigued him. One would be wrong if they were to classify his interest as jealousy. He was not a jealous person. What he felt was more of a strange type of pride. He was proud that she had turned her love of words into a career. He was proud to see someone he knew set out and attain their goals. He loved achievement. He reveled in it. Not only his, but others as well. And she had achieved.

She was to be at the coffee shop working. On a novel, he supposed. So, the question was: should he arrive early—which on any normal day he thought rude—and interrupt her work? Perhaps he could just park and watch her work from afar. Something to satisfy his voyeuristic side. Assess her 10 year plus aged looks. Or he could just be an adult and walk in an hour early with the full knowledge that he simply would enjoy an extra hour in her company...hoping she wouldn't mind.

He walked in. She wasn't there. He was, in fact, relieved. He could now take his seat, feel out the space, become comfortable in it. Relax. And breathe. He ordered a large coffee, something to calm his nerves. He took a seat on the patio. It was 55 degrees outside. Not well thought out, but he didn't move. Moving was not on his mind.

No sooner had he sat back in his chair, her car pulled into the lot. His stomach dropped. Her eyes met his though her window. Her stomach dropped. There would be no relaxing into the space for either of them. Foiled by an hour-early arrival. The protective gulf of ten plus years dried in that instant.

She got out of her car. She looked fantastic. Womanly. Much more so than he remembered. He stood. She looked him over from her bumper, smiled. He smiled back.

III.

One thing their relationship could do well was fuck. Extraordinarily well. The word 'prudish' would have been the ultimate insult. The dish of their fucking incorporated most flavors. Very little was off limits. If variety is the spice of life, their bedroom may as well have been an office at The British East India Company.

Countless positions ranging from simple missionary to the more gymnastic. Standing against walls, her legs wrapped around him, back against the wall, feeling his size and strength support her writhing body. Oral. Lots of oral, lots of places. In bathrooms at parties, in cars parked on busy city streets. Playful tastes of her pussy taken at clubs, listening to music, sneaking a finger inside her in the dark of the bar, sucking it clean off in his mouth. Anal. Cum facials. Phone sex when they couldn't be with each other. Vibrators and toys galore. Golden showers. Rimjobs. In the dark of night lying naked next to each other in bed they would whisper stories into the other's ear. Stories of what they would like to do, reviews of what they had done, confessionals of their darker fantasies. The only job the other would have would be to lay there, absorbing these spoken images, getting fucked by the hand and fingers of the story teller and cum. They even had a small exploratory foray into the virtues of group sex.

Strictly speaking, their relationship only lasted the better part of year. But their fucking lasted considerably longer. Their worlds would often collide at parties or bars as a result of their shared circle of friends. Inevitably (often fueled by alcohol and a general boredom with those surrounding them), they would mind-fuck one another with sexually charged dialogues thinly disguised as friendly, intelligent debates; and they would almost invariably end up leaving with one another to willingly and wantonly use each other. These episodes often occurred while the other was involved romantically. It was of no concern. They justified this all by lying and saying it was "just one more time." It was never just one more time; until of course when it was. And that moment occurred greater than 10 years ago.

IV.

There is that moment where a nervous person finally realizes that everything will be alright, that the situation will not eat them alive. She broke the invisible plain between them, touching his bare knee as she laughed at a particularly funny joke he made. And the moment occurred. Until that moment, they spoke with each other at such a pace as to make an auctioneer envious. Nerves. Until that moment, scarcely a phrase the other had spoken was actually comprehended, as it was impossible to be heard over the din of their inner monologues screaming, "Oh my god! Why am I here? Oh my god! Why am I here? Oh my god! Why do they look so good! Oh my god...ohmy god...ohmygod!"

And then, a moment of inner silence.

Her long fingers reached out and touched his knee. He could tell this took an immense amount of effort on her part; and he could equally tell she wanted to touch him since the moment she arrived. Her fingers were cold against his skin, but soft. Nerves. He did not want it to end. He did not want her to stop. His screaming brain fell to a hushed whisper.

"Please," it murmured, "...thank you." Then silence. Calmness. And hope.

Hope that the unseen wall between them would crumble and be rebuilt around them like a privacy fence. Hope that their conversation would turn from the nervous-commonplace-safe to the relaxed-intimate-personal. Hope that he would actually find the guts to lean in and just kiss her. But he couldn't, nor could she.

V.

Her hand removed. And just like that the world around them returned to the rapid paced, loud environ. But something inside them changed. Those inner monologues had both taken on a new voice.

"Look at her lips," his said.

"I remember those shoulders," hers recalled.

"I wonder what her tongue tastes like."

"I would love to feel his cock in my hands."

"Touch me again."

"Touch him again." And she did.

VI.

He "re-found" her on Facebook. As most are guilty of, the lure of knowing exactly what and who his exes were doing was too much. He found her page. Still public. She was celebrating the release of her latest novel. He had no idea that she set that sail into the wind. He was impressed. Quite.

To make it appear that he was not stalking her, he made up some lie about how he was searching for another title on Amazon (with a "remarkably similar title" as fate would have it) and just happened to run across her recent book. And had to message her. What a fortunate coincidence.

"Hey there!" The message began.

"...on Amazon and ran across your book! Holy shit! I couldn't believe it! I think that is absolutely incredible, and I just wanted to drop you a quick line to tell you congratulations. Couldn't happen to a more worthy person!"

With that he could have easily just signed the message, and it would have been over. Instead, as to leave the door ever so slightly open, he carefully calculated the next line.

"Hope all is well with you and your family! How life has changed, eh?" This question practically begged her to check in with him, or at least his profile. He didn't even bother "friending" her at that time. He didn't want to appear intrusive, or give the impression of anything uncouth. Just a simple hello and congratulations. Just a quick five line drop-in after ten years. Right.

It took a couple of weeks, but she finally responded. They were back in contact.

VII.

She was drinking tea, claiming that she either couldn't or didn't drink caffeine. It was no matter. He was just enjoying watching her drink. She knew he was watching. She was calculating how she could end up closer to him, if she only had the courage to do so. Their joking continued, an effort to ease the trepidation. He cracked wise at her expense. She threw something at him or by him. A wrapper? A tension-peeled sticker off her cup? It gave her the excuse she needed to get up out of her chair and let him check her body out. She couldn't just let her misguided missile dirty up the coffee shop floor. She got up. And with an artful subtlety she bent over to picked up the garbage. She wanted him to watch. He did.

Although the moment in and of itself lasted no more than six seconds, the movie in their minds did. Bending over, she knew her ass would hone his desire. She was wearing a dress, black tights underneath. The moment was shared. She felt sexy. He knew she was. If it is possible to merge the imaginations of two individuals so that a single unified narrative forms in their ether, this moment would be proof.

VIII.

Suddenly, the coffee shop was completely empty. No people. No coffee. No cars outside. Nobody on the sidewalk. Nobody within sight. Even the interstate within eye's view was bare. They were completely alone. The world was abandoned. All the litter of civilization left to rest in its place, as though all humanity simply evaporated. Except them. Backpacks, computers, cell phones, all left in their place. No sound, save that of their own. Every move they made seemed to fall just two steps ahead of slow-motion.

He rose from his chair. He moved slowly, deliberately behind her. She stood upright, didn't turn. He closed in on her. His warm breath heavy against the flesh of her neck as she slowly reached back over her shoulder to caress his cheek and grip his hair and neck. A dense exhalation of a sigh came from her mouth as his lips made contact. He inhaled her as he ran his tongue from her collar to her ear. Her skin, sweet. Her hair, elegant. A hand on her hip, the other wrapped her waist; he pulled her body close into his. The strength of his grasp, the firmness of his intention released all the hinges of her body. She was no longer a work of flesh and bone. She was a vast piece of satin flowing onto his frame. Deep and red. Slick and smooth. Feminine.

Their size differential drove her wild. It was as though her tiny frame was engulfed by the breadth of his. It made her feel a woman. She pressed against him, trying—in an odd way—to be immersed by him. She could feel his cock filling within his pants and being compressed against her ass. Instinctively, she arched her back towards it, inviting him.

His hand found its way under her top. He paused, taking in the feel of her naked skin against his palm. Subtle quivers like tiny earthquakes shuddered her flesh in his hand. Her nipples rose against the cotton, anticipating his next move. He indulged her and moved to cup her breast. Taking it full into his grip. Delicately pinching one nipple, then the other. She pressed back harder against his body. His teeth crimping down on her earlobe, he whispered, yes. And with that, the floodgates of her pussy opened to release her pleasure in a slick torrent. She was ready.

She had to feel his dick. She needed it. Its size, its taste, its feel was just a dim memory in their fading past. She recalled the pleasure he gave her, but the particulars evaded her recollection. She remembered it being big, but back then he was more on the boy side of man. He was now stouter, fuller, and firmer. A man. She wondered if such was also the case with his cock. She reached behind her, locating his belt as a landmark, she charted downward to feel him. Through his pants she could quickly gauge his dick. Yes, he was indeed on the man side of being a man.

Squeezing it, her mind whispered, "Inside me." It felt thick and firm in her hand. Solid and more than ample.

"My, god," her mind continued, "I want this."

In this shared moment he needed no interpreter. He could intuit everything her mind said. His hand loosened the grip on her hip and his fingers walked her dress up her thigh. Not stopping for a beat, they were now free to slide unabated under the waist of her tights. Her heart jumped. His hand slid closer to her sex.

"Touch me," her body ached. He could feel the smooth skin of her pussy and could make out the fine trimmed hair guiding his fingers. She had taken the time the previous day to be sure she was ready for this. A waxing. In her mind it wasn't precluded that they would fuck. But, even though she wouldn't readily admit it, she had hoped they would. Regardless of the outcome, the sheer fact that underneath her clothing lie a perfectly readied pussy made her feel sexy. Much like wearing sensual new underwear, it made her walk and talk with a richer and more conscious sense of her sexuality, her femininity. It turned her on to be prepared even if nothing happened.

Tracing the guiding line of her fine pubic hair he found the vestibule of her pussy hot and dripping with her anticipation. A finger freely slid inside her. In that instant his entire body recalled how she had always so effortlessly drowned her box with her wetness. He loved this. She knew, and she loved sharing. He bathed his finger inside her. Withdrawing it, and with his face still over her shoulder, he took it into his mouth. Sucking all of her off, he moaned like he'd just tasted the rarest of truffles.

"How do I taste?"

His deep-voiced moan vibrated his chest against her back, "Like gold."

She swelled full with delight, as did he. She could wait no longer. Reaching behind her she found his belt. She worked it free. Unbuttoned his pants. Found his cock hard within his boxers and pulled it out. His pants fell to his knees; she work his underwear down with her other hand. Reflexively, she began stroking him. Licking her palm she made it slip easily through her grasp. He squeezed her close to his body revealing his pleasure. He worked her tights down, taking her underwear with them in one felled effort. Her naked ass firm against his thigh. She again licked her palm, further wetting his cock...preparing it. She looked down to her side to take in the image of his engorged prick against the side of her ass. Jacking it off, she could now appreciate the full size of it. Her memory had certainly failed her. He was going to stretch and fill her cunt perfectly. She couldn't wait. She took three simple steps towards a low lying coffee table, leading him by his dick to follow her. There, she centered herself on his body, bent to place one hand on the low flat top, and with the other she guided his cock right into her willing pussy.

Her head reared into the air at the feeling of him inside her once again. The noise she let out was somewhere between an orgasm and the sound of being crucified. It was as though the exquisite pain that accompanied the anticipation, the longing, the years of desire and wonder, and the endless on-line torturous flirting was being executed within her body and the resultant ecstasy boiled and steamed out of her in one rapturous cry.

The moment proved too much for both of them. She could feel his cock throbbing inside her with every thrust, and her pussy squeezed tighter and tighter as it built its way to rhythmic euphoria. His breath caught, as did hers. She grabbed the edge of the table, supporting the force of their bodies fucking each other. Her ass ground into his cock with the cadence of their joint impending orgasms. He filled her with his hot white load, his prick maximally thick inside her pulsed, pushed and filled her with it; her cunt lit up and joined him, trembling with each orgasmic pulse, soaking him back with her cum.

IX.

She stood back up, having grabbed the litter off the floor. The moment, the six seconds of cinematic slow motion, was over. She looked back over her shoulder at him, quite briefly, and confirmed that he had seen. He made no qualms about hiding that gaze was fixed upon her ass. They both knew that the other had just returned back to reality. A colder reality of coffee, fingertip touches, muted desires, and hushed lips. See, the night before while chatting on-line they had verbally agreed that there would be no fucking. Not only that, there would be nothing physical. It made it easier for both of them to actually go through with meeting each other. Stupid rule. No. No, not stupid...dishonest. For they truly wanted to fuck each other.

X.

They always wanted to fuck each other. The thing that made them hot for each other, and likely hot to all their respective lovers, was that they gave permission to one another to just enjoy. They savored getting one another off. While sucking on his cock, she would smile with her eyes and raise an eyebrow to indicate how much she wanted him to cum. She would pull off his head just long enough to say, "Cum. I want to you to cum in my mouth." And with that she would swallow his cock once again, stroking him into her mouth. Permission.

There is something to granting permission that undeniably hot. It is a free pass to pleasure. As though one lover says to the other,, "Yes, it's ok to use me. Not only that, I want you to use me. And not only that, I need you to use me." In any lover of note, there is always some sort of reservation in cumming. As though if one cums they may let the other down; they may somehow inadvertently not fulfill their partner. There can develop a certain anxiety associated with cumming.

One may request to cum when they are close, in the other's mouth, or pussy, or on the other's face, fingers, cock, or tits; and while this truly gets them off there exists a small voice of apprehension that lingers in the back of their head that asks if their lover is truly enjoying this. And with that disquieting doubt a little bit of pleasure is left unfulfilled. And there are always worries of "am I lasting long enough?" or "do I taste ok" "or is he/she enjoying herself?" or "how do I compare to others?"