In the Mood for Love

I Still Remember-3

Amy takes advantage of the better access I offer her and now traces the tip of her finger along my p***y lips. Up and down it goes, skimming my lips, which are swollen and soaked and ready to be parted. Has she ever even touched a woman like this?

Her fingertips continue to play with my p***y non-intrusively, almost tickling, but it’s enough to send wave after wave of smouldering heat through my blood. I’m afraid to make a noise that will break the spell she’s under. I’m afraid to face the consequences of having her stop now she’s gone this far.

Her fingers start probing deeper, sliding between my folds and I inadvertently press myself against them, meeting her lazy strokes. It feels as if my entire body has transformed into a slithering mass of want. I’m close to abandon, close to asking her to please f**k me, when her fingers retreat.

My heart thunders so furiously beneath my rib cage I fear my torso might pulse upwards with every beat.

“Turn around, please,” she says as if this is the normal midway point of any massage therapy session. But there’s a strain in her voice, a slight tremor informing me she might just be as turned on as I am.

And I want nothing more than to flip over, but then I have to face her. How can I meet her gaze after she has touched me like that? But I’m not the one who started it. I only came here for a massage.

I free my head from the hole and push myself up slowly. Before looking up, I try to swallow away the nerves bunching up in my throat. There are a lot of things I want to say, but I don’t want to ruin the moment by speaking.

Amy is fumbling with something at the sink when I finally turn around. She has her back to me and, silently, I lie down and wait for her.

“Close your eyes,” she whispers as she approaches.

I do as I’m told.

The process of sprinkling oil on my skin is repeated. A drop crashes down on my erect n****e and I can sense Amy’s hesitation before her fingers descend on my flesh and spread the lotion. She stands at the head of the table, her belly close to my scalp again, and I can hear her sharp intake of breath as her fingertip brushes my n****e.

It’s different lying on my back, all exposed like that. I try to keep still as Amy’s fingers knead my breasts, but it’s impossible. She’s watching me now. She’s seeing the emotions running across my face and the way my skin crinkles into goosebumps as she touches me. I only came to town to celebrate my dad’s birthday and I had no way of preparing for this level of intimacy. I decide there and then I have two choices. Shut off my brain and enjoy the physical bliss Amy’s hands provide—no matter the emotional fall-out later. Or do as I did years ago. Work myself into a frenzy over how she makes me feel, decide I can’t deal with it anymore, and leave.

But this is now, and Amy’s hands have already ventured much further than I ever dreamed they would. She’s the one who slipped her fingers between my legs and whose nails are now tracing circles around my n*****s.

“Oh god,” I groan as she pinches my n****e and leaves me with no choice at all.

“Don’t move,” she says, her voice hoarse and throaty above my head.

And I stay still but I have to open my eyes. I have to see her. Just as our gazes lock, her hands squeeze my breasts.

I could cry for the teenager I was once was. A young body filled to the brim with an inexplicable burgeoning lust for Amy. If time is supposed to heal all wounds, what is it doing now? Coming home is always a fleeting exercise in dredging up the past, no matter who you see or don’t see. But then you leave and forget about it all over again, a bit more with every departure. How will I ever leave this behind?

Amy’s eyes seem to tell me everything I need to know—in this moment, anyway. Because what really happened to us are the things that didn’t happen. The conversation we never had. The feelings I never shared. If this is her way of saying we’re okay, then I’m fine with that.

She gives my breasts one last gentle squeeze before abandoning them. Her left hand trails downward along my chest as she walks to the side of the table. She leans her hip against it and I follow her with my eyes. Her face is tanned, but I can easily spot the blush below her cheekbones.

She searches for my eyes again, and arches up her eyebrows a fraction, as if asking for permission. It’s a little late for that, I think to myself, but I know what she means. The time for foreplay has ended.

I want what’s going to happen next so much, my body breaks out into a shiver. She puts her hand on my belly to calm me down, but it hardly has the required effect. Her fingers already point south, to that moist mess of a p***y of mine.

Shouldn’t it have been the other way around, I wonder? Should I not have been the one seducing her? But this role reversal—if you will—turns me on more than the prospect of Amy’s fingers inside of me.

It reminds me of hot summer nights alone in my bed. I left the curtains open to see the last of the light fade away, while I dreamed of Amy’s face before she kissed me and told me it was all real.

It can’t be more real now. Amy’s one hand travels lower, while her other one stays on my belly, driving her nails into my skin. I spread wider, because it’s all I ever wanted to do for Amy.

Her eyes are on mine when the first fingertip enters me. Something shimmers in the chocolate brown of them. As her finger slips all the way in, I realise it’s lust. The same lust shaking my bones.

It’s more shock than anything else rattling through me as Amy starts to f**k me slowly, almost leisurely. A hint of a smile plays on her lips, as if this was the only possible outcome of us running into each other the way we have.

All the years of friendship we shared flash through my mind in that moment. The time I almost kissed her. The day we took dozens of pictures at a photo booth, my face drawn into a serious frown in all of them because Amy was sitting on my lap.

But Amy has her finger inside of me and, as she slides it back, I feel the tip of another one getting ready to slip in. And yes, this is s*x—unmistakably so—but it’s also much more than that. My pelvis bucks upward to meet Amy’s thrusts. Her gaze doesn’t waver and I feel moisture build behind my eyes. Because this is too much. The essence of what is happening right now has been with me as a fantasy for more than twenty years.

In the silence between two Counting Crows songs, I can make out the sucking noise Amy’s fingers produce between my legs. It stokes the fire in my belly even more, and when her other hand starts to travel south as well, her fingers tickling the trimmed hair down there, I’m about to spontaneously combust.

I know she’s going for my c**t and I know that when she reaches it, I’ll be lost. The moment will pass forever. Confusion, nostalgia and years of pent-up lust descend from my mind into my blood.

Amy thrusts deep with the two fingers of her left hand as her right index finger brushes the side of my c**t. My muscles contract at the touch of her finger against my swollen bud. I want to pull her close and kiss her, but Amy is calling the shots, and I don’t want to break the spell she’s under.

She finds a rhythm with her hands. A deep stroke with one hand, while the fingers of the other circle my c**t. It’s more than enough to send me on my way to the deliverance I’ve been waiting for what feels like forever.

Amy in her mum’s high heels. Amy in boxer shorts and a tank top at her cousin’s sleep over. Amy by the pond, careless and with the promise of everything shimmering in the darkness of her eyes. Amy right here, right now. Eyes blazing and fingers on fire inside of me. Her muscles working underneath her skin as she takes me.

I throw my head back because her glance is too much for me to take in that moment when my body surrenders. It all crashes through me, lightning quick fireballs reaching the end of my fingers and my toes at the same time. The walls of my p***y clamping tightly around her fingers. The pleasure that shoots up inside of me through her hands, which are, in the end, mere extensions of her eyes and what I’ve seen pool in them. I had to wait twenty years and maybe that’s why it feels so good, life-changing even, but definitely shattering the world as I know it for a brief instant.

Amy doesn’t slide her fingers out of me immediately. She leaves them inside to linger for a few seconds as I find her eyes again. I know that mine are filled with tears of release and a slew of other emotions I don’t have the presence of mind to identify.

“Jesus,” I say, because, at times like this, it always seems like the only appropriate thing to say.

Amy looks at me in disbelief, her eyes wide and her lips slightly parted. As if she’s just slipped back into her skin after an out-of-body experience. Gently, her fingers leave me and I have as much a clue of what to say as she has.

Mute, she stares at her hands and I know, despite being the one naked on a massage table, I have to step in.

My muscles are weak and soft from the massage and the climax, but I pull myself together. “Hey,” I say, while I push myself up. I shoot her a reassuring smile. “You really do give a mean massage.”

She seems to snap out of her trance and starts looking around the room. I hope for the towel she took off me at the beginning of our session. I’m not sure if it’s possible to feel more naked than I am, but I do.

Thankfully, Amy locates the towel on a chair behind her and, instead of simply handing it to me, she steps toward me and wraps it around my bare skin.

“I wish I knew what to say,” she whispers in my ear as her arms fold around me.

For all the intimacy we just shared, this unexpected hug touches me more than Amy’s fingers inside of me.

In response, I curl my arms around her waist and hold her. I realise this is the first time I’ve intently touched her this way.

“Whatever it was you wanted to say, you’ve said it loud and clear.” My cheek is pressed against Amy’s chest and I can hear her heart hammer away at a ridiculous pace.

I can’t help myself, because the next thing I know, my fingers snake down her back, finding the hem of her tank top, wanting desperately to feel the skin underneath.

She gives me one last squeeze before freeing herself from our hug. She doesn’t pull completely away though, and in the motion, my fingers wander to her sides. I look up at her and I can’t shake the feeling there’s something more going on here than two old friends reconnecting in an unexpectedly physical way.