“Your Hands. Here.”

During my recent prolonged seclusion, I received a rather interesting email from a man I used to know. His name is Conrad.

Conrad was a young man that I knew in my former life as an undergrad. He and I were acquaintances but not friends. We were curteous when we ran into each other-which was approximately never-and we had very few overlapping social contacts. I think we met during an orientation for freshman year, but whatever really happened is lost in the ether. At the time that we existed in the periphery of each other's lives: he was the vocal head of a political organization whose views were diametrically opposed to my own, and I was a woman of a certain loudness. Despite this, we always managed a polite smile on the rare occasion that our paths crossed.

Before June, I hadn't really heard from Conrad since we graduated. Every year or so, he'd send me an email and we'd chat back and forth for a while, and eventually it would peter out. He had a demanding career in a field that I don't understand and did lots of travel to exotic locations for work, and had a Facebook profile full of wonderful photos. He happens to live in a suburb of my fair city. In the early part of the summer, he contacted me and suggested that we get drinks.  I agreed, on the condition that it was after that colossal test that I was studying for.

A few days after my exam, I met him in a park in my city: I brought wine and a blanket, and he brought cheese, bread, and fruit. He told me he took the train in, I told him he could stay on my couch because public transit in our city isn't always reliable. We settled under a tree, and surreptitiously drank wine and ate a picnic under the cooling summer sky while we caught up about careers. We sat, and then reclined, upon my very Norman Rockwell plaid blanket. We did not touch. I think we said more to each other that night than in all our previous interactions combined. As the park became darker and the evening drew on, some sprinklers turned on a few yards from our spot and we decided that it was time to move. We wandered back to my apartment for more wine. We chattered away, and Conrad made noticeable attempts at being a gentleman.

I was fairly certain of where this evening was headed. I was quite certain that this was exactly what I wanted. I was positive that Conrad was unaware that I had figured it out. I was right.

We stepped into my kitchen as we made conversation about people we used to know: who is married, who is divorced, who has children, who lives abroad.  I found a bottle of wine and opened it, pouring it into two glasses.

"Conrad," I said, "I have to know: why me, and why now?"

"What?"

"I'm curious why you wanted to get drinks with me, and why now. It just seems so unexpected! I'm delighted with the company, but I'm just curious as to what your impetus was."

"Oh! I was just curious about you."

"Ok. Would you like to sit on the balcony?"

"Yes, that sounds wonderful!"

I take my glass and the bottle and lead the way to the aforementioned seating, and Conrad follows. His hand grazes the small of my back when I walk past him. We sit down on my 3rd floor balcony that faces out to a busy street, and we watch people go by. We invent stories for everyone who passes below, most of which centered on young people going to parties or out on dates, or older people wandering home to enjoy their lives.

Conrad gingerly places a hand on my thigh. I look him in the eye and smile and laugh through telling jokes. His palm is heavier on my skin, rubbing gently against the fabric of my skirt while he transparently searches for the hem. I let my fingers brush his shoulder, then his knee. I look out on the street and describe the scene around us as I feel his hand tracing higher up my leg.

I finish a story and turn to face him. He is leaning towards me, suddenly so close that I can feel his breath on my chin.

We are kissing.

We are touching.

His hands are climbing up my thighs, parting my legs and rubbing their most medial aspect; one of my hands is in his hair and the other still resting, but now gripping, his knee.  He kisses me softly at first, as if testing to make sure that I wouldn't violently reject him, and then he is bolder. His breathing is heavier to match mine. A tiny moan squeaks past my lips into his mouth. One hand has left my lower limb and the other is running up my waist and back, and settles on the side of my chest wall.

When men lay a hand on the side of my chest-immediately next to my breast, touching my skin with their full palms but not touching any part of me that might be more erotic-my nipples ache with anticipation. This evening with Conrad is no different.

I move his hand over the fullest part of my chest.

"Is this what you want?"

He is still, and then he firmly rubs his palm on my nipple, he pushes my breast back into my chest, he grips my flesh firmly in his hand. His other hand mimics this motion on my inner thigh. The moans I make are louder and throatier. We are outside, but unaware and uncaring. His face is pressed into the hollow above my clavicle and he generates sharp sensations that make my hips roll without restraint.

He stops me, he asks me to stand. I do. We walk through the balcony doors back to the apartment, where he puts down the wineglasses and is immediately standing behind me, kissing my neck and rubbing my breasts. He does not massage my breasts so much as grasp them with a firmness that I was not expecting and press them into my ribs as he pulls my body tight against his own. He licks my earlobe and bites my neck. I feel his erection pressing against my flank.

He pulls one hand off of my chest and uses it to hike my skirt up as high as he can get it before rubbing and slapping my ass. I writhe against him, his other arm holding me in place.

He stops. He pulls away. He looks around, and sees the edge of a counter.

"Your hands," he says. "Here." He points at the lowered edge of the counter as he pushes my shoulders forward and pulls my skirt up to my waist. I am wearing a laced-backed black thong. I am exposed. I hear him sigh when he positions me.

The cracking sound of his palm on the fullest part of my ass echoes through the empty apartment. My back arches and I moan, I beg him to continue.

He is more than happy to oblige. He slaps me around. He grunts with satisfaction. He stops and starts to kiss the curve where my thighs join my torso. He spanks me some more.

He pulls me upright and walks me towards my room. We do not make it that far: we stop in the kitchen as he presses me against the fridge and kisses me deeply. I wrap my arms around his neck. He kisses down my chin to my chest; he kisses my collarbones and the hollow of my neck and moves down to the space between my breasts. I shrug off my dress's straps and pull down my bra, his mouth finds my nipples and he sucks and bites them with the same intensity that he used to bend me over and spank me. I wrap a leg around his hip. He presses me against the fridge. It is cool in contrast to my warmth. My pelvis thrusts out against his.

A hand reaches under my raised thigh and traces down to where it joins my hip. It runs under the edge of my thong and pushes it aside as his thick fingers enter my body. I press back against him. I sigh as my nipples harden in his mouth and my pussy clenches around his digits. In short order I am spasming around his hand and gushing all over the floor.

He withdraws and asks to go to the bedroom. I lead the way and shed all my clothes during the short trip. We leave the lights on as we fall onto my bed. He devours me. I undress him. He uses his size to dominate me. I become progressively wetter. He rolls me on top of him as we rub against each other in my bed. I slink down between his legs and take his cock between my lips. I cradle each of his balls in one hand as I run the other up and down his shaft in time with my mouth. He holds my hair in fists.

He comes. He sighs my name and moans louder than any other lover I've had. His ejaculate hits my uvula.

We calm down. We lie in bed and tell jokes.

"Margot, I have to tell you something but I don't want to come off like a creep."

"Go ahead, Conrad."

"I have always thought that you are one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen. I wanted to get drinks with you because I've wanted to for years, and I finally worked up the nerve to do it. I've undressed you in my mind so many times. In my fantasies I have done everything to you. Every day for the last six months I have masturbated to the thought of you."

I am astounded. I am deeply flattered. I don't know what to say.

"I hope I lived up to your fantasies!" I stammer.

"You were so much better than I could have ever imagined."

We coalesce into each other's bodies again. The rest of the evening is spent this way: we embrace, we fuck, we enjoy oral sex, we sleep for a bit and do it again over the course of the next several hours. When I sleep he lies behind me, one arm under my neck and the other around my waist, both crossing in front of me and each hand on a breast. He wraps a leg over my hip. I feel his penis, sometimes limp and sometimes hard, resting comfortably in the cleft in the middle of my ass. He is somehow managing to flex while he holds me in our sleep.  I am the peanut in the M&M of his embrace.

In the morning my body is sore. My breasts are tender from his tight grip. My ass has bruises that merge into a handprint. The hickeys on my neck cover about 45% of the available neck surface area. Even though it is June, when I next leave the house I have a scarf around my neck and I immediately buy concealer.

A few days later I leave town for some family affairs, and then I start a period of my education that was more exhausting than I could ever possibly have understood before. Conrad and I lost touch again, this time after several good faith efforts to see each other.  It never pans out.

Conrad vanished from my life as abruptly as he entered it. He is the single most passionate lover I have ever had, presumably fueled by his many years' worth of fantasies. He left his marks all over my body at the same time as he touched me like he'd touch a work of art. He seemed to walk out of his normally reserved skin and into something more primal and animal and basal, and I reaped the rewards. 

Republished with permission from La Ravaudeuse. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact us. Photo by John B. Root.