DudeThrill.com
So we are now in the second half of December. These are not the best conditions to be able to concentrate on work, because we are only a few days away from the beginning of the Christmas holidays and, as every year, this is the hardest period for us.
Everyone in the office is busy so that they can't even take a breath. But I don't let myself get caught up in this nervousness, I have other things to think about.
In fact, it's been about three months since our wonderful trio broke up. In memory, in my eyes and in my heart I still have the beautiful relationship that Michele, Debra and I had, free and carefree weeks in the paradise of senses and love.
Sometimes I have the impression that without Debra everything has shrunk to an almost provincial, homely dimension, even if still out of the ordinary, because anyway Michele is out of the ordinary and he and I love each other.
After the phone call made by me and Michele together in which he had treated us badly, we had not insisted anymore. But then we wrote her the letter.
And, wonderfully, after a week or two we received a postcard, which made me suspect that there were some changes, slow but possible. When I think that, after Debra's little move, the two of them had hardly felt each other anymore, this is already a big success.
You don't send a postcard to someone you've just finished telling them to fuck off unless at least a little bit has changed.
So I took the courage with four hands and invited Debra for a weekend, taking advantage of Michele's absence for work. I did it by e-mail, it seemed the most painless way.
I couldn't have endured two whole days in perfect solitude, maybe dedicating myself to Christmas shopping, with the overwhelming thought of Debra's absence.
With surprise she accepted my invitation, with a kind and thoughtful e-mail reply. At least I will see her again. The appointment is at my house, even though now I live with Michele.
Saturday, early in the afternoon, comes, as if it were the first time, that of August. She hasn't changed, she seems even more beautiful to me, and seeing her again provokes a dive into my heart.
- How are you?
- Fine, and you? - but I'd like to say "bad, without you".
We have no precise plans, the climate between us is immediately starting to be a bit formal, so far from the laughter of the past, but all in all more cordial than expected. Maybe we're sniffing each other.
We immediately decided to sleep together in my room, after the compliments of the sofa you, sofa me, but ours looks like a getaway, a last escape before the arrival of the cold.
It's afternoon, after the coffee we have immersed ourselves in our chatter, at the beginning only something more than more and less.
It's hot in the house, the central heating gives us a good feeling. With the utmost naturalness, Debra takes off her sweater and shirt until she is topless, showing off a still superb tan, almost integral, with a slight clearer mark at the breast.
At the end of September she spent two weeks at sea, in Calabria, in the company of I don't know who, but one who apparently didn't like her showing her gratitude to bathers. But she certainly didn't let herself be put on the spot, accustomed as she is to dictating the law and establishing the conditions under which she could live her relationships. She must have had a big fight about it, and didn't give up sunbathing with her bare tits.
I realize that more than anything else now we are united by a sort of 'male' camaraderie, made up of fun but also respect for privacy. However, there are also feminine availability and attention. Above all, there is almost no competition.
We joke about all the knowledge we have in common since this summer, even about the famous Franco of course, especially making fun of their immaturity.
More than anything else it's you who insist on the most personal details, but without going beyond well-defined limits.
Just what there has never been between us! How I would like to feel her as close as she used to be! I really loved this woman... and I have a much more insecure character than I would have you believe, because it often happens that I want someone to open up completely and to trust, without the slightest fear of being judged.
She has the rare ability to connect all the elements of a speech in a harmonious way, smiling often and helping herself with gestures. And it is always her smile, the one wanted by the eyes and not by the cheek muscles.
She speaks with naturalness and language properties, without ever being interrupted or bored, confident, always and in any case. Joking, Michele told her that when she speaks in Italian she translates from Friulian.
I immediately liked this attitude of hers and I often promised myself to take example from her, in this and other aspects. Especially now, at a time that could be unpleasant embarrassing. I find myself almost without realizing it when I look at her, as a sexting woman, not as a friend of the heart who has always been told everything, even more than necessary.
I make an effort to look at her with new eyes, as her boyfriend would look at her, or an ordinary person watching her go through the streets, no longer as a friend or lover.
Her nudity upsets me, even though I can't count the occasions when I saw her in her briefs and bra, or naked, or screaming under my licks or under Michele's edging. It's useless, when you've fucked with one person, it can't be like it is with the others.
Listening to her stories, a bit vague perhaps deliberately, I sit better on the couch and look at her well, trying to exist as little as possible.
She has a very beautiful face; I knew it, but I had never noticed certain details, like the high cheekbones that give her a sensual and superb expression.
She is black, and her blue eyes light up a face darkened by the sun like two luminous stones.
I see her regular lips, much thinner than mine; as she speaks I register the image of her perfect, white teeth.
Her shoulders are athletic, well-proportioned. I realize that I am delaying in coming down, as if I wanted to avoid the breast, as if something was preventing me.
I'd be ashamed as a thief if she caught me looking at her tits with those nipples.
She's barely bending over, picking up a salad she dropped. She finally asks me how it's going with Michele.
I couldn't wait, because I can't wait to tell her how we were unable to accept her abandonment. I'll tell her that it's going well, very well, I want to be vague too.
Laughing, I tell her that one of these last nights we made love bringing the video and the computer near the bed, making slideshows with her images, the ones taken by an ex of hers a few years ago, when they were together. They were left here. I'm not going to tell you that those images also helped to make her less distant. She listens to me, but her breasts are like a magnet. It's firm and compact. I almost don't know what I'm telling you anymore. What's happening to me? I keep my eyes glued to yours because I don't want you to take your eyes away from mine either. In fact, I feel my nipples hardening, pushing against the tissue, I feel like I can feel them clearly.
But I know you're smart and you know me too well. Around 7:30 we take a break, the afternoon flew by. We lie on our backs on the sofa, with our eyes closed, abandoned with the radio on and a jug of fresh orange juice next to us.
She must be taking the first step, I repeat. And, to note, Michele's speech was just mentioned... after all, he's still her husband!
What was that subtle, insinuating feeling of anxiety that blocked my breath and increased my heartbeat? If you get those emotions, it's because we're on a fast approaching course.
She's got no flaws this girl, her nipples aren't the only thing getting attention. Thighs are firm, barely separated, look like they're carved in wood, sertorius just carved. The panties have a slight swelling near the pubis. I find myself imagining her completely naked, unwittingly; how many times I have seen her and how much I would like to see her again! And I remember the clitoris, pronounced, exposed.
When she masturbated in front of our eyes, she stroked her clitoris more often than she stroked her fingers all the way down. Darling!
The mind flies, unbridled, each image suggests a bolder one, and then another one.
Now I feel my nipples really swollen, they press against the fabric, there's no way to calm down, I feel hot again, wet between my thighs...
I ask you if, apart from your partner in Calabria, you've had other boyfriends, but I have to be strong.
- Yes - she answers me - somebody, but nothing demanding. You know, it's not as if stories can be replaced like that. Sex is an easy thing, love much less. There are some really mediocre people out there...
I can get back into my head again, but it's not easy to chase ghosts away when they've broken through the lines.
- And you, have you always been faithful to Michele?
- Yes, always - that's my clear answer. And I wanted to add "and you too".
Suddenly I get up, it's getting late. I tell Debra to continue relaxing, that I'll take a shower and then prepare something to eat.
She nods, without opening her eyes, languidly abandoned on the sofa with who knows what thoughts.
I go into the bathroom, close the door; I look in the mirror. Maybe it's not so striking, but definitely the agitation shines through the features of my face. My breasts have hardened, my nipples are popping out, swollen, almost painful. I barely touch them with my fingers, I would like to calm myself with the pain and instead it is a subtle pleasure.
The questions follow each other in the mind, but the answers escape any order. I look in the mirror, trying to breathe deeply. I like myself. I like my hair blonde and shiny, my face not soap and water but fresh, my backside. My breasts are well outlined, not big but well proportioned to my general look, sporty, dynamic and snappy.
I touch them several times, still looking for pain and getting pleasure, imagining that the hands I see reflected in the mirror are ... hers, Debra who approaches me, behind my shoulders, and lets her arms slide around me, caressing me sweet and firm. I lower my costume, slowly, rolling up the fabric.
When the fabric comes loose from the hollow of the pubis where it had sunk slightly, I can see a damp spot. I am unequivocally wet, the excitement of great occasions.
I unhook my earrings, my left index finger goes down almost mechanically, brushes against my lips, picks up a slight whitish burr. Now I'm naked, ready to get in the shower.
The hot jet has no calming effect. I let the water run all over my body, I want to "purify" myself and return to "the one before".
After all, a sense of fear and shame still prevails for what I did to her at the time.
I rub myself delicately, lingering on my breasts, lingering on my belly, as if I wanted to deny my own body, to cleanse myself from the tangible evidence of its sudden, powerful reactions, but on the contrary the stimulation causes a disruptive effect, of astonishing excitement.
At that point I hear Debra's voice opening the sliding shower door wide open.
- Ah... you're here! - She tells me, with the utmost spontaneity, how she hadn't known; I remain stony, stiffened by that intrusion, unprepared as I am; I don't think she has forgotten how I am naked.
- You know, I'm cooked - he continues, - too much rest today! I'll have a nice shower too, then.
That said, he's heading for the toilet.
My eyes remain glued to the agility of movement of her legs, long, up to the junction of her buttocks made even more evident by the thin swimsuit that has partially retracted into her groove.
She pulls out her briefs, sits on the cup. I've closed the shower and I can hear the pee bubbling. My nipples, worked even by boiling water, are as long and hard as two bolts: have you noticed?
I try to dry myself quickly to get out of this very embarrassing situation for me.
In August everything was different, now I can say I'm afraid of Debra. I suffered too much from her estrangement, I couldn't bear an encore in this story.
I get out of the shower, partly recomposed, while Debra completely naked takes my place. She smiles at me, I'm trying hard not to throw myself at her feet.
I head to the mirror to fix myself up and dry my hair.
In front of the toilet are left Debra's costume panties, abandoned, inviting.
I try to ignore them, but the temptation is too strong, and I am now very weakened by that sudden whirlwind of emotions.
I look around to make sure she doesn't see me, listening to the jet of water flowing in the shower: then I take them stealthily in my hand and smell them.
They are used for one day, but the slight smell immediately acts as an aphrodisiac for me. It's always her smell and I almost feel faint; I take off my garment because I feel sick of perversion, but I can't stop myself from approaching her face again, I discover myself rubbing against the fabric, "like a bitch", I think, inhaling that perfume so light but powerful that it makes my legs bend.
Then suddenly I understand the gravity of the situation. I drop my panties, I take the hair dryer and the brush and I run away running away to my room, very tense, angry against myself, against Debra, I don't even know what for.
Everyone in the office is busy so that they can't even take a breath. But I don't let myself get caught up in this nervousness, I have other things to think about.
In fact, it's been about three months since our wonderful trio broke up. In memory, in my eyes and in my heart I still have the beautiful relationship that Michele, Debra and I had, free and carefree weeks in the paradise of senses and love.
Sometimes I have the impression that without Debra everything has shrunk to an almost provincial, homely dimension, even if still out of the ordinary, because anyway Michele is out of the ordinary and he and I love each other.
After the phone call made by me and Michele together in which he had treated us badly, we had not insisted anymore. But then we wrote her the letter.
And, wonderfully, after a week or two we received a postcard, which made me suspect that there were some changes, slow but possible. When I think that, after Debra's little move, the two of them had hardly felt each other anymore, this is already a big success.
You don't send a postcard to someone you've just finished telling them to fuck off unless at least a little bit has changed.
So I took the courage with four hands and invited Debra for a weekend, taking advantage of Michele's absence for work. I did it by e-mail, it seemed the most painless way.
I couldn't have endured two whole days in perfect solitude, maybe dedicating myself to Christmas shopping, with the overwhelming thought of Debra's absence.
With surprise she accepted my invitation, with a kind and thoughtful e-mail reply. At least I will see her again. The appointment is at my house, even though now I live with Michele.
Saturday, early in the afternoon, comes, as if it were the first time, that of August. She hasn't changed, she seems even more beautiful to me, and seeing her again provokes a dive into my heart.
- How are you?
- Fine, and you? - but I'd like to say "bad, without you".
We have no precise plans, the climate between us is immediately starting to be a bit formal, so far from the laughter of the past, but all in all more cordial than expected. Maybe we're sniffing each other.
We immediately decided to sleep together in my room, after the compliments of the sofa you, sofa me, but ours looks like a getaway, a last escape before the arrival of the cold.
It's afternoon, after the coffee we have immersed ourselves in our chatter, at the beginning only something more than more and less.
It's hot in the house, the central heating gives us a good feeling. With the utmost naturalness, Debra takes off her sweater and shirt until she is topless, showing off a still superb tan, almost integral, with a slight clearer mark at the breast.
At the end of September she spent two weeks at sea, in Calabria, in the company of I don't know who, but one who apparently didn't like her showing her gratitude to bathers. But she certainly didn't let herself be put on the spot, accustomed as she is to dictating the law and establishing the conditions under which she could live her relationships. She must have had a big fight about it, and didn't give up sunbathing with her bare tits.
I realize that more than anything else now we are united by a sort of 'male' camaraderie, made up of fun but also respect for privacy. However, there are also feminine availability and attention. Above all, there is almost no competition.
We joke about all the knowledge we have in common since this summer, even about the famous Franco of course, especially making fun of their immaturity.
More than anything else it's you who insist on the most personal details, but without going beyond well-defined limits.
Just what there has never been between us! How I would like to feel her as close as she used to be! I really loved this woman... and I have a much more insecure character than I would have you believe, because it often happens that I want someone to open up completely and to trust, without the slightest fear of being judged.
She has the rare ability to connect all the elements of a speech in a harmonious way, smiling often and helping herself with gestures. And it is always her smile, the one wanted by the eyes and not by the cheek muscles.
She speaks with naturalness and language properties, without ever being interrupted or bored, confident, always and in any case. Joking, Michele told her that when she speaks in Italian she translates from Friulian.
I immediately liked this attitude of hers and I often promised myself to take example from her, in this and other aspects. Especially now, at a time that could be unpleasant embarrassing. I find myself almost without realizing it when I look at her, as a sexting woman, not as a friend of the heart who has always been told everything, even more than necessary.
I make an effort to look at her with new eyes, as her boyfriend would look at her, or an ordinary person watching her go through the streets, no longer as a friend or lover.
Her nudity upsets me, even though I can't count the occasions when I saw her in her briefs and bra, or naked, or screaming under my licks or under Michele's edging. It's useless, when you've fucked with one person, it can't be like it is with the others.
Listening to her stories, a bit vague perhaps deliberately, I sit better on the couch and look at her well, trying to exist as little as possible.
She has a very beautiful face; I knew it, but I had never noticed certain details, like the high cheekbones that give her a sensual and superb expression.
She is black, and her blue eyes light up a face darkened by the sun like two luminous stones.
I see her regular lips, much thinner than mine; as she speaks I register the image of her perfect, white teeth.
Her shoulders are athletic, well-proportioned. I realize that I am delaying in coming down, as if I wanted to avoid the breast, as if something was preventing me.
I'd be ashamed as a thief if she caught me looking at her tits with those nipples.
She's barely bending over, picking up a salad she dropped. She finally asks me how it's going with Michele.
I couldn't wait, because I can't wait to tell her how we were unable to accept her abandonment. I'll tell her that it's going well, very well, I want to be vague too.
Laughing, I tell her that one of these last nights we made love bringing the video and the computer near the bed, making slideshows with her images, the ones taken by an ex of hers a few years ago, when they were together. They were left here. I'm not going to tell you that those images also helped to make her less distant. She listens to me, but her breasts are like a magnet. It's firm and compact. I almost don't know what I'm telling you anymore. What's happening to me? I keep my eyes glued to yours because I don't want you to take your eyes away from mine either. In fact, I feel my nipples hardening, pushing against the tissue, I feel like I can feel them clearly.
But I know you're smart and you know me too well. Around 7:30 we take a break, the afternoon flew by. We lie on our backs on the sofa, with our eyes closed, abandoned with the radio on and a jug of fresh orange juice next to us.
She must be taking the first step, I repeat. And, to note, Michele's speech was just mentioned... after all, he's still her husband!
What was that subtle, insinuating feeling of anxiety that blocked my breath and increased my heartbeat? If you get those emotions, it's because we're on a fast approaching course.
She's got no flaws this girl, her nipples aren't the only thing getting attention. Thighs are firm, barely separated, look like they're carved in wood, sertorius just carved. The panties have a slight swelling near the pubis. I find myself imagining her completely naked, unwittingly; how many times I have seen her and how much I would like to see her again! And I remember the clitoris, pronounced, exposed.
When she masturbated in front of our eyes, she stroked her clitoris more often than she stroked her fingers all the way down. Darling!
The mind flies, unbridled, each image suggests a bolder one, and then another one.
Now I feel my nipples really swollen, they press against the fabric, there's no way to calm down, I feel hot again, wet between my thighs...
I ask you if, apart from your partner in Calabria, you've had other boyfriends, but I have to be strong.
- Yes - she answers me - somebody, but nothing demanding. You know, it's not as if stories can be replaced like that. Sex is an easy thing, love much less. There are some really mediocre people out there...
I can get back into my head again, but it's not easy to chase ghosts away when they've broken through the lines.
- And you, have you always been faithful to Michele?
- Yes, always - that's my clear answer. And I wanted to add "and you too".
Suddenly I get up, it's getting late. I tell Debra to continue relaxing, that I'll take a shower and then prepare something to eat.
She nods, without opening her eyes, languidly abandoned on the sofa with who knows what thoughts.
I go into the bathroom, close the door; I look in the mirror. Maybe it's not so striking, but definitely the agitation shines through the features of my face. My breasts have hardened, my nipples are popping out, swollen, almost painful. I barely touch them with my fingers, I would like to calm myself with the pain and instead it is a subtle pleasure.
The questions follow each other in the mind, but the answers escape any order. I look in the mirror, trying to breathe deeply. I like myself. I like my hair blonde and shiny, my face not soap and water but fresh, my backside. My breasts are well outlined, not big but well proportioned to my general look, sporty, dynamic and snappy.
I touch them several times, still looking for pain and getting pleasure, imagining that the hands I see reflected in the mirror are ... hers, Debra who approaches me, behind my shoulders, and lets her arms slide around me, caressing me sweet and firm. I lower my costume, slowly, rolling up the fabric.
When the fabric comes loose from the hollow of the pubis where it had sunk slightly, I can see a damp spot. I am unequivocally wet, the excitement of great occasions.
I unhook my earrings, my left index finger goes down almost mechanically, brushes against my lips, picks up a slight whitish burr. Now I'm naked, ready to get in the shower.
The hot jet has no calming effect. I let the water run all over my body, I want to "purify" myself and return to "the one before".
After all, a sense of fear and shame still prevails for what I did to her at the time.
I rub myself delicately, lingering on my breasts, lingering on my belly, as if I wanted to deny my own body, to cleanse myself from the tangible evidence of its sudden, powerful reactions, but on the contrary the stimulation causes a disruptive effect, of astonishing excitement.
At that point I hear Debra's voice opening the sliding shower door wide open.
- Ah... you're here! - She tells me, with the utmost spontaneity, how she hadn't known; I remain stony, stiffened by that intrusion, unprepared as I am; I don't think she has forgotten how I am naked.
- You know, I'm cooked - he continues, - too much rest today! I'll have a nice shower too, then.
That said, he's heading for the toilet.
My eyes remain glued to the agility of movement of her legs, long, up to the junction of her buttocks made even more evident by the thin swimsuit that has partially retracted into her groove.
She pulls out her briefs, sits on the cup. I've closed the shower and I can hear the pee bubbling. My nipples, worked even by boiling water, are as long and hard as two bolts: have you noticed?
I try to dry myself quickly to get out of this very embarrassing situation for me.
In August everything was different, now I can say I'm afraid of Debra. I suffered too much from her estrangement, I couldn't bear an encore in this story.
I get out of the shower, partly recomposed, while Debra completely naked takes my place. She smiles at me, I'm trying hard not to throw myself at her feet.
I head to the mirror to fix myself up and dry my hair.
In front of the toilet are left Debra's costume panties, abandoned, inviting.
I try to ignore them, but the temptation is too strong, and I am now very weakened by that sudden whirlwind of emotions.
I look around to make sure she doesn't see me, listening to the jet of water flowing in the shower: then I take them stealthily in my hand and smell them.
They are used for one day, but the slight smell immediately acts as an aphrodisiac for me. It's always her smell and I almost feel faint; I take off my garment because I feel sick of perversion, but I can't stop myself from approaching her face again, I discover myself rubbing against the fabric, "like a bitch", I think, inhaling that perfume so light but powerful that it makes my legs bend.
Then suddenly I understand the gravity of the situation. I drop my panties, I take the hair dryer and the brush and I run away running away to my room, very tense, angry against myself, against Debra, I don't even know what for.
