The Dirty Ones

What was my dream?

Did I ever have one?

I know I go along. I get it. I’ve always known that it was easier to say yes to my father than it was to say no. And I had role models, didn’t I? My brothers showed me the way. I didn’t make a decision, I realize. I just emulated them the way I was supposed to.

Am I so used to my station in life that I need to ponder the meaning of my existence by having an existential crisis? I mean, that is practically the definition of privilege, right? People who are so well situated, so comfortable they need to make up crises to justify their worth to the world.

I toss the book aside and get up. Walk to the edge of the hallway and listen.

She’s mumbling things in her sleep. Having a bad dream, or maybe a good one.

I walk towards her open door and stop, peering in as my eyes adjust to the almost inexplicable brightness that finds its way into the room.

I never understood that about winter nights, but it makes sense, I guess. The snow reflects the moonlight, even though the moon is hidden by the cloud cover. It’s some physical law of the natural world explained by the words ‘refraction,’ or ‘reflection,’ or some shit like that. Concepts I don’t get and don’t want to.

Except when I find myself in the spotlight-like beam of that elusive brilliance and start to question my own sanity.

Which is where I am now.

Why am I here and what am I doing?

Kiera sighs in her sleep, turns, her body wrapped up in the thick, white comforter. Her face is flushed and her mouth is open, moaning slightly, like she’s in the middle of an erotic experience.

I walk towards her bed, pull the covers back, and get in, my legs sliding against hers, my hand on her shoulder as I gently shake her awake. “Kiera,” I say. “You’re dreaming.”

She reaches for me. Pulls me into her. Hands already on my developing hardness, squeezing me the way she does. Did. Does, apparently, because she’s doing it now.

“Come here,” she says. “Be real for me, please.”

I decide we’re both having the same crisis tonight.

Two fucked-up people. And five more waiting, somewhere else, to make our dirty-secret past something in the present again.

I kiss her. Open-mouthed. The way we used to.

And she kisses me back, just as hungry for a repeat performance as I am.

Fuck that snow-covered spotlight outside. Fuck the coming morning. Fuck the inevitable consequences.

I want her.

And she wants me. Even if it’s only in a half-awake state, I’ll take it.

I pull her on top of me. Her hips grind against my cock as we kiss, our tongues twisting together like old friends who haven’t seen each other in ages. Lifetimes, maybe.

She gropes at the waistband of my briefs, so I help her pull them down my legs, then get to work on her shorts. They come off easy, the soft shearling brushing against my own skin as I drag them over her knees and let her take care of the rest. Her shirt comes off as she sits up, straddling me now, her pussy already wet from her dream, and I wonder for a second if she was dreaming about me, or was it someone else? Someone I don’t know. Some nameless, faceless man who has captured her attention in the years I’ve ignored her.

But then her tits are resting on my chest as she leans back down, still hungry, and we get lost in another kiss.

And all the faceless, nameless other men disappear and leave only us in their wake.

She lifts up her hips, reaches between her legs, and pushes my cock inside her. I slip in like an old friend slipping back into some long-forgotten, but easily picked-back-up conversation, and she folds over my shaft. Hugging it and squeezing it as her hands grip my shoulders. Her nails digging into my skin.

We begin to rock.

It’s not the rushed, frantic fucking like the last time we were together. It’s the opposite of that and I can’t stop myself. I cannot stop myself from wondering who taught her to be so seductive and sensual, because it sure as hell wasn’t me.

“Stop it,” she whispers into my mouth. “Stop thinking.”

And even though I’m not the kind of guy who takes commands in the throes of sex, I listen. I obey. Because right now is not the time to answer questions. There’s no mystery that will be solved in this moment.

“It can wait,” she continues, rocking back and forth faster now, her long hair brushing along my chest like a sensual bonus thrown in for free. “Forever,” she says. “If it has to.”

We fuck like that for a long time. Slow. Methodical. Then, when we both feel that the end is near, I flip her over, straddle her knees, and thrust myself back inside and take her the way I took her last time.