What is it with us? [FM] [Vanilla] [Romantic]

What is it with us, and the way we always end up circling around each other? Anytime we happen to be inside the same room, we happen to be talking, joking and laughing, and occasionally giggling. When I make a joke you’re the one who gets it, even though you are at the other end of the table, stuck in a completely different conversation.

And as the hours progress, we always end up like this here, on the small couch where it’s hard for two people to sit without touching at least our feet. And yet we manage, religiously upholding this foot of distance between us. Not even a foot in terms of measurement units, it’s more like an actual foot, and then more like the width of a foot rather than its length. But we need that distance for some reason, the two or three times that we accidentally touched before made both of us jolt and retract into our shells.

Ours isn’t the kind of friendship that requires touch to show affection, nor are we even really friends. I have your number, you have mine, but neither of us ever calls or texts the other, our lives just have no overlap outside of dimly lit rooms on Saturday nights. I know enough about you to know that we won’t fall in love, and you know enough about me to know that I am not the stable guy who leads you to the altar one day.

And yet, we keep circling, a bit like two mountain lions who don’t quite trust each other, and yet neither of us wants to back down and admit defeat. When we are in the same room nobody else can really hold our attention for long, and we drift across the room until we inevitably seek each other’s presence for some actual talk and engaged conversation.

And slowly, we have started changing things, little things in our lives. I got you to actually try out Guinness and now you’re secretly loving the strong taste and the stories that it tells to your tongue, of stormy nights by the coast and warm nights by the fire. And you got me into one or two authors of books I would have never read, but now enjoy. We encourage each other to do something about what irks us at work, and congratulate one another whenever we make progress, console each other when we don’t.

It’s really something else with you and me, a type of unstable friendship that I have not experienced before, and probably won’t again. The rare weekend without you feels a bit empty and void of meaning, and the Saturday with you is still on my mind on Tuesday.

And sure enough, this fragile balance isn’t going to last, and it’s a split choice who of us is going to make the tragic mistake of catching a case of the feelings. I see it in your eyes sometimes, this look of feeling comfortable at first, then being afraid of how comfortable you just got there for a moment. I see it in my own eyes when I stare into a bathroom mirror of whoever’s place it is we’re at. Cold water in my face, and I haven’t even drunk that much, and yet I’m absolutely hammered by the time I get into my car to drive me home. Just me, with an empty passenger seat, with the heater turned up to warm me.

And I know the thoughts I’m thinking, of taking you by the hand and walking you down a long, windy beach. Of handing you a towel when we get back to my place, of leading you to the couch and making you watch as I boil water, prep us some tea and cookies. Of slipping under the blanket with you, our feet touching like our minds, and the hour or so before it’s safe to say that neither of us minds the touch, or the foot massage that follows.

I can look at you and see the things my fingers could do to your shoulders, I can physically feel the slightly rough fabric of your sweatshirt as my fingers run down your back, thumbs trailing down your spine, working out all the kinks and knots and stressful memories. I can vividly imagine how your body would feel leaned against mine, how little restraint I could muster to keep my morals high and my good manners in mind – and how little you would mind. You would smile silently as you watch me struggle to keep my hands in safe places, and blow on your mug with playfully calm breaths as my fingers follow the inevitable path underneath your shirt.

We would spend the evening like that, drinking tea, playing games with each other’s mind, talking sense about nonsensical things until the tea supply runs out, together with our patience. I would forgo all pretense about having any morals at all, and you would meet my asking gaze with resolute indifference. I would reach down from behind, pushing the fabric of your leggings down your hips, and you would lift yourself up the tiniest bit to make it easy for me. I wouldn’t know how to continue, momentarily stunned by the fact you let me do that, and then start teasing your inner thighs as if that had been part of a thoroughly mapped out plan.

I would try a kiss on your cheek, and when you fail to complain your neck would be fair game. I would whisper something into your ear that would be meant to sound sexy, but end up sounding cute and helpless, struggling to catch a clear enough thought. You would giggle under your breath, then reach for my hand still down by your thighs and shove it right where I have not yet dared to touch you. I would see the signs, accept the inevitability of our mutual descent, and start massaging you, testing what a tip of a finger can do to your mind. My other hand would start caressing your breasts, still clothed in that comfy sweater, and I would feel your lack of bra, and lack of complaint.

I would not want to stop, or go further, but your body’s reaction would tell me that the status quo was impossible to maintain, and so the tip of my finger would become its length, and my soft and caring touches would become a grab and hold, my kisses become hungry. I would slip out from under you, careful not to lose touch with you as I got up on top of you, careful to keep our eyes locked as our lips while we both struggle out of my pants. I would stare right into your eyes as I guide my dick into your warm wetness, watch for any sort of hesitation in your glance. But neither your eyes nor your body would resist my advance, and my first thrust would be so slow that it would push us both into a different state of mind. I would lose my ability to think by the time I pull out, and fully work on instincts by the time I push into you again. I would see the signs of your body, understand them somehow, and alter the speed and thrust, the places on your skin that my lips explore. I would caress your body with everything I have to offer, kiss your nipples and your lips, brush a finger through your hair and then hold onto the back of your head to steady my weight against my thrusts. I would quickly lose my ability to take good care of you, and that would be what you need, my raw and unfiltered lust, gliding in and out of you and stretching your body and your patience.

You would whisper things at me, and the silence around us would make it feel like yelling, and your moans would sound like an angry roar anytime I dared slow down. Our bodies would be entangled in a mess of arms and legs, and my dick would be twitching inside of you before either of us cared about slowing down or stopping. I would fill you up with my seed, but it would not be the end, the sheer intensity of our lust would keep me going, my dick fading in and out of states of hardness, before getting back to full attention a moment later. I would no longer be worth the trust you placed in me, uncaring of your needs or even mine, and thereby fulfilling them both. I would watch you twist and twitch in my arms, and moan and sigh and finally slow down with my balls emptying another load into your warmth, before collapsing down next to you, my dick slipping out to remain dysfunctional for the rest of the night.

And we would lock our eyes again, and exchange smiling kisses, and pull the blanket back up that got lost along the way, to cuddle close through the rest of the night, and do things that we shouldn’t, because the caring looks and sweet little words would hit so much harder than my hardest thrust could have.

It’s probably good that we don’t have a beach out here, that storms carry the violence of war without the romance of inner peace, and that you and I are in a stranger’s place on an unfamiliar couch.

Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/qmh1vt/what_is_it_with_us_fm_vanilla_romantic