The closest I got to fucking [30M]y [24F]riend in Iceland [MF] – Pt. 3

[Part 1](https://www.reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/6yzlmy/30masturbating_to_my_24friend_in_iceland_while/)

[Part 2](https://www.reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/6zs580/watching_30my_24friend_masturbating_in_iceland/)

Description of Kari from Part 1:

>I met Kari in January through Tinder. She was completely my type; tiny, 5’2″, probably never hit 100lb in her life, small breasts, small but firm ass, tiny waist. Asian-American with long dark hair and adorable features. Hot rather than pretty, if you know what I mean, with a little resting bitch face, but with a smile that transformed her into pure dorky sunshine.

If you haven’t read the other two, I’d been sharing a bed with a ridiculously attractive friend as we traveled Iceland and I was starting to feel pretty hot-blooded.

You can skip to the dirty part below if you want.

—

Kari and I rounded the Eastern fjords of Iceland on route 1, singing cover songs together and laughing uproariously when Chance’s punk cover of Kelis’s “Milkshake” came on, pausing every half hour or so to take picture so of the infuriatingly beautiful landscape. You know the reddit meme where people will comment, “*sigh* unzip”? Well, it was that, but the unzipping was my camera bag instead of my pants.

If you’ve read the first couple parts of this story, you know my lust for this petite beauty had inconviently evolved into a mild case of the feels despite all my best efforts.

And if you’ve read the first couple parts, I feel I should remind you: we were friends, and no more. We didn’t touch flirtatiously, didn’t “platonically cuddle” or any of those things people do sometimes when they’re in denial. But we were also very close friends, and so I want to be clear that if she even knew I’d written either of the first two parts, it would have been a betrayal that would not have been forgiven.

This really sunk in after I wrote the second part, and I resolved to be better behaved. I jacked off before bed and slept curled up on my side, doing my best to ignore the heat of her body, the soft shifting as she re-positioned, the sound of her breath as she slept. One night I was on the verge of turning, facing her, drinking in her scent, re-visiting the sweet hell of proximity. I reached into my bag, took two ambien, and gritted my teeth until I fell asleep.

Women who agree to travel with men–especially when they sleep in the same bed–are vulnerable. They are trusting. It’s just just that I didn’t want to be found out; I didn’t want to be the guy that was taking advantage of her trust.

And if I sometimes stared at her mouth a little long when she was staring at the vast ocean, if my stomach clenched at her tiny waist and fitted pants, if my idle thoughts sometimes strayed to how it would feel to brush my fingers over her nipples, stiff and dry from the chill, erect and sensitive, still, I did my best to focus on Iceland and its myriad beautiful distractions.

We pulled into a hostel outside Hofn after the sun had set. My willpower had been ebbing night by night, and I was grateful that we’d be sleeping in different beds in a room with other people. The hostel was surprisingly remote–moreso than I’d realized when I booked it–and I could tell the view outside would be spectacular in the morning. It looked quaint and charming, and the man who greeted us no less so. He was a Londoner, of all things, who spent several months of the year in Iceland to run the hostel and write his history books. He ushered us in to the warmth of the hostel, which was all of old, wooden beams in the style of old Icelandic buildings, talking all the while. Kari and I followed, quiet and bemused.

He brought us to a simple room with a single queen sized bed, and I must have looked quizzical because the stream of his words changed course to tell us that the private room wasn’t booked and that he’d taken the liberty of upgrading us so that more people could stay in the bunk room. Kari thanked him profusely–she had not looked forward to sleeping in a room with strangers–and I followed, though with reservations. It seemed I was to have my last night of temptation after all.

A storm rolled in that night, a mad, pelting storm with rain slung from the clouds that splattered violently against the roof and the stone walkways outside. We stayed in and the host broke out bottles of moonshine and fruit wine that he’d bottled himself. The fruit was awful–not that I said so–but the moonshine was quite excellent and before long we were all laughing, joking, and telling stories.

I kept my drinking reasonable, which was just as well, because Kari had taken interest in a tall, Scandinavian hitchhiker with an accent and an endless supply of stories. I shouldn’t have been surprised–she had readily admitted on other occasions that she almost never went without sex for more than a few days, and it had been over two weeks for her now, so she must have been horny as hell–but I struggled not to show the pangs of jealousy on my face or in my voice. I felt an awful certainly that she would approach me at any moment with bright eyes, asking if she might switch spots with the Scandinavian so they could share the bed. And, being her friend, I would wink, smile, tell of course they could have the room, I’d move my stuff right away, have a good time. And I would lie in this man’s bunk, cuckolded in my brain, straining to hear the sounds they made, perhaps even catching them through the timbers over the pattering of rain and the creak of other sleeping travelers.

I must have looked a little sick despite my efforts, because Kari came over to me with concern in her tone. “Are you okay?” she asked? I composed myself and said I was, but she looked unconvinced. “Go to bed. I’ll be there in a bit, we have an early morning anyway.” I guess they’d find some other corner of the hostel to conduct their business. I agreed and left, saying goodbye to everyone and trying very, very hard not to appear sullen.

I brushed my teeth, washed my face, changed into boxers and a t-short, and tipped myself backward onto the bed, splayed out. I lay there, lacking the will to move. The room was pitch black, but somehow the blackness spun slightly. That moonshine must have been stronger than I realized.

My leaving must have been a catalyst for the party to break up because I heard the sounds of everyone dispersing. After a few minutes, the light beneath the door went out and soon the hostel went quiet. There was no sign of Kari, and I knew exactly why. I knew it was irrational to be so caught up about this, but for whatever reason her enforced celibacy over the last couple weeks had made our non-involvement much more tolerable.

—-The most you can skip and still have the dirty part kind of make sense—-

How long I waited like that, I have no idea, but I was drowsing when I heard the door open and heard hands feeling their way across the wall. It was still utterly black and I couldn’t see a thing, but I heard Kari curse softly when her foot hit the bed, then, unable to keep her balance, she reminded me why drunk people are called “tipsy”, and she tipped right on top of me.

She made a shocked sound, then started giggling. My hand reached around in of those gestures of affection I always akwardly aborted halfway through… and settled my hand on her back. My fingertips grazed across her and perhaps I imagined it, but she seems to sink her head into my chest. “Are you okay?” She murmured that she was. “I thought you’d want the room for you and…” I almost called him Bjorn because I am apparently a racist piece of shit and my addled brain had chosen that as a suitable moniker.

“His name is Tom,” she said, rotating her head so she could talk freely. “He’s very sweet. And he has a girlfriend. I swear when I get back to the states I’m going to swipe right so hard it cracks the screen.” So she was frustrated, then. I laughed, and she laughed too, after a moment, and the feeling of her laughter against mine was headier than all the moonshine I’d ever had. Some of my tension had gone, though some remained. I wanted to say, “you once swiped right on me and we’re literally sharing a bed, why not…” but I dared not. Her closeness tempted me to all sorts of conclusions, but the fact remained that, given the opportunity, she would have happily left me in the room and and liased with Tom or Bjorn or whatever the fuck his stupid name was. She wasn’t interested.

She spoke again, the sound reverberating in my chest. “God, it would have felt so good…” and mumbled a bit more I couldn’t understand. And, for the first time in more than 2 weeks, I saw a chance I was willing to take.

Carefully neutral, I said, “what would have felt so good?” My tone was light, but my abruptly hammering chest have have given her the lie.

“If he’d pushed me up against the wall and taken me right there,” she replied hoarsely.

“Oh, he wouldn’t have done that,” I responded, tone still airy. The blood pounding in my chest and head was giving me a headache. She tilted her head up to look at me, questioningly I think, but the room was too dark. I was grateful; I did not think I could have continued with her eyes on mine. “Sure, he would have pushed you up against the wall. But then he would have slid his left hand up your back, and gripped your hair by the roots.” I moved my hand up her back and into her hair, not gripping, but merely suggesting. “He’d have traced his lips down from your eyes, down your cheeck, all the way to your neck, moving your shirt with his right hand and kissing your collar bone, then kissing back up your neck and hard on the mouth, one hand tightening in your hair and the other pressed in to the small of your back.” I moved my other hand to the small of her back and waited. There were so many ways this could go horribly wrong.

“Oh yeah?” she teased. The moment stretched on interminably, but she did not move. Finally she said, “what about after that?” Game. Fucking. On.

“Well,” I said, “then he’d toss you over his shoulder and carry you to the sofa and drop you on your back with your legs draped over the arm. He’d know a slut like you would already be dripping for him”–I hasten to add that we’d talked a great deal about our preferences, so I was not guessing here about her tastes in dirty talk–“so he’d yank down those skimpy shorts, tear your panties off and toss them away, then bury his tongue in you. He’d hold you to him with one arm, and all your squirming wouldn’t move you a bit. His thumb and forefinger would pinch the hood of your clit, jerking you off with your own slippery skin. He’d put his thumb in your mouth, watch you suck it like a whore, then make you beg to put it in your ass.”

Her hips moved, pressing down a bit on my leg. My now hard cock was pressed against her stomach and I was doing my best not to think about it. I could have come if she’d so much as looked at me too hard. I waited, let the silence linger, her hips moving more urgently now. Her movements went from urgent to frustrated and she whined, “please?”

“Not good enough.”

“Fuck, please, make me dirty.” Which was not what I had expected to hear, but I don’t know the man who would turn down that request. I switch tenses because I’m no longer coherent enough to pretend I’m telling a story.

“He looks you in the eye and commands you not to come. He circles the rim of your asshole and then presses in, and you have to hold back the orgasm that begins to form. Two fingers from his other hand reach inside you, thrumming your g-spot. His tongue flicks circles around your clit. He is relentless and you are powerless to stop his onslaught. In the grip of this stranger, wetter than you’ve ever been, you feel the orgasm rising inexorable. You try to fight it and it begins to fill your, every part of your body as if you were on the break of a cliff, being pushed over bit by bit, and then he looks up for just a moment and commands: ‘Come for me, now.’ It is not a request and your body obeys and you come everywhere at once, losing control of everything.”

Kari had her hands wrapped around me now, stradding my leg, pushing hard against me, then she began quivering. I pressed her to me, but did nothing else. My own orgasm was nearby, but felt strange, as if I has passed the point of no return, but the orgasm itself was still far, far away.

“He flips you easily before you gain control of your body, strips off his pants, and buries himself inside you, filling you. You have the vague impression that you should be doing something, should be showing him your skill in bed, not just lay there getting fucked like a whore. But you are completely dominated; you could not move even if you knew what to do. You can only lay there, suddenly aware that his hand has grabbed yours and pressed it against your own clit, silently instructing you to touch yourself. You do, and the jolt of pleasure borders on pain. His calloused hands move roughly on your breasts, squeezing them with no regard for your pleasure or comfort. He begins to grunt, breath coming harder, the sounds calling something wild inside of you so that when he says it, ‘come for me, come for me again”, the second orgasm slams into you like a wave and you tremble and writhe inside it, all senses overcome. He flips you again, pulling out, and strokes himself until long milky ropes paint your stomach and breasts.” As I’d hoped, Kari came again, perhaps harder, and this time I could feel the slick dampness through her pants and onto my leg. I had come partway through, dampening our t shirts, but it had been a little disappointing. I found myself wishing I had jacked off earlier and had the stamina to come with her, perhaps even redirect some of her fantasy attentions onto me.

“He picks his shirt off the floor–you don’t even remember when it came off–and wipes you off. His fierceness has faded into a smile and he touches you gently, almost reverently. He lays next to your drawing you to him, and you sleep.” I continued to rub her back, and she slept. In perhaps half an hour, she went to the bathroom and came back. She crawled over to me, found my head by feel, and kissed me very gently on the lips, and then on the forehead. Then she crawled to the other side of the bed and fell asleep.

She was reserved in the morning and I didn’t press the issue, allowing things to continue as they had been. We flew back home, and we’ve been working this week, but I imagine we’ll hang out this weekend like usual. I don’t think there will be a part 4, and to be honest, I’m not sure I want there to be.

But thanks for the company while I write this all down.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/705w71/the_closest_i_got_to_fucking_30my_24friend_in