Burbank in July

As I stepped out of the office into the heat of the San Fernando valley July, I scanned my contacts for your number and considered my good fortune.
I had pursued you to great lengths, pushing the limits of corporate policies, walking a very narrow line between wooing and outright harassment. In fact, had we not worked in separate buildings I would probably had to have given up long ago, but somehow over weeks and even months I was able to convince you of both my genuine attraction and sincerity. You had found it hard to believe that I would single you out, working as I did in an environment where "beautiful people" wandered the halls daily. I had to overcome your reluctance, your self-image, your ethos. It was hard work, but it had finally paid off.

I freely confess to a compulsive attraction to redheads, but that wasn't the sole attraction. There are many redheads who often don't warrant a second glance from me, but you fit all of the criteria. Your hazel eyes, leaning more towards green, were kind and intelligent, and intensely welcoming. Your body Rubenesque, voluptuous and tempting, not angular and pointy as so many women stive to achieve in this time. Your laughter, so infectious that its sound would wrench an adoring grin from me even when I hadn't heard what you were reacting to. Your job brought you to my office perhaps twice a month, and those days impressed upon me so deeply that now, years later, they are very nearly the only days which I recall.

When finally you had relented and permitted me to take you out, you wasted no time defining the terms. You were not interested in a serious relationship, and without using the precise term you outlined conditions which are now so commonly known as "friends with benefits", and in the beginning, the emphasis was on the benefits. After our first "date", we returned to your apartment and made out on the couch, Cartoon Network providing a surreal backdrop to my realized fantasies, as for the first time I got to explore your curves, test your sensitivities, touch, smell and taste you as you did the same to me. Even today, years later, the memory leaves me flushed and scintillated, so clearly can I recall that early passion and how immensely satisfied it left me.

"Hey, hey, hey like being stoned."

You answered on the second ring, "Hey, what's up?"

"Not too much, just walking out. Is it ok if I come by?", I asked, already knowing the answer, but sticking to the agreement. You wanted first right of refusal, and by now, I knew it was nothing but a technicality.

"Yeah, absolutely! I just got out of the shower, I'm watching some t.v. Oh, you only have one beer here, in case you want to stop." I did, and I would. I knew that of course, and you did as well, but it was part of the prescribed banter.

"Ok, I'll do that. Do you need anything while I'm at the store?"

"Nope", again I knew the answer before I had asked, "I'm all good. I'll see you soon."

"Cool, I'll be there in about 20."


My commute was one of the most brutal in the country, from southern west Los Angeles to the valley meant Sepulveda pass, ironically named as it was passable only when nobody in their right mind had any reason to use it. In most cities, the traffic flow would have been worst inbound, as most of the suburbanites would have had to come to the city proper, but L.A. bucks all trends. The studios were out in the valley, and the wage-slaves lived in the city proper, so each morning hundreds of thousands of us would funnel onto the 101 at 15mph if we were lucky. But you lived in the valley, just a short ride up the 101 from my office, and so after we'd established our... agreement, I opted out of the evening rush hour. So while my vehicular colleagues inched home, cursing each other for their brazen acts of imitation, I happily grabbed one six-pack of beer, another of condoms, and headed to your apartment.

Parking just down the street, I pressed the button for your apartment; knowing I was coming you would just buzz the door. Climbing the stairs, grinning in anticipation of what was to come, in mere moments as I'd knock on your door. The peephole would darken, and then the familiar click of the door unlatching, stressed from the heat of the summer and the lack of air conditioning in the building. And there you would be, silhouetted in the door frame, naked but for an oversized men's dress shirt which hung, unbuttoned, from your shoulders. The breeze from your open windows would escape into the hall, rustling your hair and flapping your outfit, and on each visit, I would stare in wonder at the gift I was about to receive. The bright, bleached white of the dress shirt contrasting with alabaster skin; skin which compared to any other color would appear as white as the shirt itself. The mischievous smile that crossed your face as I gazed down at your body. The reversal of modesty always struck me as I traced your body with my eyes, for while the shirt covered much of your breasts, the beautiful, fiery red tuft of pubic hair was always on display. Once or twice, it was a kimono instead of the dress shirt, but in my mind's eye, looking back, you are always in that shirt, glancing coyly at me, relishing my reaction. In the entire course of our affair, it never became routine.

As I breached your doorstep, I would lean in for a kiss, brief and friendly, with no betrayal of the passion that was to come. Making my way to the fridge to drop off my beer, we'd exchange small talk about work, life, weather or news. I would crack open a bottle and then settle into the couch next to you, the T.V. always on Cartoon Network, and nearly always showing yet another episode of Courage the Cowardly Dog. Perhaps you planned it that way, something with little potential to distract, but that would serve as a distraction while I settled in from my day. A few minutes, a couple of laughs at poor hapless Courage, a half a beer drained, and I'd be left with zero patience for waiting any longer to touch you.

As clearly as if I were doing so right now, I can remember tracing my finger along your thigh, both of us still presumably fixated on the TV. Without fail you would open your legs as I did so, and I would work my way slowly up your inner thigh, then trace the outline of your mons before drifting up your other thigh. The noise of the cartoon horror unfolding would fade as we both concentrated on my finger, the numerous fans in your windows buzzing in our ears as though we were under nitrous oxide in a dentist's chair. Eventually I would begin tracing the outline of your lips, and as your eyes closed and your head leaned back against the couch, I would begin in earnest. Never once did I find you in need of moisture, your nethers never offered anything but encouragement. In short order I'd have two fingers working deep inside you, and my thumb circling your clit, matching my timing to your breaths, the intoxicating scent of your pussy giving rise to both my passion and my cock.

With your wetness encompassing my fingers, I could not resist a taste; and once I'd had a taste, I could not resist a feast. I'd slither off the couch and remove my shirt, and then seated on the floor in front of you, spread your thighs and pull you closer to the edge of the couch. Slowly and carefully I'd use my tongue to lap up any wetness left behind from my digital attentions, then dive in in earnest to create more. Some days, I swear that's all we did, so engrossed was I in tasting, sucking and swallowing your sweet juices that my memories went no further. But on this day, there was more in store.

Raising my head from between your legs, gazing in adoration at the slick, pink lips, the curl of hair plastered against your cunt, turned auburn from the moisture, I knelt up and unbuckled my belt, undressing quickly in anticipation of my next move. Tossing my boxers to the side, I began to position myself in front of you, condom in hand, intending to fuck you just where you lay. But on this day, you had other plans.

"Wait," you said urgently, and before I could protest, "there's something I want to try. Stand up!"

I complied, my shaft pointing to the east like a divining rod, a pearl of pre-cum pooling at the tip. I fumbled with the condom wrapper as I watched you walk around to the side of the couch, then circle back around and begin piling pillows on the seat nearest the arm. Satisfied with your work, you leaned over the arm of the couch on to the pillows, then flipped the tail of your shirt up teasingly.

"Come and get it," you purred.

I did not have to be told twice. As quickly as I could I positioned myself behind you, my ankles inside of yours I pressed out to stake myself a claim. Your upturned ass was glorious as the setting sun washed through the drapes, and I wasted no time nestling the head of my cock against your moist and quivering pussy. I slid the top of my cock back and forth along your cunt to tease you, and then plunged deep inside of you, my thighs meeting yours with a deeply satisfying slap, as though I had just smacked your ass with a paddle. I heard you release a deep breath in a slow moan, and realized that I was fortunate enough to be fulfilling a fantasy of yours. I set about doing my part to the best of my ability.

Grasping you firmly by the hips, I plunged in and out of you as quickly as I could. I watched my shaft as I withdrew until I was certain just how far I could pull back before I'd risk missing on the next thrust, and then set about pounding you with every inch I had available. The sound was like a vast erotic symphony, the percussive slap of our thighs meeting, the drone of the window fans like a continuous rumbling timpani, the sounds of cars and people on the street like faint chimes and brass, and all of it punctuated by the passionate slurp of my purple shaft plunging into your dripping cunt. The couch shifted on the floor, and we both inched our feet forward to rejoin it, we would have followed it clear to the wall rather than break off our rapidly rising concerto. I thrust into you ever harder, until my thighs actually began to sting from the mutual spanking we were both receiving, my cock so swollen and hard I may as well have been a warm pyrex dildo.

Eventually your moans took on a greater intensity, and the racket of our unabashed fucking grew so loud I was sure we could be heard across the street, fans or no fans. I redoubled my thrusts, adjusting my speed to match your throaty professions of lust, and pushed you over the edge just in time to join you. As your cunt twitched and throbbed the intensity of your orgasm, I was overwhelmed by my own, so intense as to be nearly painful, as though my loins had given up on just spurting my seed and had decided to just give you one whole testicle. As we both climbed down from our peaks, both of our legs began to tremble uncontrollably, as I eased my fully drained cock out of you, we both began to laugh in exhaustion and disbelief as we began to catch our breath.

I fucked you on that day as though it would be my last, and to this day it stands as one of my most memorable. A short while later, darkness had fallen, and I got dressed and set out on my evening commute.

All told, the affair probably didn't last six months before I found some brilliant way to fuck it up. Despite the groundrules, fondness grew into full fledged, but tentative, affection, as we shared with each other more than should be shared in your typical FWB arrangement. Losing that one was hard, but I was in the midst of a variety of life-changing events and so it affected me only briefly. But sometimes my mind does wander, and sometimes when it does it heads back up the 101 and parks in front of a non-descript bodega, drifts silently through the security door and stands in front of your door, pondering what might have been.

I sincerely doubt you'll ever read this in the sheer enormity of the internet. But if you ever do, I had a great time that year, and I miss you.