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                 K R I S T E N' S    C O L L E C T I O N
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Fuckbuddies
by Stephanie Alexis Bonvissuto 
(stephaniealexis8@hotmail.com)

***

A pair of cheaters discuss what's real and what's not 
in their no-tell motel relationship during an afternoon 
romp. (MF, rom)

***

Overhead, another plane flies off into the great wide 
open, destination unknown.

Our bed shakes down to its box-spring from the sound 
waves –or maybe it's from all our fucking. My eyes drop 
from the cracked ceiling to refocus on the woman below. 
I lean forward to steal sweaty kisses off her lips. 
Smiling, she reaches up to twist one of my nipples. 
She's the only one in the world I'd ever let do that.

We're in a no-tell motel a half mile away from the 
airport. It charges pro-rated hours and the maids 
change the sheets at least five times a day. At least I 
hope they do. We've been taking extended lunch breaks 
every other Friday here for the last three years. No 
one ever says a word when we finally make our way back 
to the office. Everyone knows we were fuckbuddies. 

That's her term for us, by the way. Surprised? I often 
am and have been ever since she came up to Marketing. 
At first she was just another face on the elevator, a 
body in a neighboring cubicle, one more skirt in the 
lunchroom. We often sat next to each other at team 
meetings, sharing brainstorms over coffee and 
doughnuts. 

Then we began bumping into each other at Gillgan's 
after work. We smoked the same cigs, liked the same 
songs on the jukebox and took our drinks straight up. 
We would play pool as partners, dish our co-workers and 
try like hell not to stare into the other's eyes.

I prop myself up now to give my thrusts some extra 
leverage. Her pussy muscles squeeze me lovingly tight. 
Her eyes laugh from a hundred miles below. She knows I 
love it. My body's tensing up, concentration slipping 
between my legs. I let some grunts slip out, no doubt 
making what she calls my "funny face." I never say a 
word whenever I have sex with the wife. 

You should know we never did anything illicit, at least 
not before that night we worked late on the boss's 
seminar presentation. By the time we finished the slide 
show we were punch-drunk on too much sake and chow 
mein, courtesy of The Happy Egg. I don't know who 
started the food fight first, only that at some point I 
was slurping lo mien out of her cleavage and she was 
brushing fried noodles out of my crotch. From there it 
took one greasy kiss to slide off the precipice we'd 
been so carefully negotiating for months.

My moans sharpen and I surrender to these hot gushing 
moments. She takes it all in and them some. Her legs, 
which have been wrapped around me the whole time, open 
only when I'm through. I fall off panting but I'm not 
quite done yet. Her eyes follow me as I slip-slide down 
her belly to disappear between her thighs. 

My lips kiss her gorged clit as I delicately finger her 
folds. Then I add another, and another. Once she's 
spitting electricity my mouth replaces my fingers and I 
drink her down. She taught me long ago not to be afraid 
of my come. What can I say? She's that kind of girl.

Spasms rip across her, slowly grinding down to ripples. 
She pushes me away, unable to take another second. I 
climb back up to find a spot on the pillow next to 
hers. After a few savory seconds her eyes pop open, a 
sky of glazed blue. She kisses me on the mouth. "Mmm. 
One day you're going to have to explain to Rob just how 
you do that."

"Oh sure. Let me just call up your fiancé so I can tell 
him just how to eat out his future wife."
She nibbles my lip. "I'm serious! All he does is paint 
me up and down, up and down. The other day I fell 
asleep on him. I don't think he even noticed."

I have to laugh. "And you want to marry this guy, to 
have and to hold until death-by-ennui do you part?"

She punches me in the arm. "Look who's talking. Remind 
me again just how many different positions you tried on 
your last vacation again?"

I counted fingers. "Um, that would be, one, missionary. 
But we did it a lot," I add, feeling the dusty 
obligation to defend milady.
"She keeps saying it's the best way if you want to have 
a kid."

"Oh." She pauses, looks at me hard. "I didn't know you 
wanted one."

"Neither did I. Good thing she reminded me, huh?"

"Hmmm," she hums. 

"Hmmm what?"

"I'm just trying to remember the last time we fucked 
missionary," she says.

"Wasn't it last year?"

"Ha!" she says. "Trick question, loser. We never did it 
missionary."

"Wait, what about that time in Henry's office?"

"Doggie. Jesus, don't you even remember? He complained 
to facilities the next day about the new cleaner the 
janitors were using. Said it smelled."
 
We both break up. God, I love her laughter. It always 
reminds me of kids at play in summer.
 
Another outgoing flight shakes the walls. 
 
One of us checks the time and we both hit up the 
shower. Not that I dislike the smell she always left on 
me, that dark perfume I could have worn all day – but 
my wife would have picked up on it three miles from the 
driveway. At home we shower to strip our skins of any 
residue. Here in Room 414 the shower was always part of 
the ritual.

She dresses herself up in suds and lets the water 
undress her again. Then she emerges all dewy and goes 
for the towel. I watch as she rubs herself down, first 
the face and her arms (patting down the pits which she 
sometimes lets me kiss) and then her tits and belly, 
finally lazing over each leg. 
 
"Hey, you're staring." She snaps my butt as I went for 
my pants. "There's more where that came from, mister."

"Ow! Since when did you become a dominatrix?" 

"Since you promised to be my slave until you die."

I catch her in the mirror's reflection stepping into 
her skirt, tugging it up over her hips. Painted 
fingernails delicately pull the side zipper up. No 
stockings or panties; she likes to feel breezes. I 
wonder if there will be any blowing in London during 
her honeymoon.

She shrugs on her bra, working the clasps with a 
dexterity no mortal man would ever understand. "You 
look sad."

"Just thinking..."

She smiles. "Uh-oh."

"Yeah, well, I don't feel like it's a good day unless 
I'm fucking it up."

Shaking her head she plops into my lap and plucks a 
pair of cigs from my pack. "So what's on your mind, 
stud?"

My mouth opens but all the words run for cover. Jesus, 
am I really going to say this? Then I think, if not to 
this woman then to who? My wife? "I was um, wondering, 
eh, why don't we go away?"

"Who, you and me?"

"No, the other two fuckbuddies in the room. What, you 
don't think we'd have a good time?"

Her arms wrap around my neck. "You kidding? We'd 
disappear forever and end up on the side of milk 
cartons."

"Hang out on the beach all day..."

"Which beach?"

"I don't know, pick one."

"Okay, St. Croix."

"Perfect. We'd just lounge, jump in the waves every now 
and then, swim a little, stare at each other a lot."

She nibbles at my bottom lip. "And when that gets 
boring?"

"I dunno. Walk through town, shop the tacky tourist 
stores picking out postcards, tee shirts and snow 
globes."

One of her eyebrows rises. "And at night we'd eat at an 
outdoor café?"

"We'd check the wine list..."

"...but order Coronas instead."

"With limes?"

"What else?"

We stare at our reflections in the other's eyes. She 
finally asks as if out of obligation, "But what would 
we tell our significant others?"

"But I thought we were our significant others!" I say, 
kissing her mouth.

"Good point. So then what do we tell those people we go 
home to every week night?"
 
Ah, but the former boy scout has an answer for that 
one, too. "We'll tell them we're sorry but we each 
found the person we're meant to be with. Someone who we 
really want to hear and listens to us when we talk, 
someone we don't have to work at to have sex with, a 
best friend..."
 
She tickles my neck with kisses. "...and don't forget, 
a real good lay!"

"I was getting to that!"

We laugh anew, on the verge of everything, until a 
flight, destination unknown, drowns out our mirth. 

"I-I have a fiancé," she whispers. "And you, you're 
married."

Yeah, I think, to a twenty-nine year old woman who's 
already looking forward to rocking chairs and 
grandchildren. That's not living - that's dying. I 
don't say that, of course. Instead I break into a tight 
grin only liars ever wear. "I was just kidding, you 
know."

She lowers her head until we're a couple of Cyclops 
eyeballing each other. "No, you weren't." 

"How do you know?" I ask.

Her smile looks as sad as mine feels forced. "Because 
we're fuckbuddies," she reminds me. 

Overhead, jet engines scream.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime,
so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 41