One Night Only by Violet Blue

intellectual, but your pulse still jumps when you see his name in your in-box.
    The next time you “happen” to be drinking into the wee hours at a conference, he admits things haven’t been going well with his wife for some time, and they’ve decided to separate. You feel sad for him even if you get to be right.
    When he finds out he didn’t get tenure, you’re the first person he calls. He claims it’s a gift. I’ve spent my whole fucking life doing what other people told me to do and now I’m done with it. Fuck it. Fuck it all.

    You think, with a smile, that you wish he’d put you on the list of things to fuck, too. That night you masturbate to your usual fantasy about him. You’re in a tiny room together, the size of a small closet. Inside it’s dark and humid, but you can hear the chatter and music of a fancy party right outside the door. He pins you to the wall and makes love to you right there, his dick skewering you so hard you’re forced up on your toes. You can’t make a sound to show your pleasure or you’ll be caught, humiliated, shamed before the respectable people outside. You bite back your cries in real life, too, and the orgasm is so intense, tears of pleasure roll down your cheeks. Then you lick your salty fingers and imagine it’s his come.
    In June he calls and says he’s taking a whole year off just to figure out his life. He’s always wanted to travel to Asia, in no small part because of your interest in the area. It just so happens he’ll be spending one night in San Francisco on his way to Tokyo. He asks if you’ll be around, and without thinking, you insist he stay at your place.
    But then you reconsider. It’s a dangerous combination, the two of you alone in your apartment, both of you free. One glass of wine and you’ll probably make a fool of yourself, confess your sick “imprisoned in the closet” fantasy, or brush your lips tellingly against his cheek when you give him a “friendly” hug good night. And then he’ll know what you’ve been dreaming of all along. He’ll pity you for it.
    You curl up on your guest room futon, where he’ll be sleeping in one short week, and give yourself a good pep talk. You imagine a golden veil around his whole body, a barrier that will protect the purity of your friendship forever. Because part of the pleasure of your secret lust is that you have never fucked him and never will. That’s why your relationship is so perfect.
    Confident in your motives, you clean every inch of your
apartment and prepare your signature “scattered sushi” platter and homemade green-tea ice cream. He always praised your offerings at the department potlucks back in the old days.
    The doorbell rings.
    Your heart is hammering, but you force yourself to glide to the door like a queen.
    The sight of him in your doorway is like a punch to the solar plexus. He is thinner than when you last saw him, and his cheeks show a day’s growth of travel-weary blond beard. But he is so gleamingly gorgeous in the summer dusk, the words of friendly greeting catch in your throat.
    He steps forward and wraps you in his arms.
    You are totally enveloped in his warm, muscular embrace, his dizzying male scent. He doesn’t pull away. You immediately understand this is not the usual hug.
    Yes.
    You could be the one to pull back but you tighten your arms around him instead, and he moans, a faintly mournful sound. He squeezes you harder still as if he’ll crush you. You think of that hot little room in your brain where he fucks and fucks and fucks you up against the wall until your knees turn to hot butterscotch.
    Your legs are already melting.
    You aren’t exactly surprised when his lips find yours. His whiskers scrape your chin and cheeks, but the punishment excites you. You immediately open your mouth to his tongue, sucking him deep inside like a cock.
    Yes.
    You kiss