Being Best Friends Forever

janus   August 19, 2021   | 33780 Views
All I want is her press. Her lips and my own; compressing. Our bodies fused and merged. Being in the moment when.... Luxury

In college my BFF was Meg. Megan Thomas and I did everything together. In the end I felt we did too much together. How now I wish again for that too much which I rejected in its vulnerable first offering.

I drift back to when we were listening to music on her bed one Saturday afternoon in our final college year; mid- break: we were just lying back in that close I thought totally innocent girly way we always had. Close, body adjacent, in fact; in each other’s intimate space but nothing sexual or arousing. God we were both eighteen and unashamed cock chaser then: doing what was expected by our peer group; giving hand jobs in parked cars and letting guys get excited touching our titties under our bras. The randy pricks were being kept on hold till our college formal: known worldwide as virginity parting night.

Anyway; this particular Melbourne suburban Saturday afternoon, will always be locked clearly in memory: we were hetro girl snuggling, my head was on Meg’s thigh, the music was relaxing and we had just related our Friday night hand jobs with Pete and Joe respectively. We did the usual giggle and nestle burrow, the girly best friend brushing. We were women seeking men. We knew our cock focussed aim in life. We were sharing our guy exploits together and we were primed to lose our virginity on the same night, at the November formal. A BBF pact.

We were our usual close, we were comfortable and we were inseparable. So why did Meg lean down, not so impulsively but so assuredly and frickin french kiss me. And why did I initially embrace it. I know now. It was so moistly sensually unexpected, more arousing than any guy had ever been in my mouth. I felt uplifted. A strange stirring high surged through me. Heart heaving.

Then: God I can’t be a lesbian and what were we doing? Then I pulled back and got up because at that point Meg’s fingers were touching my breast softness on the edge of my bra cup and I knew she was waiting; getting ready to move deeper on a murmur from me and I knew I wouldn’t stop there.

“Hey Honey; it is okay. Please, please don’t back away,” she said softly as I got up.

But I was already swiftly over by her bedroom door.

“Sweetie: stop,” she implored; “You’ll always regret it. I know this is right for us.”

Her eyes close to tears. She would never ever hurt me. She was confused too.

I hesitated. My mind a jumble of mixed feelings. I was hetro. My pussy existed to hold cock. Surely, I wasn’t bi-sexual and geez Meg was my best friend. My close friend and she couldn’t remain my bestie if we kissed and we went further together. I sensed lovers risked everything and I could lose her. I think in that instance I felt she had crossed the line; our closeness or trust was broken and unrepairable or was I feeling guilty for not letting go myself. I was so muddled in my head and Meg didn’t help: as I still hesitated.

She got up. I thought, she going to say sorry, surely, she would apologise and build a bridge back to me. My BFF; however, she came closer and was pinning me against the inside of her bedroom door. Her body melding against mine; pressing sensually and delicately into mine; and she touched my face softly and said; “You know this is you Melody and please for me and yourself, don’t fight it.”

And I didn’t want to in my body but my mind was perplexed.  I was sexually bamboozled because I felt her feathery press; the moment of packaged together; the skeining sexual stir of press.

She brushed her lips so velvety light but moist against my dry lips and I nearly exploded with pleasure between my legs but my damnable mental reason held sway and I pushed her away. I pushed my BFF away but with tears in my eyes. And I saw equally the pained lost expression in Meg’s eyes as she reluctantly slumped her shoulders, inches from me, as a chasm of imposed values holding passion in check detoured me and I resisted traversing the divide; a journey of mere centimetres but one in the instance unfathomably far.

I was then running down her stairs and out her front door and across the street to my house. Up the stairs, into my own bedroom, locking the door and collapsing onto my own bed. Sobbing; my immediate world, my mind and my pussy, all in turmoil.

We didn’t speak after that, anywhere.  We drifted apart from that Saturday. I avoided her in third semester elective choices. I chose options I knew Meg wouldn’t like and then Meg was gone. I had the October blues; strange for Spring and the season of love held no appeal.   I heard on the rumour mill that Megan’s parents had gotten a surprise fast no contest divorce. My bestie, yes; I was missing her now that she had been seemingly spirited away to live with her dad before the end of college. I was numb, in body and mind. I gave a few hand jobs; approaching our college formal; however, it was like a chore. I edged away from boys on a Friday night. I was alone.

For a long time, after, I drifted through to the end of college; even avoiding the formal; empty without Meg; and then I started university; and there my deeper conscious self eventually stirred.

Then strangely, here I was eighteen months later back across the street. Not for Meg; though now I wished she was here and I could kiss her. A lot had happened in my mind and to my body since that college kiss.

I was at Uni and needed money, so I was babysitting for a remarried Mrs Thomas. Mrs Field, now; and God a step brother to Meg: twenty years apart. No wonder Megan never came home these days.

I had tried sex with guys at Uni a few times and Meg was right. They were enjoyable but the thrill; the taste of my first kiss with Meg was what I still sought. I was seeking Meg in any kiss. I craved Megan in any touch.  Her press; her press on me. When I touched myself, I wished it was my BBF caressing me.

When I looked furtively at other girls, I realised I was focussed on long brunette hair or a particular body shape in a crowd; I was seeking Meg and I knew it.

And as often happens in life a passage from a novel; in my case: compulsory reading in my European Literature course; hit my heart with a pounding resonance that brought a near unstoppable flood of tears and it was as if Collette in The Vagabond had written directly to me with what I came to learn later is probably the most poignantly melancholy reflection on lost first love ever composed:

"Love, if you can; no doubt this will be granted you, so that at the summit of your poor happiness you may again remember that nothing counts, in love, except the first love, and endure at every moment the punishment of remembering, and the horror of comparing. Even when you say "Ah, this is better!" you will feel the pang of knowing that nothing which is not unique is good. But Love is not so merciful. "You, who have found me once," he says, “you shall lose me for ever!" Did you think, when you lost him, that you had reached the limit of suffering? It is not over yet. In striving now to be again what once you were, you will realise the height from which you fell; and the first, the only love will instil its poison into each feast of your new life, if you do not stem its flow."

Meg and I were BBF’s once; but I hesitated to be her lover and I can’t stem the flow of tears now. All I want is her press. Her lips and my own; compressing.  Our bodies fused and merged. Being in the moment when the interface of our souls combined; when our lips grazed and glazed in unison.  To always have: loves first ever sensual press rippling in our forever as soul mates.

The baby sitting was a dream. The nipper, Jake, had been fed and changed before Mrs Field and her new husband went out. He was soundly asleep. I basically had the place to myself.

I had that moment when I knew where I wanted to be, back in time on a Saturday afternoon in Meg’s room. I drifted with no fixed purpose after checking Jake, along the upstairs; to Meg’s door and looked back at the stairs I had run down so quickly those months ago.

I pushed her door. Her room wasn’t locked. I was in her bedroom. It was still ready for her like she would walk through the door behind me. I saw the photo frame by the side of her bed. It was us. Surely, she didn’t think of me like I thought of her. She probably had a regular boyfriend or a hot steady girlfriend. That made me tremble with painful loss.

Still; I held the picture frame, looking into her eyes, seeking to touch what I would never touch again; her body. Her press, her press into me. I can recall so easily her touch. Her press. Other sexual experiences prior or later, meaningless.  I held Meg’s press; forefront of mind, continually. Desired only her press into me.

I moved to and lay on her bed, thinking of our girly closeness that Saturday so long ago. I put my own fingers to my lips to try to recapture her searing defining kiss. I recalled it but couldn’t replicate it myself. In frustration my hand wandered under my t-shirt and bra, to my nipples. I imagined it was Meg touching me. The edge of my bra, then, yes, I let her under; to my nipple, to my breast softness. Meg’s fingers pressing into my flesh. This time I let her press; nudge over and under, shaping and enfolding my breast with her press.

My other hand was tight in my jeans but I didn’t care about comfort. I was imagining Meg was seeking my cleft of wetness on that far away afternoon. Her fingers pressing to my opening, as I now accepted all of Meg’s giving. I was letting her cradle and frame my pussy; my mound shaped outwardly and inwardly by her press.

God I was so aroused on Meg’s bed and as I fondled my girly bits slowly; I started to moan: “Oh Meg, Oh Meg, mmm, yes, touch me, touch me; Meg.”

Then like a tangible reverie, the ultimate fantasy; as reality: lips were wetly sliding over my lips. Lips were nibbling my lips. I didn’t open my eyes because as our tongues swept into each other’s mouths; as a body pressed mine; the surge of bliss rekindled in me and all my senses were heightened and my body exuded sensual response all over.

My pants were being unzipped and slid down and I still didn’t open my eyes. I was keen for the touch and it was wonderfully soft to start. A sole finger caressing my labia. A single digit pressing into and feeling me up. An exclusive nail rimming my butthole. Tactile, carnal and cute. Followed by the warmth of her breath and sweeping wet tongue; and tickled delight too of her long strands of loose hair; as her tongue tip engaged with my sensitive now slightly parted flapettes.

Then Meg, as I finally opened my eyes was shaping all my desires for her with her tongue. She knew how to lick a girl not just because she was a girl. She knew how to really lick another girl not as she wanted to be licked, not as she had her preference; as we all do. But comprehensively sensually. So frickin slowly, so teasingly, so perfectly pressing and releasing the pressure in turn; and letting my pussy wetness mix with her tongue wetness in joy, and allowing my aroused clit to enjoy the building sensation. Each lick she imparted was separate yet they all were blending together; deft, tender and caring of my private bits and my inner self exposed. Body and soul pleasured together. Meg for me and us together.

When I moaned repeatedly because it was so intensely, stirringly; powerfully given; she ramped it and took me with her on a whirling flesh ride of mutual self-discovery. Her butt naked self: given to me as an equal; as a lover, my lover, her lover.

We clinched and clenched flesh in the lovers pressed sixty-nine. The delight of giving and taking at the same time, tongues probing in unadulterated acquiescence, consensual happiness and bodily bliss. Arousing primal avaricious avatars in us both. Yet overlayed by combined genital fellowship.

As Meg climaxed under my tongue; she gave a squeal of pleasure. Her body withdrawing and pushing into my face in basically the same instance. Her body sliding up, pressing mine, her legs spreading wider, her clit wanting release from my focussed over sensitive tongue flicks but knowing if it held; if it met my tongue tip the explosion of pleasure would be concentrated, super intense and it was.

Then her head was again lowered between my legs for me; ready to equal in me her own spasms of delight. Friction given, friction received, simple enough but the equation was WOW.  

Concupiscent paramours. I too was lost in her love; given through her flicking tongue.  Tingly filaments, more rewarding than any I had known because I was excited by the presence and soul of the giver, my climax concertinaed through me; till I collapsed in inner happiness.

There only remained the canoodling caresses and our moulding softness and the adoring joint love gazes, as we held each other fully pressed. Our limbs huddled and bonded.

We held that moment when the relationship we have with our own genitals expands beyond self; when genitals combine in love. When you have more than another’s body. You insert pleasure and belonging in their mind. We gave without needing words the stewardship of our hearts to each other.

Megan held my face; explained how she had repeatedly avoided a trip home; scared she would have confirmed what she believed the truth; I was with a boy or worse another girl, then afraid I was gone forever; however; she had gritted her teeth and finally made the journey home to see her new half-brother and well unreal; I was in her room, on her bed and it was like it was still that Saturday eighteen months ago and she finished with; ‘now time lost doesn’t matter; nothing matters; because there is you and me together; here now.’

We then kissed consumingly as lovers do and we kissed in mutual captivation again and again, we were best friends and lovers forever.

But positioned in the real world, as we bounced up in sync and were heading together out of her room, as Jake stirred along the hallway.

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