, ,

Hugo’s cock tasted like truffle oil. I wouldn’t make that connection for years after the fact, but now when it’s on a menu, I am reminded of the velvet smoothness of that skin against the roof of my mouth.

He took me out one night while I was in college. I’d grown up alongside Hugo, his brother was my best friend, so it was only natural to take him up on an invitation to a nice restaurant while he was in town on family business.

He drove me home in his steel mistress of the moment, a blue Aston Martin with cream leather seats. He parked it on the street, carelessly locking it and insisting on walking me to my apartment.

I shared a fourth floor walk-up with two other classmates, both of whom were in bed for the night when Hugo and I came in.

I’d never been nervous around him, but in the living room of that apartment with the night city outside my windows and his loose tie and collar revealing the hollow of his throat, I was at a loss for intelligent conversation.

“Can I get you something?” I laced my anxious fingers together. “We’ve got cheap wine and Brita water.”

“Water, then.”

I felt every one of the six years between us in his response. Still I managed to pour him a glass.

“We can’t talk out here, it’ll wake Josie and Beth up.”

He followed me down the hallway to my bedroom. We sat awkwardly on my bed. The silence and the late-hour coalesced. His eyes held me still.

“When did this happen?”

I swallowed. “What?”

I remember every whisper of passing time between my girlish reply and his lips on mine. The way his hand cradled my cheek, the scent of soap and starch, the shadow of stubble on his face, the space between us that filled with wanting—all of that stretched out like an aeon.

And then we were tangled in my blankets, hands warm against any exposed flesh we can find, breath heavy with restraint. And then I was leaning on my elbows, unable to resist watching the light on his dark hair, near delirious with discovered pleasure while he tongued my pussy.

“Hugo,” I whispered some time later against his half-buttoned shirt, “Can I?”

He stilled, but I heard a hitch in his heartbeat.

“I’ve never… You’ll tell me if I do it wrong?”

He touched the tip of my nose, his brow wrinkled. I held my breath. He kissed my mouth gently.

I left his arms, undid his gabardine suit pants. He raised his hips for me to slip them down. I let my hair fall forward, it spread like a curtain over his belly and thighs.

I pressed a kiss on the head of his cock, inhaling and memorizing that smell, earthy and his. He inhaled sharply, his body twitching in response. I licked the underside before drawing as much of him into my mouth as I could.

Hugo kept himself still, allowing me to explore, to vary my tempo, to roll my tongue around his flesh, to touch him while I sucked, to bring him so close to release only to find some new texture or taste. He coached me with his moans, his broken breath—the hard, hot length of him mine for the pillaging.

The knowledge that I could bring him such pleasure was intoxicating. And illuminating.

“Oh, god, Bianca!” His body tensed, his hips involuntarily matching the rhythm of my mouth as I drew my lips over him, reveling in pushing him past control.

I stopped, swirled my tongue around the tip of his cock, feeling the moisture there, salty on my lips, and pushed my hair back away from my face.

Our eyes met. I watched him look at me while I took him back into my mouth, took his release.