Dedicated to Dawn, who shared the idea with me and for whom the story was originally written.
Sometimes you never know how things will go when you reconnect with an old flame after a long lapse. It depends, of course, on how things end—if they end badly, then reconnecting can be rocky, but then again, if they ended badly, why would you want to reconnect at all? But if things don't end badly, if circumstances force you to part or something else happens that brings great love (or great sex) to an end prematurely, then reconnecting can be surprisingly wonderful. It can, in fact, be as if you'd never parted, and if the sex happened to be great back then ...
I hadn't seen Dee in about seven years. We'd known each other in grad school, and spent many a "study night" over the course of a year and a half screwing each other's brains out on my desk, her desk, her bed, her bathtub, my shower ... well, you get the idea. But she'd spent her last year of school working and studying abroad, and when school was done she had a job offer up there that was too good to turn down. So we said our fond farewells, promised to keep in touch via email, and eventually we both moved on to other partners.
The memories of our nights never faded, however; her oral technique in particular, and the sweetness of her taste and the sounds she would make when I would go down on her until her juices were running down the sides of my mouth, were the stuff of many thoughts and fantasies on lonely nights and even nights that weren't so lonely.
So when her photo and profile popped up under "People You May Know" when I joined a particular social networking site and started connecting with other friends from the grad school days, immediately my thoughts turned to those wild nights. I sent her email before adding her—seven years is a long time; and a lot can change, so I wanted to be respectful. But while I waited the rest of the day for a reply I kept imagining her mouth around my cock, the way she would stroke me with her hand while sucking on my tip, looking up at me and wordlessly commanding me to explode down her throat, or the way we'd go out sometimes and she wouldn't be wearing underwear, and she'd dare me to slip my hand up her skirt to feel how wet she was just at the thought of foreplay in a crowded restaurant or club ... it's tough to even think the word "respectful" when your other thoughts run along those lines.
The response didn't take long, and it was everything I could have hoped for. The years hadn't changed her bawdy sense of humor, her flirtatiousness, the sensual energy I could feel just from what she'd say and how she said it. Turned out she was even back in town, living not far from me at all, and we were setting up the details for dinner and drinks.
As tough as it was to have gentlemanly thoughts before I'd heard from her, it was even more difficult once I saw her walk into the restaurant to meet me. Long, fiery red hair falling down around her smiling face and inviting neck, a thin-strapped black cocktail dress with a plunging v-neckline accentuating her curves, the hem falling just above the knees I'd loved to have thrown over my shoulders in days gone by, and stiletto heels that had to be at least three inches clicking on the floor as she crossed the distance between us ... I'm fairly certain I didn't breathe until she stepped into my arms to hug me and whispered in my ear, "Hey stranger. I guess you like the dress."
We sat down in a corner booth, she across from me, and to be honest, I don't remember a whole lot about what we talked about, because despite my best efforts, my eyes kept drifting down her neckline to the space between her breasts. The dress made wearing a bra simply impossible, and she was playing up that fact as much as possible, providing a feast for my eyes. If she was doing it consciously, or if she knew where my eyes kept focusing, she made no sign, save for the occasional hint of a smirk that would play across her lips whenever I lost my train of thought in mid-sentence.
After a few glasses of wine and the last of the dinner plates were gone, she excused herself to go to the ladies' room, and I finally had the opportunity to not so subtly reach down and adjust (and rub) the front of my slacks, which felt horribly constraining in that moment. As badly as I wanted every inch of her wrapped around every inch of me, I didn't want to assume she was just ready to head back to my place or hers and jump right in the sack—as suggestive as she'd been all night, I didn't want to draw the wrong conclusion and piss her off. Just take it easy, I told myself. Take a deep breath, suck down some ice water, and just find out what she'd like to do.
When she came back, instead of resuming her seat across from me, she sat down right next to me, slid right up against, put my arm around her shoulder, and her leg up over mine, in my lap. Before I could say anything, she took my other hand and gently slid it up her dress, guiding my fingertips along her inner thigh.
"I really miss the things you used to do to me," she whispered in my ear. "When I got your email, it was all I could think about." She drew my hand further up, and confirmed what I'd been hoping was the case all night.
