Wet Weekend

The rain is dribbling down the windows of the bus. A cold breeze is blowing on me – the bus driver must have the air-conditioning on – and I'm shivering in a short, sleeveless floral dress and sandals. My straw hat is sitting on my lap. Maybe it will shield me from the rain when I get out.

I'm doing this for him. He has a vision of me stepping off a Greyhound bus in the shimmering heat and dust of a one-pub town, and walking towards the car where he sits waiting for me. Then we drive off together to a beach shack where, for two days, we can act like we're a couple.

It's raining and cold, but I'm not going to let that spoil his vision. The bus heaves its way up the road, and I catch sight of a sign. Only 10k to go.

I am always nervous before I see him, but this time I am more nervous than ever before. I hold my hand out in front of me, and can see it shaking. It's nerves as well as cold. This will be our first weekend together.

Two years is supposed to be the honeymoon period for a relationship. After that you fall out of love. Us, we're the other way round. We've been in a relationship for two years, and now…well, he's become very fond of me. He brings me up in conversations with other people so he can hear my name, he turns up to places I might be so he can watch me in a group, and he keeps calling up an internet page that has a photo of me so he can stare at it.

Oh, I've done stupider things. I've looked up not just his name on the internet but my first name with his surname. I've held onto a free pen that I picked up once when I was out with him as if it was a present he gave me. But that's me. I'm stupid. I didn't expect him to get like that.

We're not in a real relationship. We're married to other people. We started fucking each other because we both wanted something extra that wouldn't cause any trouble. I felt safe with him, because I knew he wouldn't let it turn into anything more than just fucking. I was so proud of myself for being able to fuck someone without expecting more. Now it has turned into something more, and I'm not sure how I feel. I don't know what I want.

Once he stroked my cheek, and once he called me "little one". Those are the things I think of when I'm lying in bed drifting off to sleep. But when I'm lying in bed fingering myself, I think of his cock in my mouth.

Something will happen this weekend, I know it. We'll find out one way or the other. By the end of the weekend, either we'll never want to see each other again or we'll know that we have to be together.

Suddenly the bus is slowing down and we're here. It is a little shithole of a one-pub town, not shimmering with heat and dust, just grey and miserable in the rain. But his car is there.

I plan to take my time walking from the bus to his car, looking sultry, but I step in a puddle and one of my feet gets muddy. And my short thin dress is quickly soaked, revealing to any inhabitants of the one-pub town who might be watching that I am not wearing any underwear. My nipples, hard from the cold, poke through, and a dark patch of hair between my legs where the wet dress is clinging shows that I am a natural brunette. These strangers will know so much about me. They'll think I'm a shameless hussy, and they'll be right.

By the time I get to the car I have a big dumb grin on my face. I'm looking saturated, not sultry. I open the door and he grins back at me. I throw my straw hat and bag on the floor, and climb in. Without a word he starts up the car and turns the heater on full blast. I kick off my sandals and put my feet on the dashboard, peeling my wet dress off my thighs and letting the hot air blow right into my cunt.

"Not much of a town," he says.

"I don't care.

"Not much of a shack."

"I don't care."

Him and me. Together. For a whole weekend. I can't believe it.

I wonder how much of myself I can let him see this weekend. For so long I've held back and only shown him the parts of me he wanted to see. I've never cried in front of him, never yelled at him, never told him I love him. But maybe that's the reason I'm here with him now, because he doesn't ever want to see those things.

And I've never shown him the depths I go to sexually. When I met him, he only wanted to put his cock in my cunt. He didn't know there were so many other places I wanted it. I wanted his cock in my mouth and in my arse. I wanted him to come in my face and on my tits and rub it in. Now he's done these things with me, but he doesn't know how much further I would go. He doesn't know that I would lick his arse if he wanted me to. Maybe I'll tell him this weekend. Or maybe not.

We turn off down a slippery dirt road and pull up outside a little weatherboard shack. He opens it with a key, and I can see his hands are shaking just like mine. Inside, I glance around – garish floral curtains, mismatched plates, a faded landscape print on the wall – and then we are kissing. Pashing. He says I'm a good pasher, but pashing is just letting someone know how much you want them inside you. Maybe with someone else I would be a bad pasher.

I take a step back and feel the wood of the kitchen table pressing into me. I lift myself up onto the table and sit on the edge, spreading my legs. He touches my nipples poking through my dress and I gasp. I want him to fuck me till I feel his cum running down my legs. I reach down and unzip his jeans, struggle to pull down his underpants over his beautiful cock pointing up at me. I want his cock inside me, but he wants to eat me first. I feel his warm breath on my damp thighs. His hot tongue licks at my wet curls, then dives into my slit, and finally finds my clit and sucks on it till I am crying out, begging him to fuck me.

He stands up and pushes his cock slowly in, and I feel that raw grating sensation as the thick head slides along the walls of my cunt, every inch sending new waves of pleasure through my body. Then he pulls out and pushes back in, again and again, harder and harder each time. I lie back on the table, gripping onto the edge with both hands, as he pounds into me with such force that the table is sliding across the floor.

I hear him groan as he comes. As he pulls out, I see the last of the cum dripping off the end of his cock. I jump off the table and lick it clean, tasting my juices as well as his.

Suddenly I realise how cold I am. I pull my wet dress over my head, and throw it onto the floor, then walk naked through the house to the bathroom, his cum running down my legs and down my throat. He follows me into the shower, soaping my arse over and over.

I like knowing that he doesn't have to leave after fucking me. I like not having to squash down that little pathetic part of me that wants to grab him every time he walks out of the hotel room, wants to say to him, "Don't go. Keep talking to me. Hold me. Tell me that I mean something to you. Tell me that this won't be the last time," all the while knowing that if I say that, it will be the last time.

We towel down. I tell him I didn't bring a jumper with me. He gives me one of his, which is what I wanted. It's thick and woolly and smells of him.

He grabs a bottle of champagne from the fridge, and some real champagne glasses. He's even brought a punnet of strawberries.

We drink the champagne and curl up together on the lumpy couch, watching the cricket on the portable TV with bad reception. He is lying behind me, his arm around me. I am stroking his arm, running my fingers over the hairs. I want to touch him all the time. I take his hand and trace the lines on his palm, to find out more about him. I have learnt about his head and his heart when he pulls his hand away and slides it between my legs.

My cunt belongs to him. He knows it better than I know it. He has seen it up closer, been deeper inside it and tasted it more thoroughly than I have. I take it for granted – he appreciates it. I accept it – he loves it.

I feel his cock, hard again, pressing into my thigh. Then it slides into the hole it was made for. He doesn't need to ask me if I want it. He knows I want it. He holds my hips and fucks me slowly, firmly. He shoots another load of cum into my cunt, before the last load has finished draining out. We lie there without moving, without saying anything, and his cock finally slips out of me. We fall asleep like that, lying on the lumpy couch, in front of the cricket.

I wake in the early hours, a stickiness between my legs and his arm still around me. The room is cold, but he radiates heat, and I am warm.

The cricket is finished. There is an old black-and-white movie on TV, a romance starring some impossibly sophisticated actress with a tailored suit and hair that sits just right. And I know that if I was her, instead of a girl in a baggy jumper with cum dripping from my cunt, something would happen this weekend – we'd decide to give everything up and stay here in this shack forever, or we'd be killed in a car accident driving back into town. But nothing will happen, except that we'll fuck a few more times. Nothing will be resolved. We'll go back home, and keep fucking each other in secret till one of us gets bored and we drift apart.

I snuggle into him and fall asleep.