What did I write?

I had forgotten about it until I saw Molly’s #KOTW prompt Writing on Skin. How, how did I forget about it?

College. Senior year, spring semester. I was an incredibly naive virgin. I read erotica, but it didn’t seem real. Nobody really did those things, right? Just fantasies.

I had made a choice not to have sex. Guys in college expected sex, though, and they didn’t have much patience with my refusals. By senior year, it was easier not to date, to avoid the inevitable breakup.

My best friend seduced me by being completely different. We had always agreed we were better off as friends. Too many  differences – those differences were funny in small doses, but they drove us bonkers if we spent too much time together.

He didn’t want to have sex. He wanted to be a virgin when he married, it was an important aspect of his religion.

Yet he still wanted to get off. And I -.

Yes, I. What did I want?

I wanted someone to cuddle. Masturbation eased my physical urges, but it did nothing for the ache of loneliness. We cared for each other. Laughed with and at each other. We’d been friends since the first week of our freshman year, and we could talk about anything, including our respective reasons for remaining virgins, and our yearning for human contact.

So we made a rational, pragmatic decision. Sitting in his dorm room, listening to Bach and Chopin, we agreed to be friends with benefits. More like part-time benefits where you have to pay your own insurance, since we weren’t planning to actually insert penis into vagina. But still, we worked out how to achieve mutual gain.

It was liberating to kiss him, to stroke him, and to allow him to stroke me, knowing that he wouldn’t push for more. Knowing he had the willpower to resist if I pushed for more – which I did, several times. He had a sweet, soft touch. We spent hours touching one another, until I ached for penetration.

Once, he explained to me that he was practicing for his future bride, and I thought, yes, good, how lucky she’s going to be. The thought had no sting, no jealousy. We loved each other, but it wasn’t a romantic love.

The thing I can’t believe I forgot, the thing that shook my world, happened late one night after we had already been making out for a while. We were on his bed, lights down low, and he turned me on my stomach. “I’m going to draw on your back,” he said.

I let him unhook my bra straps – the shirt had long since been discarded. “What, like art? With markers?”

“No, with my fingers. Hold still.”

Did you do this when you were a kid? Close your eyes while someone wrote with a fingertip on your palm. I remember trying it after we read Helen Keller’s story for school. But no one had ever written on my back.I’d been crap at figuring out what someone wrote on my palm.

I suggested, “Start slow, with just a letter at first.”

He laughed and straddled my hips, rubbing his erection – still swaddled in sweatpants – against my ass cheeks.

Another thing I’d forgotten. He never demonstrated any sense of urgency, never seemed in a hurry to speed things up or to come. He remained fully in the moment, taking his time, enjoying each brush of our skin, the heat created by the contact between our bodies.

Whoever his eventual lover, I hope she knows how incredibly fucking special he is.

With a blunt fingernail, he carefully and slowly drew a large “A” on my back.

And I came unglued.

Gooseflesh rivered along my back and arms, my pussy quaked, and I made a sound I had never made before.

His erection solidified into an iron bar. He asked, “What did I write?”

“A.” My mouth felt weird, cottony.

He repeated the motion, drawing a “B.”

My legs quivered and my toes curled. I groaned, involuntary and loud. After several seconds, I gasped out a “B.”

He said, “I’m going to draw a word now.”

I tried to brace myself. To prepare. To concentrate.

Starting at my left shoulder blade, he traced the letters of his name. By the time he got to the last letter, I had a hand in my underwear and my face pressed into the pillow to muffle my noises.

My hips bucked and he pressed me down, letting me feel how my responses excited him. He pulled his sweatpants down and pressed against me, the hot, slick tip a burning brand against the skin of my lower back.

“More,” I begged.

“What did I write?”

“Your name, oh God, more.”

My body sank into the bed, pleasure so thick in my veins I couldn’t move. Words seemed unwieldy and crude. Nothing existed but the madly stimulated nerves in my back. The soft pad of his fingertip, the dull scratch of a nail…Each touch shocked through me with the hiss and zip of a sparkler.

I have no idea what he wrote next. I climaxed as he swooped and curlicued through the third letter. The orgasm thrust me out of my body, left me woozy and weak. While I was out of it, he curled along my side, stroked my back with the flat of his palm.

Afterward, when I had recovered, I asked what he wrote. He refused to say. It became a secret joke between us for a while. We’d be hanging out with our friends, and I’d say, “Was it jasmine?” or something equally asinine. He would laugh and say “Guess again.”

Our friends wanted to know what we were talking about. We always brushed it off. Made up some silly story, and gave each other secret smiles.

I experimented by writing on his back, too. He didn’t have the same volatile reaction. Oh, sure, he liked it, but it didn’t get him hard.

A few weeks passed. He went home for Spring Break. I stayed on campus and worked.  Something changed over the break, I don’t know what. Perhaps we talked to our respective families about “the future,” and realized we only had a few weeks before we’d be moving away from each other.

By mutual and undiscussed agreement, we drifted back to chaste friendship. No more candlelit make-out sessions. No more writing on my back.

The memory faded into obscurity. Other people touched my back, of course. Of course. But it didn’t incite a riot. Not until I met my significant other (about whom I’ve written elsewhere on this blog).

All he has to do is trail a fingertip from my nape down my spine. Instant wetness. I’ve never asked him to write on my back, had completely forgotten about it until I saw Molly’s KOTW prompt.

Perhaps we’ll have a new adventure this weekend.

I still wonder what my friend wrote that night.

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What Did I Write? © 2016 by Devi Ansevi

Lick the lips to learn more about Kink of the Week. Read more kinky entries in #KOTW for May 15-31, 2016. Or to submit your own!

 

 

Featured image courtesy of Pansa at FreeDigitalPhotos.net.