Would you believe that we met at a church? Ironic. I still remember seeing her, eyes closed, on her knees, her wavy, blonde hair cascading down her back. I admit, my mind immediately began daydreaming of what else she might do in that position.

Little did I know just how right I was.

I’m just lucky I had happened to attend that week with my friend. He was able to introduce me to Lauren. I probably made a fool of myself that day, struck by her deep, blue eyes into a dumb silence, but I recovered, eventually, and even made a good enough impression for her to exchange numbers with me.

We became fast friends. Talking to her during the day, sending little digital messages back and forth that straddled the line of propriety, it made my heart race in a way that it hadn’t since the divorce, adding a sorely needed bit of spice to the taste of everyday life. Just seeing that I had a new message from her made me smile, and I eagerly looked forward to the buzz of my phone that indicated yet another message from her. It felt good to laugh again, to open up my heart and let someone in again after so long.

It didn’t take long for our messages to go from flirtatious to risque to flat-out salacious, without me even trying. It just felt natural, easy, the way things flowed, like water running downstream. There was no effort, no direction, no plan or ulterior motives. We just talked and our path went towards the lascivious as surely as if gravity were pulling us, as though it were the most natural thing in the world for her to brag about her allegedly world-class blowjob skills, or for her to enthusiastically praise my hair and eyes and tell me that I should smile more because of how nice it was, or for me to tell her how I always insisted on getting my partners off with my hands and mouth before I even entered her.

Counterfactual questions, obviously pretexts for questions we wanted to openly ask each other but didn’t feel we could, went back and forth. What would you do if I did this? Would you ever do that? What if we traveled there together? I couldn’t help but wonder just how real this all was, though. Was it all just playful sphallolalia, flirtation for its own sake, without any intent to commit to the promises being made and situations being described? How serious was she? I didn’t dare ask to confirm: I feared the answer.

I couldn’t stand just waiting and worrying, though. I became determined to make a move. I’d rather at least be shot down and have closure than be left wondering forever. So when she invited me over for dinner and a movie, I leapt at the chance and hoped I would find my answer.

She greeted me at the door, a dimpled smile on her face, a spatula in her hand, and those deep, sapphire eyes of hers looking right through the walls I had erected years ago. “Hey.”

“Hey, Tiberius!” she said, giving me a tight hug. “Glad you could make it. I hope you brought your appetite.”

“Of course. I brought some wine.” I followed her inside and set the bottle on the table. “It smells delicious, what are you cooking?”

“Italian sausage and eggplant casserole. And it should smell delicious, ‘cuz it is.”

“What a phallic meal,” I observed.

She shrugged. “I know what I like.” She let her eyes dip down to my crotch and smirked with a chuckle. “I’ll be sure to save room for dessert, too.” I couldn’t keep my heart from racing, nor my cock from stiffening in my jeans. How was it that I so quickly found myself enthralled to her?

“You’ve got perfect timing. It just came out of the oven,” she explained.

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Just open your mouth wide and swallow. Otherwise, my feelings will be hurt. Although I doubt I need to worry about that. I’m a great chef. It’s my second best skill,” she added with a wink.

I sat down at the table and watched as Lauren set aside our portions and came to the table with two steaming plates of casserole. She leaned down over my shoulder and placed mine in front of me, her petite chest pressing against my shoulder. “Enjoy,” she whispered in my ear. She walked to the other side of the table, not without me sneaking a peek at her pert, tight ass, and sat down.

The food was amazing. The view, even better. At first I thought I was just imagining things, the victim of daydreams and wishful thinking. But eventually, I couldn’t deny I was right, and those were her two gorgeous, little nipples poking eagerly through her thin top the entire meal. I’m certain she caught me staring more than once, but how could I ignore them? I couldn’t help but imagine how they would feel between my lips instead of slices of eggplant and sausage.

“How are they?”

“Hm?”

“How is it?” she repeated herself. “The meal?”

“Oh, amazing! You’re a fantastic chef.”

“I told you so. I don’t make empty boasts,” she replied confidently. My mind wandered towards her braggadocious praise of her blowjob talents, how she had driven men to tell her they loved her after just a single date and had gotten her out of trouble more than once.

Soon, the meal ended. I washed the dishes while she cleaned the table. I smiled as she placed the silverware into the sudsy water, remembering previous domestic bliss that had once seemed irrecoverable. But now, I wondered whether it wasn’t, after all.

She got the movie set up while I prepared popcorn. I don’t even remember what we ended up watching, some musical set during a war. Other events that night were far more memorable for me.

She snuggled up next to me on the couch as soon as I sat down, our bodies pressed together, her lithe form rising and falling against me with each breath, impossible to ignore. Her hand kept creeping towards my crotch, greedily grabbing at popcorn, and then coming to a rest on my upper thigh. Part way through the movie, her hand began slowly stroking up and down. Her fingertips brushing against me felt electric, my body abuzz.

On the television, one of the actresses performed a burlesque-style striptease. I squirmed in my seat, my libido caught between the physical sensation of Lauren’s hand creeping up my thigh and the visual stimulation of the on-screen striptease.

“You know,” Lauren interjected, “I can do that.”

“Do ... that?”

“Yeah, you know, the whole dance routine? I did some classes a few years back.” She looked up into my eyes with those deep, piercing cerulean eyes of hers and asked me the most obvious question I’ve ever been asked until then. “Do you want to see?”

I swallowed and inhaled deeply, making sure my voice would be steady and firm when I replied, as nonchalantly as I could fake, “Sure, if you want.”

She beamed at me and got off the couch, almost bouncing in place. “Pause the movie,” she told me, while she took out her phone to find some musical accompaniment. I did as she asked and waited, keeping the empty bowl of popcorn over my crotch for at least a modicum of preserved dignity. She set down her phone and the soulful melodies of a jazzy tune filled the room. She reached behind her to dim the lights and began her performance.

She danced to the music, her limbs swinging, her hips swaying, her blonde hair bouncing. I watched, entranced, as she flowed along to the music, her body in sync with its sound. Her hands caressed her body as I wished they were mine, instead. And then her hands went to her blouse’s buttons, and my eyes widened at the sudden realization that she was giving me a thorough performance. One by one, her deft, nimble fingers slipped each ivory button out of its hole, revealing a few more inches of flesh at a time, exposing her lacey, red and black bra. As the brass section let loose a furious fortissimo, she pulled her top away and cast it aside in one smooth motion, unveiling her chest and bra to me.

She continued to dance, strutting across the room, bending down low and flipping up her skirt, revealing for a brief, glorious moment a round, firm ass and a burgundy thong. She reached down and slid one of her socks off, kicking it away. She turned towards me and stomped her foot between my legs, just inches from my cock, and peeled off the other knee-high sock, rolling it down her toned leg and leaving it on the cushion as she pushed off to continue her routine.

She was running out of clothes quickly. Just how far was she planning to go with this? Her hands unzipped her skirt, just slightly, just enough for her to hula to the melody and make her skirt slide down her legs. She kicked the skirt onto my face. By the time I had removed it, she was right in front of me, now wearing only a matching pair of black and red underwear, edged with delicate lace. She reached into my lap, grabbed the bowl from me, and pulled it away.

With the bowl in her hands, she moved it around her body, first concealing, now exposing her intimate parts and clothing. The bowl spun in circles around her torso. A hand went behind her back. The bowl passed in front of her chest. She turned around, and her bra was in her outstretched hand, her back now bare, her firm buns, as well. Her thong was now the only clothing on her body.

She turned back to face me, a big smile on her face, and dropped the bra to the floor. Bowl over her breasts, she walked towards me as the song reached its crescendo, and at the last note, she straddled my lap, tossed the bowl away, and embraced me before I could see anything but a flash of pink. My heart was pounding. I could feel hers fluttering against my chest, too.

“Did you enjoy it?” she whispered in my ear.

“I loved it.”

She cooed happily. “Good.” She wriggled on my lap and gasped in faux surprise. “Tibe! You’re hard!”

“You can hardly expect me not to be after a show like that...”

“Oh? That’s all because of me?” she asked sweetly, gyrating on my hardness.

“Of course...” I practically hissed at the little cocktease on my lap.

“Maybe it would help if I sucked your cock...”

“What?!” I asked, scarcely believing I had heard her correctly.