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Lisa By Dirty Dawg
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
STORY:"Lisa" By Dirty Dawg
"Lisa"
By Dirty Dawg
Semi-Standard Disclaimer : General male/female
sex story here, (which seems to be lacking on
alt.sex.stories lately,) with all characters
of a legal and appropriate age. No small woodland
creatures, cannabilism, or any of the other 'extreme'
forms of erotica.
This one DOES take a while to get to the sex, though.
So, if you're looking for wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am,
this is not the story for you. It's a tender,
touching (or, so I <hope>) love story.
How do you tell your best friend that you're in love
with her?
For a week now, I've been thinking constantly about
that question. About a week ago, Lisa called me to tell me
the good news. We hadn't talked for about six weeks, and for
us, that wasn't atypical. We had that special, intense kind
of relationship where time and distance stopped mattering
almost from the outset. We could go weeks without talking,
and then pick a conversation up where we'd left off, as if
we'd only been apart minutes. Once, Lisa called me at work,
and when I picked up the phone, I heard, "...so, as I was
saying..." and I knew right where she was. That was the kind
of relationship we had. We were the best of friends,
soulmates.
And now, it seemed like that's all we would ever be.
And for a long time, that's all I ever wanted.
Wasn't it? Pushing back from my desk, I walk to the window
in my den that overlooks the back yard. I can see some ducks
playing in the pond, the mother gently calling to her
ducklings to follow her. My thoughts are confused and
whirling around inside my head. A thousand memories shared
with Lisa flash across the movie screen inside my head, and
I fight to regain control. Shaking my head, I walk back to
the desk and sit down.
I stare at the phone.
It sits there, silently mocking me. Call her, it
seems to say to me, pick up the phone and make a complete
fool out of yourself. You've had more chances than anyone
has a right to expect, and you've turned away from all of
them. Go ahead. Call her.
I push the phone away in disgust and slide my chair
back, tiliting it so I can put my legs up on the desk. As I
settle back, my hands clasped behind my head, my gaze takes
in the lucite picture frame perched on one corner of the
desk. It's a photo of Lisa and me, at the beach, taken about
three years ago. She's wearing a terrycloth wrap, but it's
open slightly, and the bananna-yellow bikini she's wearing
can be barely glimpsed. Her face is tan, and her smile is
wide and eager. It's obvious that we'd had a fun day at the
beach, the two of us, and her arm is casually slung around
my waist. I'm wearing jams in the picture, and I've got a
towel draped around my neck. You can see the top of my hand
on Lisa's shoulder, and I'm looking at the camera. Lisa's
looking at me, with this stupid dreamy expression on her
face.
That single picture sums up our entire relationship.
She was always looking at me, and I was always looking
elsewhere. She'd gotten tired, apparantly, looked elsewhere,
and seen someone else looking back. And now they were
looking at each other, and I was stuck staring at a
goddamned picture on my desk.
I look at the phone again, then back at the picture.
How long, I wonder. How long have I been in love with my
best friend? When did it start? My sudden, intense reaction
to the news that she is getting married tells me that the
feelings have been there for a long, long time.
I try to remember. We've known each other for so
long. So many years between us. I know that I've always had
affection for her, always thought that she was an incredible
person...and incredible woman. An incredible friend.
When did it become more than that? And why am I so
afraid to tell her that I love her?
I can always take the cop-out that I'm scared that
anything romantic, anything intimate between us might turn
to shit and ruin our friendship. Even as that thought flits
across my mind I dismiss it. It's bullshit and it's a
rationalization. I know enough about myself and enough about
Lisa to know that if we had gotten involved, and it had
turned to shit, we'd still be friends. Maybe not as close as
before, not with the pain of a supposed breakup that hadn't
even happened yet, not with the walls that were sure to go
up between us, but still friends.
So what was I worried about?
I know what it is. I just don't want to admit it.
It's several things, actually. Fear, mostly. Fear of loving
someone too much. I know how totally insane that sounds, but
remember: I'm a man. I'm genetically insane.
The liquor cabinet called to me. I could hear Mr.
John Daniels calling to me. You might know him as Jack, but
when you've been involved with the man as long as I have, he
prefers the more formal John. Ah, sweet dark liquid of life.
He has the cure for my ills.
No, he doesn't. All he will make me do is get
maudilin and depressed. I'll rage against the storm, scream
at the walls and have huge conversations with people that
aren't even in the room. It's interesting, don't you think,
that when you're having a fight with someone that's not
there, imagining their responses to your responses...you
always win those fights.
I shake my head and try to refocus my attention on
something I'm unfamiler with. My feelings.
What, exactly, are my feelings? I love her. I know
that. I love her very...much. I know that, too. Another
thing I know is that I am completely terrified of making
love with Lisa.
Ah. The crux.
You see, in order to have a fully functioning adult
relationship, you have to have sex. I mean, it's not a
requirement or anything, but it does help. And it wasn't
that I was a horrible lover or that I had a tiny dick that I
was ashamed of...it was just the gnawing certaintity that I
wouldn't be able to satisfy Lisa in bed.
Getting up from behind my desk, I walk to the couch
and lay down and put my feet over the edge. I'm relaxed now,
or, a little more relaxed than I was a moment ago. I can now
look at this dispassionately and dissect it with all the
calm coldness of a scientist examining a specimen under a
microscope. No problem.
Two things contribute to this feeling. The first is
the fact that Lisa has the rather annoying habit of
discussing her sex life with me. I knew she wasn't a virgin,
or a nun, but I had no idea that women talked about sex as
eagerly...as hungrily, as nastily as men did. Lisa had
dumped more than one boyfriend because she'd found him
lacking between the sheets. More than more than once Lisa
has given me a blow-by-blow, you will pardon the expression,
description of her sexual encounters. About how one
boyfriend actually asked permission to come in her mouth.
And how she had turned him down, turned off that he was so
wimpy as to even ask. She likes her men strong and in-
control. She likes a challenge. She wants someone to tame,
someone to bend to her formidable will.
And one more thing. It had happened once already.
Well, almost. Two yeears ago. We went away for the Fourth of
July weekend. Neither of us were seeing anyone, so we
decided to spend it together. We got very, very drunk, and
ended up on the couch together. I was aware that Lisa was on
the make, that she was hot and horny and she wanted to fuck
me. We started kissing and necking and having fun, and these
fears surfaced in me again. I started to pull away, to get
distracted. Lisa looked at me strangely, got up and walked
into her bedroom. The next day we didn't speak about it. At
all. It had never come up again.
I assume that she feels that I don't find her
attractive, or that I am not interested in a romantic
relationship with her. How ironic that there is nothing
further from the truth. How idiotic that when I can finally
face my feelings, can finally begin to do something about
them, Lisa is beyond my reach.
Or is she? Perhaps this is one last attempt on her
part to force my hand. Perhaps this is what I have been
waiting for, a galvenizing event to make me realize what is
right under my nose, what has been directly in front of me
for all these years.
Do I dare? What is it that someone once said? A
coward dies a thousand deaths, but the valiant die but once.
Time to make a stand. Time to get up and do something about
my life.
I stand from the couch and grab my car keys. It's
about two hours to Lisa's house from where I live. Two long
hours in the car, looking at the road passing under my
tires, listening to the radio. Every song is about us. Every
song is a love song, every twisted, painful emotion reaching
out to me from the speakers, reaching inside my soul. I hear
the words, and I feel the music and I know the emotions.
Love. Never-ending, undying love. She will be mine. I can
feel it. I will make her mine.
I arrive at Lisa's house just after dusk. I can see
that she is home, and that she is alone. Or, so I hope.
There is no strange car parked in the driveway, just Lisa's
Jeep Cherokee, black and sleek in the soft light.
I park my car and lock it, starting the long walk up
to her house. The front light comes on; Lisa heard my door
slam. The front door opens and she's standing there,
barefoot, wearing old jeans and a T-shirt of mine that I
gave her one day on the beach. I can tell that she's not
wearing a bra, and the thought that her naked, full breasts
are pressing against a piece of clothing that I've worn is
strangely exciting. I wonder if she would sleep in just my
pajama tops, me in the bottoms. A picture fills my head, a
perfect mental snapshot of Lisa standing in her breakfast
nook wearing my light-blue pajama top, the morning paper,
folded over, in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other,
reading by the early morning sunlight. In slow motion, she
turns, in my head, and looks at me, her eyes finding mine.
She's wearing her glasses, the ones that make her look shy
and sexy and bookish and devilish all at the same time.
She takes them off and tosses them casually on the
table to join the coffee cup and paper, and she walkes
towards me, smiling, reaching out with her arms, taking me
inside them, lifiting and turning her head for a good-
morning kis-
"Jeff!" She squeals my name and runs down the stairs
at me, into my arms for real this time. I feel my arms going
around her body, enveloping her, feeling her warmth against
me, loving it, inhaling her scent, knowing that it's the
most beautiful smell in the world, wanting to smell that
smell every morning as I wake up to greet the bright,
rational sunlight of a new day.
"Why-? When-?" She's full of questions, this one,
but her smile tells me everything I need to know.
"Are you alone?"
Her face clouds for a second. "No, Alex is here."
Ah, the dreaded enemy. Alex. Such a name. Reminds me of that
damn dog in the beer commercials years ago. He's probably
well trained.
"I need to talk to you." I say, and then add,
"Alone."
Her face changes expression again, and then she nods
once, a decision made, a line crossed. She takes my hand and
walks with me back to the house, ascending the stairs
slowly. There is a heaviness to her now, a resignation that
she knows what is coming and either eagerly anticipates it
or dreads it. I cannot tell, and to be truthful, I do not
care. The time has come to say what must be said, to face
the reality of the situation.
"Alex," she is saying, bringing me into the foyer,
"I want you to meet someone. This is...Jeff, my...best
friend." The words struggle out of her mouth as if something
unseen is pulling them with a tow rope. I can hear the
machinery struggling. I hear and sense movement to my side
and turn to face this man, this obstacle in my path, this
nemeisis.
He is handsome. I see that immediately. I can say
that. He is good looking. He has a strong chin and deep eyes
the color of the ocean. They will be beautiful children, I
think.
"Glad to meet you," he says, and I can hear the
strong timbre of his voice. It is a radio announcer's voice,
a voice a woman longs to hear call her name in the throes of
passion during the wolf hours of the night. It is a voice
that I immediately hate.
"Yeah," I say lamely. "Me, too." He shakes my hand,
and there is a moment were we both consider attempting to
establish superiority by the tried-and-true method of
Handshake Olympics. The moment passes, and we drop hands
like sulking schoolboys faced to shake on the schoolyard
after a fight.
I take the initative. "Alex, I hate to impose, but
Lisa and I need to talk." Again, I add, "Alone." Surprised,
he looks from me to her, seeking some kind of ruling on this
offense. Lisa is the final aribter. She can say something
hollow and trite like "Whatever you have to say to me, you
can say in front of Alex." I know that is what he wants, but
I pray that she will deny him.
She does. "Please, Alex," she says softly. "I'll
call you tomorrow." There. It is done. Another line has been
crossed. I have achieved dominance without having to resort
to any mental games. It makes me feel good to see the look
on his face. But he is not done yet. He moves to her,
smirking at me over her head as he leans down to kiss her
goodbye. It is a hungry, posessive kiss, and I see his
tongue intrude into her mouth. She pulls away, embarrased,
and glances at me to see if I've noticed, but I'm already
looking away, pretending my attention is focused elsewhere.
Alex leaves. Lisa takes me into her living room. She
sits on the couch, directly in the middle of that
hilariously small piece of furniture. I notice that she has
not left me enough room to join her. She is distancing
herself from me, pushing me away. She is probably not even
aware that she is doing it.
I take a chair opposite the couch. My body language
is free and open. I don't cross my legs or arms, choosing
instead to use my forearms to lean on my thighs, my hands
clasped loosely between my legs. I am the picture of cool,
serene confidence.
"Well?" she asks, a small half smile/half frown
playing around the edges of her mouth. "What's so important
that you drove all the way up here to see me?"
I take a deep breath. Where to begin? Announcing out
of the blue that I am in love with her is probably not the
best course of action. But I don't want to start a long,
meandering conversation that will lead nowhere and will only
give me ample opportunity to chicken out.
"Well, the thing of it is..." I start, and then find
myself lost in my own thoughts. And that's what I decide to
do. I will share my thoughts, my feelings, my emotions with
Lisa. Not words. I'll tell her pictures, images, scenes that
I've seen before and treasured since. If anything, that will
convince the artist's heart and the poet's soul inside her.
I take a deep breath and start again.
"Do you remember the time we went to the beach for
the Fourth of July? We had so much fun that weekend, Lisa.
It was just two of us, thousands of miles away from here,
from each other, from our lives. It was like we went to
Mars. We spent four whole days together, just the two of us.
It was...incredible, Lisa. The most incredible weekend of my
life. Swimming and walking down the beach, holding hands,
just laughing about anything and everything. Getting drunk
together, seeing how we were together...like that...
together..." I take another breath and begin again.
"You see, Lisa...the overriding feeling I have from
that weekend is...rightness. It was right that we should be
together like that. Together. I keep using that word,
together. But that's what I mean. We should be...together."
I stop, and wait for her to respond. She reaches
over and grabs one of the throw pillows and starts playing
with it, teasing the corners, plucking at the huge button in
the center. She waits. I wait.
I continue.
"The more I think about it, the more I come to
realize that we belong togther, Lisa." There. I'd said it.
Lisa purses her lips a second longer. Sighing, she
tosses it aside. "Why am I hearing about this now?" Her tone
is cool and modulated. She is testing me, perhaps punishing
me. I can feel the panic rising. I fight to quell it.
It's time to give something. To admit. "I will admit
that your... plans have made me realize certain things."
Lisa accepts that. Her smile is curt. "What about...
you know."
"No, what?"
"About that night. On the couch. When we started...
and then did nothing. Why did you push me away?"
I sigh.
"Don't you find me attractive? Don't you know that I
loved you?" The past tense scares me. Lisa just spoke about
her love in the past tense.
"Loved?"
"Yes. Loved. Love. There. I've said it. It's out. I
love you, Jeff. I always have. For the last six years I have
loved you and waited for you to notice. And now that I'm
getting married, now that I've met a wonderful man who loves
me back, you come here and beg me to love you again. That is
what you're asking, right? For me to drop Alex and love you
again?"
I have no choice, no alternative. "Did you ever
stop?"
She grabs the pillow again, pulling viciously at the
corners. Her head drops and I can sense that she is crying.
When she speaks, her voice is choked with emotions and
tears. "No, damn you. I never stopped." And then, quieter,
almost in a whisper: "I never will."
That is a beginning. I can work with that. I know
that if I can last the next five minutes, I will last the
rest of my life with this woman.
"I love you," I say. "I do."
"Who are you trying to convince?" she asks. "Me or
you?"
"You."
"Why didn't you make love to me?"
Again. The fear, crawling up my spine like a cold,
furry spider. The tendrils of my fear reach out to my limbs.
I can feel the sweat at the base of my back.
"I was scared."
Her voice is a plainitive cry in the dark. "Of
WHAT?"
"Of getting too close to you."
Her face lifts and she looks at me. "Asshole!" she
spits. "That's bullshit, and you know it!"
I say nothing.
"Tell me the truth! Why didn't you make love to me?"
Again, I say nothing.
"Tell me!"
"I was afraid..." I begin. "I was afraid of loving
you too much. Of losing myself inside you. You are such a
part of me, of my life, I couldn't imagine getting closer to
another human being than I am to you right now. And the
thought of making love with you...I was afraid that I
couldn't satisfy you."
That was new. To her, at least. Or, so I thought.
"I know." Now it is my turn to stare and gape. "I
always knew. But I wanted you to try, dammit! I wanted you
to at least fucking try!"
I stand. I walk over to her. I hold my hand out. She
takes it.
"Come with me," I say softly. She stands, looks at
me, her eyes red from crying, from pain, from the hurt I've
caused her.
"What will I tell Alex?" she whispers.
"I'll tell him," I say. I turn and leave the living
room, bringing Lisa with me. We ascend the stairs to her
bedroom. I've slept in this bed before, with her in my arms.
I've woken up next to her, watched her sleep, noticed the
form of her body under the t-shirt she wears. My t-shirt.
Tonight is different. Tonight we will be as one.
We arrive in the bedroom. I can hear the beach. I
can smell the salt air. And then all I can smell is Lisa,
because she is in my arms, her body against mine. How many
times have I hugged her, I wonder. How many times have I
felt her body pressed against me. Now the comforting, warm
weight of her breasts against my chest is welcome and
savored. The feel of her loins against mine is urgent and
needy and also welcomed.
We kiss. Our mouths touch softly first, and then
harder as the long-awaited passion beteen us finally
arrives. Lisa's mouth opens against mine, and I feel her
tongue against my lips, slipping between them, entering my
mouth, softly scraping against my teeth. I feel her
moistness and passion and suck at it, eager to have it.
My hands find her ass and I pull her against me.
"Jeff," she whispers into my mouth. "Oh, my God, Jeff...."
She can feel my hardness pressing against her, the evidence
of my desire for her, my want for her.
My hands move to the hem of her shirt and I go under
it, across her belly, towards her breasts. Breasts I have
dreamed of, fantasized over, lusted after. My left hand
finds one, her perfect, pale white right breast. Her
softness is intriguing. It is unlike any other breast I have
ever felt. It is alove, I can feel her nipple against my
palm, pressing against me.
I thumb the nipple softly. Lisa moans into my mouth
again. She opens against me, her slick, warm lips gently
sucking at mine. The kiss is so incredible, so deep and wet.
The need passes between us, from one mouth to the other.
I take her shirt off. Her breasts bounce as the
material of the shirt clings, and then releases. Her nipples
pucker harder under the cool breeze.
"Touch me," Lisa whispers. "Touch me everywhere.
Make me yours. Posess me, Jeff." I know that is what she
always wanted. To belong to me. More importantly, for us to
belong to each other.
My mouth finds the spot on her neck she has told me
so much about. And then the fear is inside me again. I know
so much about this woman. A thousand conversations. I know
all her secrets, all her vices, all her pleasures. I know
what will make her happy, what will turn her on like nothing
else. I know she adores having the small of her back lightly
kissed. I know she loves to spread her legs and be eaten for
hours. I know that she likes to get nasty sometimes, likes
to talk dirty in bed and do lewd things. Every once in a
while, she likes to let a man spend on her face.
All of a sudden, a feeling that I'm invading her
privacy flashes across me. There are no secrets left for us
to discover in each other. I know all of it. Everything.
I am tensing, ready to push her away...and then I
don't. I realize that I may know what she likes, but we have
yet to experience it together. I remember that sixty people
can look at the same painting and see sixty different
things.
My passion rekindles and I attack her. My hands lift
her up and carry her to the bed where I dump her. My clothes
vanish in a flash, and I join her. Our hands are everywhere
at once, finding secret places and touching, caressing them.
Her hand finds me and guides me, grasping my length and
pulling it closer. I feel her moist center and cleave her
neatly. As if we are made for each other, we join on the bed
and become one. The passion has never been greater, never
been this perfect. This is what I have searched for my
entire life. This perfect unison of mind and body and soul.
We move urgently against each other, finding solace
and warmth in each other. Her mouth is against my throat,
licking my pulse point. Her legs grasp my hips as she
undulates against me. She is welcoming me with her body,
using herself to squeeze and caress that part of me that is
so deep inside her I don't know where I begin and she ends.
We are one.
"Fuck me, Jeff!"
I speed my actions, anxious to spend within her, to
give her my gift, to prove my desire and love for her. She
needs this, this hot, sweaty movement, this give and take of
fluids and lust. She needs to feel wanted and desired, to
feel lusted after and needed. I give her all I can, drawing
on what I know about her to bring Lisa pleasure. My hands
find her breasts as I fuck her, as I give her my cock. She
is no longer the pristene woman I have known and loved. She
is my woman, my cunt, my slut. She is there for me as I am
for her, and we move together even harder, faster, deeper.
My hand moves from her breast and slides lower,
towards her center. I find her button and caress it, twist
it, watching my actions bring Lisa closer to the ultimate
release, our first together.
And then it is upon me, as well. I feel her clasping
me with herself, drawing me in, milking me as I erupt inside
her, emptying myself inside my lover, my woman. My future
wife.
I fall against her, finding her mouth with mine. "I
love you," I whisper. "I love you Lisa."
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