Funny, how these things turn out.

Our kiss had no spark. That magic mistletoe moment went by without even a hint of whimsy or fantasy. I don't really remember if there ever was a spark in our kisses, but there wasn't one now. It made me feel ... well, it was one more step towards closure.

I've been saying that I'm finally over you more times than I can count over the past two years. I'm only now coming to realize that each time I said that, I wasn't completely deluding myself. Each time I felt like I was over you, it was a step towards being free of your memory-each time, the part of my heart that you occupy grows a little smaller. It will never disappear, and I never want it to. You're my friend, my best friend, and it would kill me if I no longer cared for you at all. So you'll stay in my heart-you just won't be my whole heart anymore. Well, actually, you're not my whole heart . . . anymore.

I'm not sure where lust comes from, though. I'm pretty sure I haven't gotten a hold of that. You still dominate most all of my lustful thoughts. I loved it when we were dating, and you'd breath into my ear (in the gruff, deep, growling voice that makes my knees weak and my insides flame) how much you wanted me, how much you wanted to feel me. I've always stood strong in my belief against pre-marital sex, but damned if you didn't make me want it. You don't have that stand, but you helped me stand firm in my beliefs, at the most fundamental level, even as I whispered in your ear, "Tell me." Or as I outlined to you exactly what I fantasized about us doing. We both knew it could never be, but we were both enflamed with the ideas, our imaginations running wild. I knew that I was safe to tell what I wanted, without you taking it as an invitation. You have far more restraint than I.

I remember when you stopped that voice. We'd stopped dating, but we'd kept on playing around-nothing involving sex, but pretty much everything up to it. I remember begging you, "Tell me. Oh please, please, tell me". I remember you remaining silent. And slowly, I forgot.

Until the night of the mistletoe.

We'd been making out on a regular basis before that, but never kissing. You were worried that I wouldn't be able to kiss without deluding myself about an emotional attachment that didn't exist anymore. I wasn't so sure that your fears were unfounded. So we didn't kiss.

Until I saw that mistletoe.

I've always had a dream about mistletoe. I'd be talking with some eligible man my age, when I'd notice some mistletoe. I'd look away quickly, blushing, and he's look to see what was the cause of my embarrassment. He'd see the mistletoe, and smile at me, and take my hand. He would lead me to the mistletoe, kiss me, and choirs would sing, and trumpets would sound, and I'd be walking on air, and the world would never be the same again.

Like our first kiss, nothing went the way I planned. For instance, I never dreamed that the first man I kissed under the mistletoe would be my ex-boyfriend-turned-best-friend-with-benefits. I didn't think that I'd have to say out loud that I wanted to be kissed under the mistletoe. I never dreamed that he'd say no! I didn't expect him to change his mind, once he saw how disappointed I was. I never thought that he'd expect ME to lead HIM to the mistletoe. It hadn't even occurred to me that I wouldn't be able to be coy about it. I just saw the mistletoe, and saw him, and saw that we were alone, and saw my chance.

If I was expecting red and green fireworks, it appears I wasted that chance. But I did learn something. I learned I could kiss you, and feel nothing. No butterflies in my stomach, no stirrings "down there". Nothing at all.

In retrospect, I'm not really sure what I was thinking. I knew that you no longer felt anything for me, and I knew that I was mostly over you. Perhaps I wanted closure. Or perhaps I just wanted my mistletoe dreams to come true. Or, perhaps I wanted to prove that I could handle kissing you, without falling in love again.

After we kissed, (thrice, just to make sure that the choirs and trumpets really weren't happening) I made a suggestion that, now, baffles me.

"Let's go to the big bed."

The big bed. The place where I first allowed myself to scream with pleasure at the things you were stimulating within me.

It occurs to me that the big bed used to belong to a woman who is now a nun. But this is immaterial. Your reply, however, is not.

"I knew you were going to say that." You smiled devilishly, with that tell-tale twinkle in your eye

From you, that's as good as a yes. So, I took your hand, and I dragged you to that glorious room once more.

It's strange, the things that your touches do to me. I'm not ticklish, at least not for anyone else's hands. But your hands, lightly feathering over my torso, send tickles most unlike the ones I felt as a child. Your fingertips send chills right down my body, congregating right in the middle of my hips, dead center. You know where, and you know what you're doing to me. The pressure builds, and builds, as you lightly breathe on my ear, on my neck, on my clavicle, on the swell of my breasts, slowly, maddeningly working your way down, but never quite touching anything private.

I latch onto you, reeling from what I'm feeling - oh, and I tell you exactly what I'm feeling, exactly what I like. I whimper underneath your ministrations. I share with you the things that I'd like to do, those taboo things that we never can do, but that rise to the top of my mind as I let everything else go. I know you like hearing it, and well, I just can't help it.

You're silent.

I ask, "Tell me". You remain silent. I expected as much, but I still... I still want to know.

"Please, tell me. I want nothing more for Christmas than to know what you're thinking, dreaming, imagining, wanting, while you make me feel like this. Tell me"

I don't expect a reply. So, when I hear that once-familiar growl in my ear, I am more than pleasantly surprised.

"I want to fuck you"

God, that deep, penetrating voice, those words, they go straight to the pressure building inside of me.

"I want to feel you clench around me, to feel what you feel like inside, to explode inside of you, to make you scream, over, and over, and over"

His words, his slow, rumbling, deep words, make me involuntarily gasp with pleasure.

"I want to feel your lips, around my cock, sucking it. I know you'd be so good"

"How" I breathe, barely able to get a word out.

"Because I've felt you, sucking my finger. I've imagined how it would feel, to have those same lips, on my cock, sucking it"

"OH!" Your words, your voice, are beginning to send me over the edge, as usual. It's been a year since I heard that voice, and nothing has changed about the way it affects me.

"God! You're going to make some guy so lucky"

"Why"

"Because you'd be so," unh "good in bed"

"How," gasp, "can you tell?" After all, we'd never done it.

"You want it, so much. Your eyes, your fantasies, your body-they all scream, 'Fuck me now. Stick your cock in my pussy and fuck me"

You've told me enough. Now, it's time for me to tell you.

"Oh god, I want you inside of me. I want to feel how it feels, to be filled with you, to clench my pussy around your cock, and never let it go. I want to ride you everywhere, I want to be impaled on your cock during all of your classes, want to suck you off under a desk. Want you to take me on a big desk, in the middle of a deserted classroom, want you to pound your cock into me so hard that I scream, want to be filled with you, all the time, all the time. Want to be stuffed with your cum, all the time, want you to make sure that every drop of cum that drips out of me is replaced immediately by your hard, huge, amazing cock. I don't want to ever feel empty again. I want to lie in your bed, naked, all the time, fucking you, and having you take me to my classes with me sitting on your cock, with your hands playing with me while I'm in class. I want you so badly. I want you inside of me. I want you to fuck me everywhere, every way imaginable, at every time of the day. God, you make me so horny"

And you do. I never thought that I'd be able to feel that much attraction to someone without loving him.

Well, I suppose I loved him once, and I still love him, but in a different way. Regardless, I don't think I'll ever stop loving the way he makes my body feel.

But his kisses still do nothing. No spark.

Funny, how these things work out.