Two longtime friends, a summer evening in Munich, a question that was never asked. Direct and blunt. 18+.
We had known each other since the second semester. Six years now. Jonas lived near Sendlinger Tor in an apartment with too many plants, I lived in Giesing in an apartment with too few pieces of furniture, and we met at least once a week, alternating at his place and mine, sometimes in cafés, once even in Athens when we had taken a vacation together, because there was no one else we would rather have gone on vacation with.
We had never slept together. That was the simple fact. We had slept in one bed in Athens because there was only one bed, and we had turned our backs to each other because that was the rule we had never spoken but had respected. But that night, with the wine in our blood and the confession in the room, everything was different.
That Wednesday in July we were sitting on his balcony. It was one of those Munich summer nights where the air stays warm long after the sun is gone. We had drunk one bottle of wine, then a second, and Jonas had told me that Elena had left him. Not loudly, not dramatically. She had moved out, told him he was the best man she knew, and that she still couldn’t marry him.
“Did she say why?” I asked.
“She said she sees someone in me who is actually waiting for someone else.”
I held the glass to my mouth without drinking. I didn’t look at him. I looked over the rooftops toward the Frauenkirche, whose spires stood in the last light.
“And?” I asked. “Are you waiting for someone else?”
“I don’t think I’m waiting anymore. I think I’ve stopped waiting. I think I just didn’t realize that I’ve already found it.”
It was strangely quiet. On the street a bicycle passed by, the rustle of a tire on asphalt, and that was the only sound for several seconds.
“Jonas.”
“Yes.”
“Are you saying that to me right now, or are you saying that to someone else who happens to be sitting here too?”
He set down the glass. He turned to me. In the twilight his face wasn’t clear, but I saw that he wasn’t smiling. He was a man who didn’t smile when it came to important things, and that was one of the things I had always appreciated about him.
“I’m saying it to you, Hannah. I’ve been saying it to you since Athens.”
“Why did you never say it?”
“Because I thought I’d lose everything if I said it once and you said no.”
I understood that. I had thought the same way since Athens, from the other side. We had both thought the same thing for four years and said nothing, in the irrational, polite assumption that the friendship was the most important thing we had — as if love were something other than friendship, and not something that grows from it when you let it.
“What would you do now?” I asked. “If I said nothing.”
“Then I’d stand up. I’d get you a glass of water. I’d change the subject. We’d go on like we have for six years.”
“And if I said something?”
“Then I’d do what you say.”
I set down the glass. I stood up. I walked over to him, three steps, which isn’t far on a narrow balcony, and I placed my hand on the back of his neck, because that was the simplest movement. I felt the warmth of his skin under my fingers, the slight tension in his muscles, and my heart was beating so hard I thought he must hear it.
“Come inside.”
We went inside. We didn’t turn on a big light. He pressed me against the doorframe, very gently, almost as if checking that it was me, and I put my mouth to his because I couldn’t stand it any longer that this mouth had been in my life for six years and I had never kissed it. His lips were soft but demanding, and when our tongues met, it was as if a dam broke. I tasted the wine on his tongue, the warmth of his breath, and a deep, guttural moan escaped me that I couldn’t hold back.
We kissed for a long time. Long because we had time, and because we were afraid something might come between us if we didn’t do it now. His hands didn’t know me — he had never placed them on me, never slid them under a shirt — and I could feel the amazement in them as he began to get to know me. His fingers glided over my shoulders, over my arms, and then he grabbed the hem of my blouse and slowly pulled it over my head. His eyes widened when he saw my bra, a simple black one, and he placed his hand on my breast as if touching something fragile.
His fingers found the clasp of the bra, and with a certainty that surprised me, he opened it. The bra fell to the floor, and I stood before him, naked to the waist, my breasts free and heavy. He stared at them, and then he leaned forward and took one of my nipples into his mouth. A shiver ran through me as his tongue glided over the hard tip, and I grabbed his hair to hold him there. “Oh, Jonas,” I whispered, “that feels so fucking good.”
He sucked gently on my nipple while his hand massaged the other breast, and I felt the moisture between my legs swell. My panties were already wet, and the thought that he would feel that soon made me even hotter. He let go of my breast and looked me in the eyes, his gaze dark and hungry.
“I want you,” he said hoarsely, “I’ve wanted you for years, Hannah. I want you now.”
“Then take me,” I answered, and my voice was barely a whisper.
He took my hand and led me into the bedroom. On the way, I pulled off his shirt, and he helped me by stripping it over his head. His chest was muscular but not overdone, with a fine line of dark hair leading from his chest to his navel. I could already see his cock through his pants, a thick bulge pressing against the fabric, and my pulse quickened.
I knelt before him without hesitation, and my hands opened his belt and his button. The zipper cleared the way, and I pulled down his pants and boxers until his cock sprang free. It was big, maybe 18 centimeters, thick and hard, the glistening head already wet with a few drops of precum. I wrapped my hand around it and felt it twitch under my touch. “You’re so hot,” I murmured, and then I took him into my mouth.
His moan was deep and throaty. “Fuck, Han
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