Ten years after the end of a relationship, two people meet again in a provincial hotel. Literary short story. Ages 18+.
The hotel was called Linde and stood in a small town in the Mühlviertel, eight hundred inhabitants, two pubs, one pharmacy. We hadn’t chosen it. The seminar for the publishing house Klaus worked for was held there, my publisher had sent two representatives, and I was one of them. We both knew about each other because our names were on the program, and we hadn’t spoken to each other in ten years.
At the reception desk, he stood behind me as I checked in. I heard his voice before I saw him.
“Marlies.”
I turned around. He had aged, but he had aged in a way that suited him — slimmer, a few gray temples, the same eyes that had undressed me back then.
“Klaus.”
We shook hands. His fingers were warm, firm, and a shiver ran down my back. The receptionist tossed me the key, told me the room number, and I walked past Klaus into the elevator. In the elevator, I wondered if I could manage not to talk to him for the next two days, aside from the necessary — and whether I even wanted to.
The necessary happened in the evening. At the welcome reception, he stood at the bar. I joined him because I wanted a glass of wine too. We stood next to each other, like I had with him at a hundred receptions ten years ago, and it was so familiar it hurt. I felt his closeness, the scent of his skin, mixed with aftershave, something woody that I recognized. Between my legs, it started to get wet, just like that, after all these years.
“How are you?”, he asked.
“Good. You?”
“Good.”
We drank. We said nothing. Suddenly he said:
“I tried to find you three years ago.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to apologize.”
“For what?”
“You know for what.”
I knew for what. Klaus had left me ten years ago, not in a fight, not in an escalation, but in a quiet, clearly formulated decision that he had communicated on a Sunday morning and that I had neither understood nor accepted that Sunday morning. It had taken four sentences. He had gone to his car and driven away.
“Was there a reason I didn’t know about?”, I asked.
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
“I was too young back then to understand that I wasn’t leaving because you were wrong, but because I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“That it was too good.”
I looked at him. I had worked on his disappearance for ten years — three therapies, a short marriage I had ended because it wasn’t good, because it wasn’t what it had been with Klaus — and in that sentence, at that bar in a provincial hotel in the Mühlviertel, a part of those ten years collapsed. My panties were now wet, the moisture gathering between my labia, and I pressed my thighs together to stop the pulsing.
“Klaus.”
“Yes.”
“You could have found me.”
“I tried.”
“You didn’t write a letter.”
“I wrote three. I didn’t send any.”
We left the bar. We didn’t go to the pub to eat, we went straight upstairs. His room had a door to the garden, an old hotel, a suite actually, a special room with its own terrace. We sat down on the terrace. It was early June, the linden blossoms smelled so heavy it was almost unpleasant. The scent mixed with my own, the smell of arousal rising from my cunt.
“Are you married?”, I asked.
“No.”
“You seem like you’re someone’s husband.”
“I was. Three years.”
“Did it work?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t get over something I ended ten years ago easily.”
I took a sip of wine. Klaus had gotten two glasses, taken them from the bar, and they stood on the small table between us. The wine ran warm in my throat, but even warmer was the desire between my legs.
“What do we do now?”, I asked.
“I think, what we didn’t finish ten years ago.”
We went from the garden into the room. Klaus was ten years older, but he hadn’t become a different man. He was the same Klaus who had looked at me ten years ago, with the same attention, the same calm. He had touched me without haste ten years ago, and he touched me now without haste. His hand placed itself on my neck, and I felt my whole body react to that touch, how my blood flowed faster, how my nipples hardened, how my pussy started to pulse hotly.
“I want you”, he said softly. “I want to fuck you, Marlies. Now. Here.”
I couldn’t answer. I just nodded as he led me to the bed. My hands trembled as I started to open his belt, while he pulled my dress over my head. My blue lace bra came into view, and Klaus’s eyes widened as he saw my tits, firm in the fabric.
“You still have those perfect tits”, he whispered, as he freed my breasts from the bra. His fingers wrapped around my left tit, the firm nipple pressing into his palm. “So firm, so hot. I’ve missed them.”
He leaned forward and took my nipple into his mouth. A shiver of lust shot through me as his tongue circled the hard nub, licked it, sucked on it, until I moaned. “Yes, Klaus, yes”, I panted, burying my hands in his hair. His free hand wandered to my other tit, kneading it, rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger, while his mouth continued sucking on the first. I felt my pussy dripping, the moisture running out of me, soaking my panties.
“Undress me”, he commanded, and I obeyed. I opened his belt, the button of his pants, let the zipper snap down. His pants fell to the floor, his boxers stretching over the hard cock that bulged underneath. I pushed the fabric aside and his cock sprang out — long, thick, the glans red and glistening with arousal. A small drop of pre-cum pearled at the tip, and I licked it up with the tip of my tongue.
“You still taste so good”, I murmured, sinking to my knees. I opened my mouth and took his glans between my lips. The salty-sweet taste of his horny juice exploded on my tongue.
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