A man, married for sixteen years, meets a woman at a conference in Frankfurt whom he knew twenty years ago. A long story about the few hours that decide everything – and about what comes after. 18+.
It was February, Frankfurt was cold, and the conference had been going for two days the way conferences go – the first lectures had been good, then a drift had set in, and by Wednesday afternoon I was sitting in the back row reading emails instead of listening to the woman at the podium. My cock was half-hard under my pants because I wasn’t thinking about anything except the next break and the coffee, but then she was standing at the coffee bar, a badge hanging around her neck, “Speaker,” and her first name was on it. Anouk. There weren’t many Anouks in my life.
“You,” I said.
She turned around. She looked at me, a second without recognition, then not. Her eyes widened, and I saw her breasts rise under the black sweater as she took a deep breath.
“Maximilian.”
“Anouk.”
We hadn’t seen each other in twenty years. We’d met in our early twenties in Marburg, in a seminar group reading a book by Foucault that didn’t end up agreeing with the professor by the end of the semester. We’d kissed three times there and once not, on an afternoon when we’d decided on something else and didn’t know why. Back then, I’d stroked her once with my fingers, over the fabric of her jeans, and she’d gotten wet, and I’d felt it, but we hadn’t gone further. Today everything would be different.
“You’re here?” she said.
“I’m here.”
“With the bank?”
“Where do I work now?”
“In the program booklet.”
We both laughed. She’d seen my profile in the program booklet, which meant she’d looked for it. I’d seen hers at breakfast and pretended I hadn’t. In that moment when she laughed, I saw her lips, full and slightly glossy, and my cock got harder. I imagined those lips closing around my glans, her tongue licking along the sensitive underside. I had to force myself not to stare at her mouth the whole time.
“Are you free tonight?” she asked.
“I was invited.”
“Me too.”
“Am I still invited?”
“Am I still invited?”
We both canceled on the organizer. We met at seven in a bar in Sachsenhausen that I didn’t know and that she suggested. She’d grown taller, which is a strange description for a woman who’d already been tall twenty years ago – but she had a different way of standing, a way someone over forty had who’d shed their own bureaucracy. She wore a black sweater and a necklace with a small, old pendant that I recognized from twenty years ago. I’d given it to her back then.
“You still wear that.”
“Sometimes.”
“Today.”
“Today.”
We had a first glass of wine. She was a sociologist, had lived in Paris for two years, then six in Berlin, now she was in Cologne at an institute. She’d been divorced for three years. She had a son, sixteen, who lived with her most weeks. As she spoke, I watched how her tongue sometimes briefly ran over her lower lip. I imagined that tongue in my mouth, playing with my tongue, and then deeper, sucking on my cock.
“And you?” she asked.
“Married, sixteen years. A daughter, thirteen.”
“Happy?”
I thought about it. That was a question I hadn’t asked myself often in recent years, because the answer would have been too complicated a measurement.
“Stable. I think that’s the word after sixteen years.”
“Stable isn’t happy.”
“I know.”
“You know it.”
We had a second glass of wine. Anouk talked with the naturalness I’d always appreciated in her – she made big topics small, and small ones big, depending on what was right. We talked about twenty years ago, a little, but not too much. We talked about what we weren’t – she wasn’t a mother with a grand plan, I wasn’t a man with big affairs. We talked about what we regretted and didn’t regret.
At half past eleven she said:
“Maximilian.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not taking you to the hotel because you’re married. But I’m telling you I would if you weren’t.”
It was a sentence that was like a door that wasn’t closed, but also not fully open. My cock twitched under the table. I could feel the heat in my crotch, and I knew if she put her hand on my thigh now, I’d be lost.
“Anouk.”
“Yes.”
“If I come to the hotel with you tonight, I know I’ll regret it.”
“You don’t know that yet.”
“Yes, I do.”
She nodded. But then she stood up, came around the table, and sat next to me on the bench. Her thigh pressed against mine. I felt the warmth of her body through the fabric.
“You’re already regretting it,” she whispered. “You’re regretting that you’re not coming with me. You’re regretting that you didn’t go further back then. You’re regretting that you married her even though you knew it wasn’t what you wanted.”
I wanted to contradict her, but her hand was now on my thigh, very close to my crotch. Her fingers moved slowly, circling over the fabric of my pants, and I got so hard it hurt.
“Anouk…”
“Tell me you don’t want me,” she said. Her voice was rough, and her eyes were dark. “Tell me you don’t think of me when you fuck her. Tell me you don’t moan my name every time you come.”
I couldn’t answer. I was paralyzed by the lust shooting through my body. Her hand moved higher until it brushed over my cock, pressing against the fabric.
“So hard,” she whispered. “So fucking hard. For me.”
She leaned forward and kissed me. It wasn’t a gentle kiss, no tentative groping. It was a hungry, demanding kiss, her tongue immediately thrusting into my mouth and playing with my tongue while her hand kept rubbing over my cock. I tasted wine and her saliva, and I wanted more.
I pulled her closer, my hand sliding under her sweater, over the bare skin of her back. She was warm, and as I went lower, I felt the edge of her bra. I unclasped it with one hand, like I’d done a thousand times, and she gasped softly against my mouth. Her breasts fell free, and I cupped one, feeling her nipple harden against my palm. I squeezed gently, and she arched her back, pressing her breast deeper into my hand.
“Not here,” she breathed, pulling back. Her eyes were glazed with desire. “My hotel. It’s close.”
I nodded, my heart pounding. We left the bar without finishing our wine, her hand in mine, leading me through the cold Frankfurt streets. The air was sharp against my flushed skin, but I barely felt it. All I could think about was getting her alone, getting inside her.
Her hotel room was on the fifth floor, a standard business room with a double bed and a view of the city lights. As soon as the door clicked shut behind us, she was on me again, her mouth hungry on mine, her hands fumbling with my belt. I pushed her coat off her shoulders, then pulled her sweater over her head. Her bra hung loose, and I slid it off, revealing her breasts – full, with dark nipples already hard and erect. I took one in my mouth, sucking hard, while my hand worked on my pants.
She moaned, her fingers tangling in my hair. “Yes, Maximilian. Fuck, yes.”
I pulled her toward the bed, and we fell onto it together, a tangle of limbs and desperate hands. I yanked off my pants and boxers, my cock springing free, thick and aching. She was already naked from the waist up, and I pushed her skirt up, revealing black lace panties. I hooked my fingers under the elastic and pulled them down her thighs. Her pussy was already wet, her labia glistening in the dim light.
“God, you’re beautiful,” I muttered, spreading her legs. She was slick and ready, and I couldn’t wait. I positioned myself between her thighs, the head of my cock pressing against her entrance. She looked up at me, her eyes dark with need.
“Fuck me,” she whispered. “Fuck me like you’ve wanted to for twenty years.”
I thrust into her in one smooth motion, and she cried out, her back arching off the bed. She was tight and hot, gripping me like a fist. I started to move, slow at first, then faster, each stroke driving deeper. Her hands clawed at my back, her nails digging into my skin.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she chanted, her hips bucking to meet mine. “Don’t stop. Don’t you fucking stop.”
I leaned down and captured her mouth again, my tongue plunging in rhythm with my cock. I could feel her getting close, her inner walls clenching around me. I reached between us and found her clit, rubbing it with my thumb as I fucked her harder.
She came with a scream, her body convulsing under me, her pussy milking my cock. The sensation pushed me over the edge. I buried my face in her neck and came, hot and deep, my hips jerking as I emptied myself into her.
For a long moment, we lay there, panting, our bodies slick with sweat. Then she laughed, a low, throaty sound.
“Fuck,” she said. “That was twenty years of waiting.”
I kissed her forehead, still inside her. “Worth it?”
“Ask me again in the morning.”
But I already knew the answer. And so did she.
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