Atlanta, GA

The Tease

Apologies in advance for the longer than normal story - it's all about the tease and that takes time!

We all have those people in our lives, be it male or female (whichever is your preference or both – no judgement - LOL), who upon entering our lives just make us, well, hot and bothered, teased and tortured. Sometimes we act on it, at times it evolves slowly and still yet at other times it goes nowhere except to take a cold shower and self-care. I have one such friend and we have known each other for over 30 years and would end up attending business meeting 5-6 times each year. That particular year, Atlanta felt different. Nell and I had arrived in town for another work session, bringing with us not just our luggage, but the fresh, slightly raw energy of two people recently and raggedly. Our friendship was built on banter—a comfortable, decades-old rhythm of teasing, inside jokes, and verbal sparring that had always kept a safe, platonic distance between us. The undercurrent now felt stronger. Nell, my amazing human, was a sight to behold. She was tall, voluptuous, and radiating that potent mix of super-sexy-smart confidence. She was a tease, no question, but I always gave as good as I got. Our exchanges always carried a double meaning, a sharp edge, a heightened awareness of each other that was impossible to ignore. It was the same dance, but with a faster tempo.

The evening began innocuously enough at the hotel bar. We were with a group of colleagues, laughing over martinis and dissecting the day. The air was thick with the usual post-work buzz, but the looks between us had already started and were warning, once again. Every time she threw her head back in a laugh, the light caught the delicate curve of her neck, it seemed to excite me more than before. As the evening wore on, our colleagues' conversations wound down, their goodbyes echoing as they slipped away to their rooms. Soon, it was just the two of us, sitting knee-to-knee at the small table, the martinis warming and refilling, and the comfortable, long-term friendship seeming to buckle under the weight of 30 years of unspoken attraction, or perhaps not. The laughter hadn't stopped, but it had changed. It was quieter now, laced with a breathless intimacy. Her playful jabs became more personal, my comebacks more loaded. We were still talking about work, about life, about nothing at all—but our eyes were speaking a completely different language, one that promised to exhaust us both to the point of weakness. The heat between us, for the first time, had nowhere left to go but up. I took a slow sip of my martini and met her gaze. "So," I said, a smile playing on my lips, "are you going to admit that I won this round, or are we going to let this tension simmer all night as we have for so many years?" She leaned in, her voice low and husky. "Oh, honey," she purred, "I think we both know there are things far more interesting that are overheating us tonight."

The martini glasses were long forgotten, but the heat wasn't. Nell's low purr of a suggestion hung in the air and neither of us was willing to back down first. We were two veterans of this game, each waiting for the other to break. We did this for fun and for self-preservation because we were both previously taken, committed to other people – our responses were habit and movement beyond banter was subconsciously barricaded in the past. The silent negotiation of attraction started with subtle, almost accidental moves—a sudden warmth on my thigh as her hand 'rested' there a second too long, my casual placement of a hand on the small of her back as she shifted in her seat, and even an "oops, sorry!" from me as a boob graze sent a jolt of fire through my chest. Each touch, each graze, was a small, deliberate stroke on a growing flame. We weren't talking about the tension anymore; we were fueling it, building a suffocating layer of anticipation that made the hotel bar feel simultaneously too vast and too small. Our banter had evaporated, replaced by quick, needy glances and shallow breaths – but out of habit neither of us knew where to go next out of fear, uncertainty and not wanting to ruin 30 plus years of friendship.

Finally, I pushed back my chair. "This is a stupid game, Nell," I muttered, the words thick and husky. "Let's call it a night before one of us says or does something we can't take back." She rose fluidly, her eyes dark and challenging. "Wouldn't want that," she replied smugly, but the smirk on her face told a different story. My face betrayed my words as well. The tension followed us out of the bar and into the quiet anonymity of the lobby. We walked to the elevators in silence, an ocean of unsaid words crashing between us. We hit the button for our floor, and the familiar ding sounded like a starting gun. We stepped in, but the privacy was immediately shattered as three other people followed, all heading to lower floors. Nell and I instinctively moved to the very back corner, suddenly separated but achingly aware of the other's presence. As the elevator doors closed, I felt her move up close behind me. The small space made it impossible to stand completely separate, and I used it as an excuse, letting my back gently lean into her. It was an act of pure desperation. In response, she didn't push away; she pushed forward, a firm, almost possessive pressure. It was just a second—a whisper of contact—but it was enough. The air was gone from my lungs. Without thinking, I reached blindly back, my fingers finding her hand. I laced them tightly with mine and felt the immediate, profound release of her exhale against the back of my neck.

As the elevator ascended, so did the arousal. Ding. Second floor. A couple got off. Ding. Fourth floor. The last person exited. The doors closed, and it was just us, our hands locked tight, the silence electric and both in the corner. The sensation of our bodies pressed together, the slow, steady ascent to the top floor, the deep, ragged breaths we were both taking—it all built to a fever pitch. We were climbing a steep cliff of anticipation, knowing that the moment the doors opened on our floor, the game would finally have to end or take a huge leap in a very different direction than we had done before. Nell squeezed my hand so tightly my knuckles went white. "Hurry up," she whispered, her voice a raw plea. Nell’s room was the first door down the hall. We walked the short distance side-by-side, the silence now heavy with an impossible question. Thirty years of platonic history weighed on every step. We stopped at her door. The keycard was clutched tightly in her hand, but she made no move to use it. We were standing on the precipice, and suddenly, the fear of the fall was more tangible than the desire for the jump. Her eyes, which had been so dark and challenging just moments ago, were now uncertain, tinged with a genuine panic. "I can’t," she whispered, the words barely audible. "I just don't know what will happen to our friendship if we do this, and God, I really want to do this." The honesty was a cold splash of reality. She was right. We were standing between a lifetime of comfortable banter and a single night that could erase everything. I forced a smile, tucking the savage, immediate need to pull her into that room back down into my gut. "I know, Nell," I replied, my voice rougher than I intended. "I understand." I leaned in, intending a quick, comforting gesture, but the moment I touched her cheek, the floodgates opened. The kiss lingered—not on her lips, but on her cheek, a soft, long-held press that was more of a promise than a retreat. The kiss led instantly into a long hug. This was familiar territory, the kind of embrace that had happened a hundred times. But this time, it was a deliberate, mutual torture. Her voluptuous breasts, which had been pressed against my back in the elevator, were now molded fully against my chest. Her scent—a mix of martini, perfume, and her own unique heat—suffocated me. In all our years, my focus had never centered on her breasts during a hug; they were just part of Nell. Now, as they were pressed firmly against my ribs, it was all I could think about. The soft, undeniable pressure was a siren song, a physical counterpoint to her spoken fear. We held each other for what felt like an eternity, both of us struggling with the same raging internal debate.

Finally, with a shaky breath, I pulled back, putting my hands on her shoulders and giving them a gentle squeeze. She nodded once, a look of profound relief and regret passing over her face. I walked down the hall to my room. The moment I closed my door, I stripped off my clothes and headed straight for the bathroom, turning the shower knob until the water was long, hot, and scalding. I needed the heat to wash away the memory of her. Later, I laid in bed, the sheets tangled around my legs, tossing and turning all night, the image of her face at the door burned behind my eyelids. We’d saved the friendship, but at the cost of a thousand sleepless nights. I was tantalized, hard and wet at the many fantasies and finally took my cock into my hands stroked myself until I came creating a temporary physical relief, my mind still racing. No sleep came at all.

The morning light was a cruel reminder that the sun was up, but I hadn't slept a wink. The exhaustion was heavy, but the adrenaline from the night's charged encounter was still humming. I dragged myself out of bed, took a quick shower to try and wash away the lingering restlessness, and headed to the elevator for breakfast and the day's meetings. I saw her immediately. Nell was standing by the button panel, a picture of absolute, lethal professionalism in a chic business jacket, a sophisticated sheer blouse, and a perfectly tailored skirt. Her makeup was perfection, and the electric smile she offered me could have powered the entire hotel. We greeted each other almost in unison, "Good morning," the words laced with a breathless energy that belied our composure. But the weariness was clear in both our eyes—the shadows beneath them were a testament to the night we’d spent thinking about each other. We both knew the reason for the exhaustion. We boarded the elevator, and the replay began. It was a familiar pattern of stops and starts, but this time, the positions were reversed. I was against the back wall, and she backed into me—a deliberate move. The feel of her body against mine, even through the layers of clothing, was immediately intoxicating. The thin fabric of her skirt offered little defense, and I couldn't hide my instant, undeniable erection. She felt it, of course, and instead of moving away, she pushed back with a slow, grinding pressure, acknowledging and amplifying the arousal. With each floor, the elevator gained another passenger. Five. Six. Then seven. We were packed in tight, strangers surrounding us, oblivious to the intimate, silent war being waged in the back corner. And with each person that entered, it was forcing us closer, she pushed back harder, a silent promise of what was still simmering between us.

Three floors to go. The bold exhaustion from the lack of sleep gave me a reckless courage. I noticed the slit in the back of her skirt, a small, black slice of fabric that offered a secret entry. I summoned the nerve, reached a hand up, and, with the precision of a surgeon, found the opening. My fingers slipped inside, past the fabric, until I gently touched the inside of her thigh. I moved my hand higher, applying a slow, steady, and gentle pressure until I found her panties. Her body instantly reacted—a small gasp hitched in her throat, a barely perceptible shudder running through her frame. When I achieved the reaction I was looking for, I leaned in and mumbled directly into her ear, my voice rough and low. "I’m glad I’m not the only one who is wet." The elevator doors opened on the lobby level, and the spell was broken. We walked out, joining the flow of people heading toward the breakfast buffet. We sat down across from each other, our plates untouched. We exchanged a long, intense glance, a secret shared through bright, exhausted smiles and a comfortable silence. We didn't need words; we both knew exactly what the other was thinking.

The rest of the day was a blur of meeting after meeting after meeting, the conference acting as a necessary, if frustrating, distraction. Standing in the hallway between meetings, I would inconspicuously run my hand along her butt. She would walk up behind me and graze my elbow with her breast. She would take my water glass, take a drink and leave her lipstick on it. The tension was palpable and the teasing incessant. One act after another – all day long! But as the day drew to a close, the inevitability of the evening pulled us back. Soon enough, we were right back at the bar with the same group of people. The martinis were flowing, and the laughter was nonstop, but was the night only just beginning? I just didn't know and I don't think she did either. As the colleagues around us began to wrap up their conversations, I caught her eye over the rim of my glass. Her smile was different this time—not electric, but dangerously amused.

We didn't speak as we walked toward the elevators. We didn't need to. We both knew exactly where we were going. This time, fate was kinder—or crueler—it was just the two of us. We boarded and settled into opposite corners of the back of the elevator. The space was expansive, yet claustrophobic. The silence was thick, punctured only by the whoosh of the rising car. We were locked in a gaze, staring uncomfortably at each other, but the discomfort was just a thin veneer over the undeniable, throbbing arousal that radiated between us. Our eyes spoke volumes, reliving the morning's illicit touch and the previous night's near-miss. The ride took forever, each second stretching into a small eternity of anticipation. The doors finally opened on the top floor. I let her exit first, a small, old-fashioned gesture of respect. We walked the short, familiar distance to her door. She stopped, turning to face me with the keycard still clutched in her hand. We stood inches apart, the air vibrating with the same tension that had choked us the night before. We stared at each other for what seemed an eternity, her eyes deep, dark pools of longing and fear. I leaned in, unable to resist, intent on closing the distance and silencing the doubts with a kiss. But just as my lips approached hers, she raised her hand and placed it gently on my mouth. It was a soft denial, a silent plea. It was a repeat of the night before. "I just can't," she mouthed, her eyes wet with frustration. "I’m scared, my divorce, the loss, I just can’t." The defeat was a physical weight. I nodded, not trusting my voice, and gave her a brief, agonized look of understanding. I was headed back to my room and to my shower and likely to take care of myself yet again. I turned to walk away, but a sixth sense made me glance back over my shoulder. She lingered in the hallway, watching me. She didn't move to open her door, standing perfectly still, waiting. She waited until I reached my door, fumbled with my own keycard, and actually entered my room before she finally turned to enter hers. The sight of her standing there, delaying her own retreat, sent a riot of conflicting signals through my exhausted mind. I asked myself a thousand times: Was she really calling me back? Was her hesitation a final, desperate plea for me to change my mind, to stride back down the hall and take what we both wanted? I was unsure of what to do. Had it been a stranger or somebody less important in my life the answer would’ve been easy, but because it was a dear friend, we both knew the next step could be perilous.

The third morning arrived, bringing with it the inevitable repeat of the cycle. I hadn't gone back to her room, but I hadn't slept either. The exhaustion was now a chronic condition, fueled by sleepless nights and the frantic, secret touches in the elevator. We met again at the elevator bank, the familiar dance beginning instantly. This time, we both acknowledged the fatigue with a shared, wry glance. We opted for coffee and skipped breakfast, needing caffeine more than calories to endure the day. The banter in the hallways and the premeditated touching and teasing continued with the intensity of two people who knew they were running out of time. A casual arm brush lingered too long, a whispered joke in my ear ended with a sharp, suggestive breath, her hand resting on my waist as we paused to talk to a colleague. Every interaction was a cruel, beautiful game, and we were both masters of its rules. But as evening approached, a different kind of weariness set in. My body simply didn’t want to endure any more torture. The delicious, drawn-out agony of the last two nights felt less exciting and more like self-harm. I needed a break. I needed to reset the board. Without saying a word, I retreated to my room.

I didn't head to the bar. Instead, I called room service and ordered a steak dinner with a bottle of Cabernet for myself to enjoy. I wanted comfort, solitude, and a solid wall between me and the temptation that was Nell. Her divorce was far more tenuous and painful than was my breakup, so I’m certain at this point our banter was more for her healing, and to affirm that she was still attractive and wanted. Downstairs, I knew where she was. She sat in the lobby with a group, fully expecting me to join them. But I never arrived. My steak was perfect, the wine was heavy and dark, and I ate in silence, my book, a humorous thriller provided a neutral, non-Nell distraction. Meanwhile, she must have been watching the clock. She kept up appearances, laughing and chatting at the bar. She lingered until the very last one left and the lobby quieted before she finally came up to her room. She reached her door, but didn't go in. The absence of my predictable, tortured presence had clearly given her pause. She paused and wondered if everything was okay with me, the concern likely mixed with a healthy dose of annoyance, concern and curiosity. Then, the soft sound of a knock on my door. Not a colleague’s business knock, but a gentle rap. I knew who it was.

All my good intentions—the steak, the wine, the need for solitude—evaporated. I rose to answer the door, not with caution, but with a sudden, reckless surge of bravado. I needed this to end, one way or another. I pulled the door open, finding Nell standing there, a genuine line of worry creasing her brow. She started to speak, her voice soft and concerned. "I was worried and missed you downstairs, I..." She didn't get to finish the sentence. Her concern, the vulnerability in her eyes, the simple fact that she had come to me—it was too much. I acted instantly, before either of us could retreat. I cupped my hands on her face and immediately cut her off, kissing her long, slow, and deep. The kiss was the release of three nights of agonizing tension, decades of suppressed desire, and the secret knowledge of the morning's elevator ride. It was a complete, final surrender from both of us. She didn't fight it. She melted into it, her hesitation vanishing in a single, explosive moment. She wrapped her arms around me and tightened her embrace, a fierce, needy grip, pushing me back across the threshold and kicking the door shut behind her with a definitive thud.

The single kiss lasted minutes, a slow, thorough exploration that reconnected our souls before our bodies. When we finally pulled apart for air, the world felt distant and muffled. We began a frantic removal of each other's clothing, driven by a primal, desperate need. Her elegant jacket fell to the floor, followed by the sheer blouse and tailored skirt. I shed my shirt, my trousers, and the last vestiges of my self-control. Soon, we stood there, mere inches apart, bathed in the soft lamplight of the hotel room. I was in my boxers; she was breathtakingly revealed in a stunning black lace bra and panties. We were still kissing, a fierce, hungry contact, now sweating and breathing rapidly, the anticipation finally giving way to the reality of the moment. I pulled back just far enough to drop to my knees, the room’s air suddenly charged and heavy. Nell stood before me, magnificent in black lace, her body trembling with a mixture of desire and shock. Time slowed to a crawl as I slid her legs apart, taking in the sight of her trembling thighs.

My mouth found its target. I didn't rush. Pressing my lips just above the soft, wet center of her black lace panties, I began to blow warm air from my mouth. The effect was instantaneous and profound. The air, warm and moist from my breath, met the already mounting moisture on her panties. It was a gentle, focused caress that instantly intensified her arousal. Her body reacted as if struck by a current—a sharp gasp, her hands gripping my shoulders for support. The delicate rush of air against her sensitive clit and lips was a torture and a pleasure all at once, an exquisite sensation that caused her to arch back in silent ecstasy. I kept up the warm, steady breath for a few intoxicating moments, savoring the shuddering contact. Then, my fingers moved, finding the soft edges of the lace. With the practiced ease of long-suppressed desire, I moved the fabric aside, creating a small, exposed window of flesh. My mouth followed the path my hands had cleared. My tongue took over the work, pressing, swirling, and tracing the swollen tissue of her lips finding its way to her clit. The taste of her was electric, the texture soft and yielding. I dove in, contacting her clit and her lips, again and again focusing all my energy on driving her insane with pleasure I knew she had been missing. Her body instantly responded to the direct contact, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. She was losing control, her fingers digging into my hair and shoulders, her knees threatening to buckle.

With a primal, raw sound that was half gasp and half shout, Nell yelled as she came, her hips bucking against my face. The sheer force of her release was too much for her spent muscles. Her hands left my shoulders, and she dropped heavily to her knees in front of me, her breathing coming in desperate, ragged sobs of pleasure. We were now kneeling, face-to-face, our foreheads almost touching. Without a second to waste, we started kissing wildly, a savage, clumsy contact driven by a shared, urgent need to catch up. The air was charged with the metallic tang of sweat. I reached back and unhooked her bra, pulling the delicate black lace away to reveal her magnificent breasts. They rose and fell with her frantic breaths, her nipples erect and tight, her areolas contracted into pink, taut circles of pure arousal. Nell’s focus was equally absolute. Her hands dropped to my waist, pushing down my boxers with rough impatience. The fabric pooled around my knees, and she immediately grabbed my cock, a firm, confident grip that felt like both a promise and a command.

In one orchestrated move of pure, desperate instinct, she rolled backward onto the plush carpet, pulling me down and on top of her. There was no fumbling, no hesitation. The transition was seamless, perfect. She guided me with a sharp, inhaled breath. I slid my cock inside her in one long, satisfying thrust. The feel of her slick, tight pussy surrounding me, the weight of our bodies pressed together on the carpet, the raw, unfiltered pleasure of finally being there, was an immediate, overwhelming shock. Our decades of unspoken chemistry, the years of safe friendship, the endless days of teasing and denial—it all funneled into this one explosive moment of contact which lasted for quite some time. The initial, desperate thrust gave way to a passionate rhythm. We moved in a furious, instinctive dance, in and out, each motion bringing us closer to a breaking point. But as that peak neared, Nell stopped, her muscles tensing around me. She looked down, her eyes dark and mischievous, the exhaustion of the last few days replaced by a fierce, focused energy. "Not yet," she whispered, her voice husky. "I want to tease you some more, but this time, the right way." With a graceful shift, she rolled me over onto my back, her chest heaving. She didn't hesitate. She took my cock in her mouth, a gesture of pure, luxurious devotion. She worked her magic, caressing my erection expertly, driving me higher and higher, until I was clinging to the very edge of control. Just when I felt the inevitable release tightening in my chest, she stopped, pulling away with a triumphant, knowing look, allowing me to gasp and recover. “Not yet”, she whispered.

She rose, moving with a slow grace toward the room service cart. The steak was forgotten, but the Cabernet was not. She poured a full glass of wine, the dark liquid catching the lamplight. She took a slow, deliberate sip, her eyes never leaving mine, then another, savoring the rich flavor. Then, she walked back, kneeling beside me, and brought the glass to my lips, offering it to me to share as a loving cup. We drank the wine in silence, the rich, tannic flavor a perfect complement to the intense heat of the room. The moment of shared refreshment and breathing space allowed us to simply relax and appreciate each other’s body. We touched without urgency—a smooth stroke down a thigh, a gentle tracing of an erect nipple—reconnecting on a sensual, deeper level after the initial storm. After a few moments of this shared, delicious calm, the kissing started intensely again. We moved on the floor, rolling and pressing until we were in front of the massive hotel bed.

I looked at her, my eyes communicating a clear, primal request for a shift in position. She understood immediately. I motioned toward the bed. Nell complied, planting her hands and her forearms on the edge of the mattress, bending over so her beautiful form was arched, presenting herself. I kneeled between her legs, sliding into position. The sight of her, ready and waiting, was almost unbearable. I held her hips, steadying her as I slid myself inside her pussy from behind. The depth was incredible, the tightness overwhelming, and the sensation of our bodies perfectly fitted together was tantric. We continued over and over and after a few moments, I reached around and began to stimulate her clit with my finger adding to the intensity of her arousal. We continued until she could no longer stand it and exploded all around me. I pulled myself tightly and deeply into her, allowing her pulsation to absorb my erection. When she slowed, I continued again, harder and deeper until she came again and this time we both came together. We held in this position for what seemed like an eternity, absorbing each other and connecting, and as I started to become soft, we both climbed on the bed and slipped under the covers and hugged. Three decades of teasing now complete.

We pleasured each other a few more times, exploring and cherishing the new reality of our relationship until, utterly spent, we finally passed out in each other's arms. When the next morning's light crept into the room, we didn't wake with guilt or regret, but with a startling, joyful realization. We looked at each other, smiled, and made an immediate, mutual decision. We gave ourselves permission to remain in bed with each other and play hooky. The conference, the colleagues, the outside world—it all dissolved. We dedicated the entire day to continuing our pleasure, savoring the novelty of waking up and turning straight to the person we had longed for - for so long. The following night, we treated ourselves to a lavish dinner out, intentionally avoiding our colleagues to savor our private world just a little longer. But the food and conversation were merely a prelude. We resumed our passion in my room, the familiar, charged energy already building before we even crossed the threshold. After several hours of intense passion, we finally drifted off to sleep—a deep, contented rest that the last few nights had denied us.

The end, however, was inevitable. We could no longer push off boarding our flights to return back to our respective cities. The goodbye was quiet, a quick, intense kiss at the airport security line, tinged with sadness but underpinned by a powerful new secret. From that point forward, we simply evolved and digitized. Our banter continued via text messages and phone calls, only now, the teasing was explicit. The verbal sparring was supplemented by visual proof of the desire we’d unlocked. We would exchange provocative pictures—sometimes scantily dressed, sometimes naked—each message a charged reminder, a promise of what was coming. The cycle was set: the remote, constant teasing through photos and texts, sustained until we would get together again for a business trip, a planned weekend away, or a convenient layover, where we would inevitably repeat our passionate play. Our teasing continues to this very day, a constant, thrilling undercurrent that runs beneath the surface of our lives, proving the fire we lit in that Atlanta hotel room was the start of an entirely new, deeply satisfying, and highly pleasurable chapter.

Image from the Internet, as imagined.