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Peter and I had been friends and housemates since college.  The first time I ever laid eyes on him he was sitting on the porch of the house next to the one I was moving into, shirt off, playing the guitar and drinking a beer.  I adored him immediately.

Maybe it was the guitar.  Maybe it was the bravado of an underage male drinking a beer in broad daylight. Maybe it was that he was drop dead gorgeous. Six feet tall, shape like a Greek statue, bright blue eyes and chestnut hair that reached to the nipples on his suntanned chest.  Whatever it was, my panties were soaked through the first time I laid eyes on him.
That evening he and his three male housemates stopped by to meet my three female housemates and me. We girls giggled and flirted while the guys helped us move furniture, gave us beer and showed off their muscles.   A year later, I had moved into a larger house with two of his housemates and one of mine.  I had been living in the same house with him every since.  That was ten years ago.
Ten years and god knows how many housemates.  The names and faces became a blur, moving in and out of our houses and lives, but Peter and I remained with each other throughout them all. We made good housemates.  We shared enough interests to have plenty to talk about, viewed life in the same sardonic, cockeyed manner and were both clean without being freaks about it.  He went from an architecture major to owning his own successful business, I went from studying landscape design to working for the city’s urban forestry department.  He repainted and fussed with the house we rented  and I designed and cared for the gardens.
We each had our lovers.  We cheered each others newest conquest, counseled each other through every new relationship; advising, encouraging, scolding, lending the inevitable shoulder or multiple pitchers of beer when breakups came. We were buds, through thick and thin.  But just that.  Never lovers.  Despite a never-ending low-level sexual tension between us, in ten years we had never hopped between the sheets with each other.
Not that I didn’t want him.  God, no.  I never really got over my initial crush.  Many were the times I would see his face in place of whomever labored above me in bed.  I relished the secret pleasure I got seeing him stroll casually through the house, wrapped only in a towel, his body still damp, his movements languid with the comfort he felt in my presence.  He gave great backrubs and he must have noticed how hard my nipples were after one of his hour-long rubdowns.  More than once I would see that bulge in his pants when he’d catch me half-dressed in some provocative situation, only to feel the wetness spread between my own legs.
Then there was the brief time where I made money for school by writing erotica.  I’d write stories, many of which were only thinly veiled fantasies about Peter.  He insisted on reading them and gave me criticism.  I was embarrassed at first; certain he would recognize himself in them.   He seemed very interested and unconscious of any connection with himself. His comments were helpful, so I gave him more of them to critique. His favorite was one I had written about an erotic bath given to a woman by her lover.    It just happened to be my favorite fantasy about him.
I never told him that, even when we shared a bottle of champagne he bought me when it was published.  He read it aloud while we sipped our drinks and commented on how turned on it had made him when he first read it.  He had a funny look on his face after he finished. Almost wistful.   Yeah, I wanted him, and after that I more than suspected that he wanted me.
We  seemed to have terrible timing, though.  One or the other of us would always be in a relationship of some sort.  More than that, I think we were afraid to ruin the good thing we had between us.  Our friendship outlasted so many failed relationships, neither of us wanted to spoil it.    It was an unspoken code between us.  Never say how much you wanted to rip the others’ pants off and hump like rabbits.  Never admit to anything other than friendship.   Only once did I slip up and belie my deeper feelings for him.  Only once in ten years, and that was brought on by alcohol and proximity.
It was one of the times when I was between lovers.  He was seeing Susan, or was it Sharon?  Someone with an “S” name.  He was home without her that evening studying while I had been out with the girls drinking Long Island Ice Teas and getting horny teasing the undergrad boys at the local pub.  By the time I had been poured through the front door by a disgusted taxi driver, I was three sheets to the wind and ready to hump the arm of the couch if it would just hold still.  Peter was still up when I lurched down the hallway into the living room.  He shook his head and tisked, and then helped me as I stumbled and giggled my way out of my coat.
“Alshways such a geeentleman, “ I slurred, smiling at him blearily.
“Ah, with you, love,” he said in his best fake Irish accent, “ tis always so easy.”  He smiled at me in a brotherly way as he guided me down the hallway to my bedroom.  Our other housemates were out for the evening as well, so it was just the two of us.  He half-carried me into my room and laid me down gently on the bed.  He started to remove my shoes.
“Peter,” I said with sudden drunken urgency, sitting back up and grabbing his hand.  “Peter, I want you.”
“Of course you do, love, “ he said laughingly, pushing me back down and arranging my pillows. “All the ladies do. I’m a rouge and a dandy, after all.”
“No, Peter, I mean it. Really.  I’ve wanted you from the moment I first saw you.”  I began unbuttoning my blouse, or trying to.  I was too drunk to accomplish much of anything and began trying to rip it off after the third unsuccessful attempt.
“What are you doing?” he giggled, pulling my hands away from my shirt.  “You’ll tear it.”


“I don’t care,” I insisted.  “I’m TRYING to seduce you, you oaf.” I leaned back, trying to look sexy.  No doubt I just looked drunk and disheveled and not terribly alluring.  He stopped arranging my bed.  There was a strange, pained look in his eye.  He just looked at me for several moments as if weighing some thought.
“You’re drunk, “ he said dismissively, though not unkindly.
“That doesn’t matter,” I burbled; trying to raise my self to meet him, touch him.  “I told you, I wanted you from the first time we met.  Drinking just makes it clearer.”
“Drinking just makes you horny, you mean.  I think you’d fuck anything or anyone that didn’t run away when you’re like this.  I just happen to be in the vicinity.”
“Not true, not true,” I intoned, shaking my head and finger with great exaggeration.  “It’s YOU I want, Peter, my love, my beautiful, sexy roomie.”
“Go to sleep,” he said, his voice unusually quiet.  “You’re drunk and don’t know what your saying.”
“No,” I began again.  He pushed me back into the pillow, tucking the covers around me firmly to keep me from sitting back up. He leaned over me and looked into my eyes.    I stopped struggling.
“Don’t do this to me,” his voice had a note of pleading in it.  There was a long pause.  He sighed and then leaned down and kissed me gently on the lips. I was drunk as hell, but I knew better than to move or say anything.
“Now, GO TO SLEEP!”  he commanded.  I whimpered, but obeyed.  The room spun and I passed out.
He never mentioned my drunken confession the next morning or at any time in the years to come. At first I considered apologizing, worried that I had marred the wonderful comfort we felt with each other.  I hadn’t.  He never shied away from me or acted uncomfortable in any way, so I never brought it up. It was as if it had never happened.  I remembered the kiss, however.
Time went by and our friendship deepened.    I never repeated my performance of that night.  We continued to confide sexual secrets about our lovers, our fantasies and the like with each other, but neither of us dared to cross the line again.

Peter finally broke my heart.  He moved out. He had established  a successful career and was making good money, and was very good at saving it.  One day out of the blue he announced that he had purchased a house in another part of town and as soon as it was out of escrow, he was going to move.
I was crushed.  To my shame, I became messy.  I cried for nearly two days.  I hid in my room so that he wouldn’t see my tears, although I am sure he must have known how I felt and what I was up to in my bedroom. Finally, I pulled myself together and faced the fact that this was inevitable.  No man lives with a woman forever as just a roomie, as least, no man who was straight and in his right mind.  I put on a smile and spent the next few weeks helping him pack.
He wouldn’t let me see the house before or during the move, despite my pleas and nearly overwhelming curiosity.   He told me he wanted to be totally moved in at for the house to look perfect before I saw it.  I grudgingly agreed to wait.
The moving van came on the appointed day.  I cried openly this time.  Peter hugged me, cried a little himself, and promised to have me to dinner as soon as the house was “perfect.”
Weeks passed.  I got a new roomie; a woman.  Peter and I talked on the phone, he visited frequently, complained about workmen, the quirks of the house he struggled to fix and other mundane, homeowner-type things, but wouldn’t tell me where the house was located.  The curiosity was killing me.
Finally, six agonizing months after he moved out of the home we shared for over ten years, he invited me to his house.  The invitation came by mail, for god’s sake.  It was on gilt-edged paper, done in the calligraphy he had learned back in college.  My hands trembled as I opened it.
“ Master Peter Galway,” it read, “ requests the honor of your gracious presence on the evening of Saturday, August 15th at 8:00pm for dinner and entertainment. Please refrain from visiting me at the house prior to this date.”  Such mystery, I thought.  He certainly knows how to make me curious.
It was followed by the address and a postscript at the bottom, written in his regular hand as if in afterthought, “Wear that long black dress with the skinny straps.”  I laughed.  He had helped me pick that dress out two years earlier for a dinner party with my then boyfriend and his client.  The dinner party had been a huge bore, like the boyfriend, but I looked fabulous in the dress.
I was a nervous wreck for days before our dinner.  I drove past the house several times in the week before I was to meet with him, eyeing the house and speculating on what it was like inside.  It was a large, beautifully painted Victorian.  The neighborhood was a historic district, filled with such houses, but none of them as classy-looking as Peter’s.  Leave it to him to score the best one.  The place we had shared was nice, but nothing like this.  I felt a little jealously mixed with pride.
The night finally arrived.  I left work early to prepare.  I felt like a schoolgirl getting ready for the prom.  I primped in the bathroom for hours, grateful that my new roomie was out of town skiing for the weekend.  I drove to his address, trying to pin down exactly why I felt so nervous, finally giving up the effort moments before pulling up in front of the house.
He met me at the door, dressed to the nines an amazing Italian suit I had never seen on him.   It was casual but elegant and showed off his physique in ways I didn’t know a suit could.  He kissed my cheek.
“Ah, good, you wore the dress,  “ he said with obvious pleasure and took my coat, ushering me into the house with a warm hand in the small of my back.
I gasped when we entered the main part of the house.  It was entirely lit with candles, and it was magnificent.  The entire house emanated a warmth that was more than just the glow of the candles.  The décor was perfect.  It reflected his taste, which had always been wonderful. It was inviting and elegant both at the same time.  He beamed with pride at my reaction but paused only for a moment to allow me to take it in, then continued to guide me along into the next room.
We entered the dining room.  A meal was already laid out on the huge antique table, two places intimately snuggled together at one end.  He seated me in one chair, and then took his own place.
We ate, though I remember little about the dinner other than that the food was as wonderful as the house around me. We talked, about what I don’t recall.  We had wine but I barely tasted it.   I was lost in than Peter’s eyes, which shone brightly at me from under their thick eyelashes.
Dinner ended.  Peter took my hand and began to escort me up the winding staircase.
“And now, dear roomie, “ he said, his voice low, “I have a little treat in store for you.”  I looked at him and believed I blushed.  My thoughts were unbelievably carnal.  I said nothing for fear of saying the wrong thing and breaking  the spell.

We had come to the top of the stairs and he led me down a hallway and into the room at the very ended.  I expected a bedroom.  It was a bathroom.
Did I say bathroom?  This was no ordinary bathroom.  This was a bathroom fit for a king, a sultan, an emperor of Rome itself.  It was as large as the living room in the house we had formerly shared.  At the far end was a huge glassed-in shower with four showerheads at different heights.  The floors were tiled in mosaics in abstract patterns.  The walls were covered in a mural that depicted the Tuscany countryside, complete with vineyards and a villa in the distance.  The toilet and sinks were in a separate room visible to the left.  And in the middle of it all, raised on a platform, glowing softly white in the candlelight, was a bathtub.   A glorious, huge, footed tub straight out of my favorite fantasy.  I groaned when I saw it.  He remembered.
The bathtub was straight out of my story from years before, down to the golden faucet and ornate feet.  Every detail was as it had been described in my story.
“You didn’t think I was paying attention, did you?” he chided, his hands moving up to rest on my shoulders.
“Now, my I?”  His eyes looked into mine in question.  I couldn’t speak.  I merely nodded.
He slid the dress of my shoulders and to the floor.  I stepped out.  He paused to admire with silent approval my very expensive underwear, bought for this occasion.  His hands shook slightly as he lovingly removed my shoes, and then unhooked my hose, rolling them up with great care and placing them, the shoes and my dress on a nearby chair.  He unhooked my bra with precision and slid it from my shoulders.  My nipples were erect and he brushed them lightly with his fingertips.  I wanted to throw myself on him, but kept still.  I would allow him to set the pace tonight.
Lastly came my garter belt and panties.  Now I stood before him naked, both physically and emotionally.  I had never felt so exposed and vulnerable with any other man.  He smiled again in admiration.
He took my hand again and guided me into the tub.  It had been filled with water prior to my arrival in the room and I wondered to myself how he had managed to keep it warm while we dined. Probably heated, I thought.  I forgot such details as I slid into the warmth of the tub. It was perfect.  My apprehensions melted and I felt myself relaxing as I leaned back.
His hands were there to meet my head and guide it onto a bath pillow he had in readiness.  He kissed me gently and briefly on the lips.  Then he rose.
“I’ll be right back, “ he promised, “relax.”
I closed my eyes.  The water had been scented ever so slightly with a spice I could not name, but that further relaxed me.  I could hear Peter rustling in a nearby room.  Music began to play softly.  Van Morrison’s ‘Veedon Fleece’.  My favorite.  I heard him return, his  now bare feet slapped quietly across the tile.  I looked up.  The suit was gone. He wore what looked like pajama bottoms, his chest bare.  I felt my cunt surge with desire for him.  He carried a basket in one hand that was laden with objects that he sat on the floor next to the tub.  I started to speak, to tell him how much I wanted him, but he laid a finger on my lips and shook his head.  I complied.
He began to bath me.  First he lifted one arm and then the other, soaping them with a bar that smelled of the same spice as the bath was scented with, rinsing them with a sea sponge he squeezed along the length of them.  He had me lean forward and washed my neck and back with the soapy sponge.  I moaned.  It felt wonderful.  He moved to the front and tilted my head up, washing under my chin and across my breasts, carefully lifting, washing and rinsing each separately, slowly, his eyes shining.
The water splashed on his chest, making it shine in the candlelight.  I lifted a hand to touch the glorious, wet skin and he pushed it down, back into the water.  What torment!  What delight!  I shivered despite the warm water.
He drew a bottle of red wine and a goblet out of the basket, filling it half full.  He lifted it to my mouth and I drank it, a little spilling over my chin.  He wiped it away with the sponge, laughing.  I laughed too. The wine was good.  Pinot Noir.  My favorite again.  This man knew me well.
He sat the wine down and took my hand, helping me to stand in the tub.  He began to soap me below the waist.  The small of my back, each ass cheek in turn, deliberately, gently.  He had dropped the sponge and now used his hand as he lathered my pussy, the pubic hair white.  He moved his hand soapy hand between my swollen lips, pausing only a moment to circle the erect clit, sliding two fingers into my cunt once, twice, three times and then gone again, making me moan in frustration and pleasure.  I kept my hands at my sides, however, determined to let him finish his task.
He picked up the sponge again and washed my thighs and calves,  rinsing my lower portions and helping me to sit once more while he washed my feet.
Finally, he washed my hair.  It was long and thick and gave him a handful to lather, but he did it deftly, massaging my temples and scalp, eliciting another groan of pleasure from me.  He rinsed it with a pitcher from the basket, worked conditioner through it and rinsed it again.  He tilted my face up and wiped it carefully with the sponge, then kissed me, his tongue opening my willing mouth and exploring it deeply.
He pulled away from me as I tried to grasp his shoulders, shaking his head and smiling.  He took my hand and helped me to stand, then to step out of the tub. He turned and removed a huge white towel from a nearby rack.
He dried me from head to foot, briskly, efficiently.  Then he drew up the chair I had not notice earlier and seated me in it, handing me the goblet of wine.  As I sipped it, he gently combed out my hair, taking care not to tug at it, removing each tangle with great care until it was hanging neatly behind me, wet and straight.
The Morrison CD had ended some time earlier.  I was still naked but not in the least chilled, glowing with all of the loving attention that had been lavished on me.  He moved to the front of the chair, placing his hand on my cheek and looking down at me, his eyes moist.
The front of his pajama bottoms were damp, his erection straining against the wet fabric.  I could see every detail of his cock’s head and my cunt burned between my thighs.  I placed my hands carefully on his thighs and he did not remove them.  I leaned forward slowly and pressed my lips against the head of his wonderful penis.  He groaned and slid to the floor, kneeling before me.  He parted my thighs and his head shot forward, his mouth locking onto my cunt hungrily. I grabbed his hair, my fingers twining through his curls, spreading my legs wider for him.
His tongue dove into me, exploring the inner reaches of my sopping pussy, lapping the juices greedily.  He teased my clit with his teeth, pulling it between his lips, circled it with his tongue until I was on the edge of a climax. He felt my muscles stiffening and eased off momentarily, letting it ebb slightly, then plunged two fingers into me, pushing me up off the chair and bringing me to a shuddering orgasm.

Without letting me pause to catch my breath, he scooped me out of the chair and carried me into the adjoining bedroom, laying me down on the down coverlet.  He knelt over me, and let me pull his pajama bottoms down to his knees.  I rose on one elbow and took his cock into my mouth, tasting the pre-cum on the tip.  He began to buck his hips ever so gently, placing his hand behind my head.  I twirled my tongue around the tip repeatedly, then tipped my head back, taking his penis in more fully, finally relaxing my throat and letting the tip slip down fully, deep throating him.  He groaned, his head back and pulled his cock out.
“No, I don’t want to cum just yet, “ he whispered, his voice husky.  He pushed me back on the bed and covered me while I opened my legs for him.  He entered me and we both groaned.  He was home again, home at last.  The one I had loved without loving for ten years.  Nothing had ever felt so right.  He thrust again and again; his control was as perfect as everything else had been this night.  I felt drugged.  I climaxed again, the juice flowing out of my cunt between his thrust.  He reached down between my legs and then brought his wet hand to his lips.
“It’s sweet, “ he smiled.  He thrusts grew deeper, faster.  He threw his head back and came with a moan that shook the rafters.  The force of it so excited me that I came yet again, my hands gripping his shoulders so tightly that afterwards there were small bruises.
He fell back to the bed beside me.  We were both quiet for a very long time, cuddling and kissing each other, stroking each others cheeks, breasts, thighs, and stomachs.  The candles burned low.  I touched his cheek again.  They were wet with tears.  He laughed then and leaned up on his elbow to look me in the eyes.
“I’ll bet you thought that I just brought you here to show off my house, didn’t you?” his eyes twinkling.
“The thought crossed my mind,” I admitted with a smile, “I certainly didn’t expect such a wonderful bath and …this.  A girl could learn to like this.”  I ran my hand across his smooth stomach.
He stopped smiling, his face suddenly intent.  I caught my breath.  This was a look I knew always preceded something quite serious on his part and I waited for what it might be.
“Be my roomie again,” he whispered, leaning close to my face, “I love you. Marry me”
I pushed him back, stunned.  I looked at him in amazed silence, trying to read his face.  His eyes shone.  He was holding his breath as he waited for me to speak.  Suddenly, any reservation I might have had crumbled.  The man I had loved all my adult life was here, and he wanted me.  He wanted me as much as I had ever wanted him.  He loved me.  I had known it for years but never dared admit it to myself.
“Yes,” I whispered, barely audible.  “Sweet Jesus, yes!!”  He threw his head back and laughed.  His body shook with it.  I laughed too. We both laughed hysterically, gripping each other in our glee.  The bed rocked with our laughter.  He collapsed on me and I grabbed him.  We kissed again, and then fucked until dawn.

We’re under the same roof once more, my roomie, my friend, my love, my husband.  We bath each other frequently, the tile floor wet beneath our feet.