As a young junior high school kid, I remember thinking as the roots of our deep friendship were being planted, that wouldn't it be wonderful- truly wonderful- if we could have sex? I wasn't in romantic love with her- there was no crush (and I don't believe there ever has been, actually). But back in elementary school, I'd had countless makeout sessions (even with some boob grabbage/lickage!) with my best friend of the time, hidden away in the closet. I hadn't felt anything much romantic for that friend, either, but it had been so much fun. And by then I'd become a near expert in masturbation- it was a horny, horny adolescence. My brain put two and two together- I was imainging the pure bliss in my head. We'd make out, eat each other out, and then go right back to hanging out, nothing more, nothing less. Not girlfriends- my mind didn't go there. And this was far before I'd realized anything about my sexuality- before words like 'lesbian' or 'bisexual'. My brain couldn't even conceive that she would be anything but all for it. Isn't that what girls did?

Or maybe I did know . . . because I never asked. I think maybe sometime later we did some silly journal/memory book thing where we tried writing questions back to one another. I asked if she ever thought about kissing another girl. I think I either got a "No" as a response, or somehow we quietly let the project die out, suddenly made uncomfortable by my question. As we grew up together, through high school and college, and my queerness started to manifest, it was something we skirted and I carefully hid, or tried to hide. Four years into college, I finally worked up the courage to confess my bisexuality to her one night while driving home. She said nothing. I said nothing. We agreed it was weird and uncomfortable and moved on to other topics.

And she never mentioned it again.

I was pissed, of course. But at the same time, I didn't want to make her uncomfortable. It would be weird if I brought it up. I'm sure she thought the same. Recently, she treated me to dinner so we could talk about it. It was . . . interesting. Productive. Opening up the channels of communication, and exploring her own [Christian] views on sexuality. But one thing she said got to me. "I know it wouldn't be right for me to act on those feelings."

I was dumbstruck. Was that an admission that she had erotic thoughts of women, but kept that from her because it was a sin, in her mind? That was news to me. And it made me angry as well. If that was her viewpoint, then in her mind, I was a sinner, indulging my baser desires. Of course, she would never say that, or treat me different, but it was there.

From there, this fantasy started to grow. I took all the anger and resentment about not getting to have her and it went from there:

I don't know how we get to the place where my fantasy starts- her tied up and bound. In fact, I can't imagine how we would get there, because I wouldn't want to force her, but I can't imagine her voluntarily getting into the position. But nonetheless, we are in my dorm room or some other nondescript place, and her hands are pulled up above her head, bound together at the wrists. She's pulled up just high enough that she's raised a little off her feet- not quite on her tip-toes, but some tension requiring support. Just enough. Her legs are forced open by a metal spreader bar, attached to the cuffs around her ankles. I like this. I can spin her around if I want.

She's quiet. I'm quiet. I can't imagine there's anything I could say that would help the situation. I don't want to give her emotional sadism- torture her with my words. And I don't want to try to turn her on with words. We're just quiet. She's in her bra and underwear, but I don't like this bra. All her bras are crazy- I am the one with white, plain, functional bras, but I always catch the wayward strap of one of her bras peeking out from a tank top, striped, polka-dotted, paisley, bright and wacky colors. I've seen them in her underwear drawer, delicately folded and surprisingly feminine despite having no lace, no frills. But I want to see her in the push-up bra. I've seen it many times before- times when all of the sudden her breasts look different and I'm drawn to them. We've had uncomfortable moments before when I've tried to drag my eyes from her cleavage.

I go rooting around for the black thing now in her drawer, sloppily pulling others away and tossing them to and fro- bra decoration as they land around her and drape over the dresser. Finally I find it, and I hold it up to her lips, signifying I want her to hold it. She opens her mouth and takes a strap between her teeth, holding it dangling, while I unhook her hands from their bondage, one at a time, and slip off the straps, and then the straps of the new bra, slightly damp from where her mouth held it. I get behind her and hook the snaps, snugging it down to fit her right. But of course, it doesn't fit right- nothing ever does when someone else puts it on you. Still behind her, I sneak my hands around to the front, sliding into the cups to adjust her breasts so they sit right. I take longer than I should, manhandling them as I rest them on the shelves that make them sit so perky and in-your-face. I like doing it this way- pretending that it's not me rubbing her breasts, when it really is.

Once she looks perfect and delicious in the black bra, nipples nearly cresting the cup, I grab a pair of scissors for her underwear, plain white cotton things. I bunch up the fabric on her hips and cut through it on each side, and then slide down the remaining piece. Underneath it, is what I've always caught sneak-peeks of, a glimpse after the shower in the locker room. Her pussy is all-natural, bushy with so much hair that's never been trimmed. For some reason, that sight makes me angry. I dislike the way it hides her genitals, like it's meant to somehow preserve her innocence, her unspoilt purity. I want her to be bare, vulnerable, visible. I want her to look like a slut, like a wanton woman who shaves herself. Long after our time together, I want her to feel bare beneath her underwear, conscious of it, maybe aware of the slight itch of stubble growing in.

Bound up, legs spread, there's nothing she can do. Magically- for it is a fantasy- there is a bucket of hot water and a fresh razor. I grab the scissors and hack away- even the occasional mean-spirited tug on her pubic hairs. When she's trimmed, I razor off every inch of hair, in long, delicate strokes. She's a little skittish, but she never says a word with me knelt down to the level of her cunt, only the top of my head and the flash of the razor blade visible to her eye. When I'm done and she's completely bare and silken to the touch, I rinse her and rub her with lube, oiling her pussy lips and up her ass crack, so everything will rub together frictionless. I want her to feel open and vulnerable.

I have a riding crop, and the spreader bar conveniently keeps her legs open. Suddenly, I am completely enamored with her inner thighs. I touch them, caress them, smack them very, very lightly, squeeze the soft flesh. I grab my riding crop and touch her thighs and then I start to stroke the crop up and down, as if I'm playing a triangle- that silver band instrument. I go up, back down, to her knees, and then across, faster and faster. It doesn't hurt her, really- I'm not switching her with the crop- nor is it touching her enough to be really arousing. I just like doing it, getting transfixed by the repetitive motion of "playing" the beautiful frame her legs make.

Finally, I'm ready to fuck her. I've taken my time, and I want to have her. I leave the room- and somewhere else, somewhere private, I put in the Feeldoe dildo- the thick black double-ended cock that looks like it's growing out of your body. It feels good going in, the way I always love filling my body before I've gotten wet. Something rough about it, and gratifying. I slide my jeans back up and button them, and then I go back to the room. In front of her, I unzip the jeans, peel away the two halves to reveal my hard-on. For some reason, it's important I show her this. "Remember?" I want to say. "Remember when you said you wished you could just find a guy who was a male version of me?" I's very important that I'm not just using a strap-on with her. I want us connected, and I want to feel my fucking of her reverberate inside my own cunt. I want us both to grunt when I push in.

I go behind her, spread her cheeks, and dip my tip into her. The pressure of her tightness- a pussy fucked by nothing more than a tampon, if she's to be believed (and why wouldn't she be?)- translates to my pussy. I don't hold her close- I steady a hand on her shoulder, but suddenly I use the other hand to release the clip holding back her hair, her mass of curly, wild hair that always fascinates me (and which, recently, she has cut and straightened . . . sadly). It cascades, and I bury my nose in it, in the fresh shampoo smell that also smells like her, like her laundry detergent. I once smelled and smelled a shirt in her hamper, sucking in that smell. I grab a handful of her thick, kinky hair, and thrust my hips. It's not a brutal, angry fucking, but it's definitely not soft and delicate either. I let the come inside me build up, one of those internal orgasms that don't feel nearly as strong or satisfying as my clitoral ones, but that are deeper and drain me somehow. It's amazingly silent, a tamped down, grunting come, like I don't want to make a big show of it.

I pull out, pat her flank softly, and unhook her wrist cuffs. Then I leave, still never a word between us spoken.