My first FFM...

[Co****]

I was old enough to know better, which in college terms meant I was just confident enough to mistake curiosity for composure.

They were dance students, contemporary, I think, though at the time that translated mainly to barefoot, articulate, and permanently aware of their own bodies. I met them through a friend of a friend, the way these things often begin, in a kitchen that smelled faintly of cheap wine and ambition.
They moved differently, even when standing still. Not showy. Economical. As if balance were something they carried with them rather than sought. One spoke more, quick and bright, hands always in motion. The other observed, quieter, her stillness doing far more work than silence usually does.

We talked. Properly talked. About rehearsals, injuries, the strange intimacy of being corrected by someone inches from your face. At some point we migrated, sofa to floor, floor to cushions, without any formal decision being made. The room felt smaller then. Or perhaps more deliberate.
What struck me wasn’t urgency. It was patience.

They sat close enough that proximity became a language. A knee touching mine, then not moving away. A shoulder pressed lightly into my arm. When one of them laughed, the other watched me watch her, filing the reaction away like a note taken mid-rehearsal.

I realised, somewhere between a shared bottle and a shared look, that I was no longer leading the evening. And to my own surprise, I didn’t want to. They moved the night forward the way dancers do: subtle cues, gentle redirections, an understanding that timing mattered more than ***.

When it happened when the moment tipped, it did so gracefully. No clumsy scramble. Just a shift in attention. Hands placed, removed, then placed again with more intention. Their closeness to each other was unmistakable, comfortable, like a conversation resumed rather than begun. I was invited into it, not as a disruption, but as an addition.

There was a kind of choreography to it all. The way one would catch my eye while the other occupied my attention. The way they mirrored each other ***ly, breathing, leaning, adjusting. I remember thinking, fleetingly, that this was what trust looked like when it was physical but not reckless.

Nothing felt hurried. Or crude. It was discovery layered on discovery, awareness compounding rather than exploding. I was acutely conscious of my hands, my voice, the way I was allowed, encouraged, to take charge in moments, then gently relieved of it when they chose to redirect.
What made it intoxicating wasn’t excess. It was balance.

Later, much later, I lay awake replaying not images but sensations: the precision of touch, the shared laughter, the quiet confidence with which they moved through the night and then, just as easily, away from it.

College teaches you many things. Some academic. Some ***ful. But that night taught me that intimacy, when done well, doesn’t need spectacle. Sometimes it’s enough to be invited into the rhythm of two people who already know how to move, and trust you to keep up.

[ba****]

I'm confused is this a story or just a statement

[Co****]

50 minutes ago, basicbitch20 said:

I'm confused is this a story or just a statement

Its whatever you want it to be

[Ju****]

This is worded beautifully, and is a captivating story. If this was not rewritten by ai, then, well done.

[Co****]

It isnt AI, I can confirm. Writing is my sanctity.

[Ju****]

It's a excellent read. I believe it to be a true story. Skilled writing is a talent of the few. It seems you are one of the few.

[wo****]

This is just lovely! I do hope to see more from you. I just now started exploring some of the stories on here and some are like this, just great!

[Co****]

49 minutes ago, wonderland2025 said:

This is just lovely! I do hope to see more from you. I just now started exploring some of the stories on here and some are like this, just great!

There will be more, for sure.