‘So, this is soccer,’ he says, his tone intending to tease.

‘No, my love, this is football. The real stuff where there’s a round ball and people actually kick it.’

‘You strange Brits with your weirdly shaped balls.’ He sighs.

‘You Americans with your sissy rugby. There’s so many pads you don’t know where the player stops and where his protection begins.’ ‘I suppose real men do this, do they?’

I look at the television properly and notice a replay of a particularly fine tackle that ends in a guy rolling around in imagined pain.

‘Oh, and I suppose American footballers never pull such tricks.’

‘No, ma’am.’ He smiles. I love it when he calls me ma’am. It makes my stomach turn to jelly and my insides run like caramel.

‘That’s because they’re so constricted by their protective gear they’re incapable of it.’

We continue along the same theme, him singing the praises of the football he knows and me telling him all about proper football. It’s not a real argument; we’re still snuggled close together and there’s no sting in our words. It’s just a play fight, a pretend duel, an excuse for conversation. It’s fun between two friends who like to play with words.

‘We’ll have to watch the Superbowl together, I’ll show you what the real stuff’s like.’

‘Sure, that’d be good. I can prove to you once and for all that my football is more entertaining then.’ I gently goad as I hide my pleasure at those words. He has plans for us in the future; he’s thinking of us together not just now but later too. I find a thrill in that. It’s one of those things I worry about (my mum will tell you I am a born worrier). I’m so afraid that if Joe and I fuck now we’ll bugger up our friendship. I enjoy our friendship, of course I do, and I don’t want a consummation of lust to spoil what we have.

‘You just like the nice ass,’ he says, pointing at the one in focus on the screen.

‘Well yes, you do have a nice arse but it’s not your only good point.’ I wink cheekily.

‘What other good points do I have?’ he asks, fixing me with his intense gaze.

‘Oh, no, no, I’ll give you a big head if I list them.’ I can feel the heat in my cheeks as I think about how much of him I do indeed love.

‘Oh, baby, believe me, you can give me any kind of head you like any time you like,’ he purrs the words, his nose almost touching mine, our gazes locked. I am sure he can feel the heat radiating from my cheeks as I try my hardest not to look away from him, to give him the pleasure of winning, even though all I can picture is Joe with his cock in my mouth, fucking forward as I give him just the kind of head I desire to give him.

I love my football, but Giggs, Ronaldo and Rooney are all but ignored as I concentrate on the sexual tension building between Joe and me. I just wonder what will break it, what will push us over the flirting line?

A goal is scored and I raise my hands in the air. ‘Goooooaaaaaalllllll!’ I yell and then turn to plant a kiss upon Joe’s cheek. (Any excuse, right?) However, his face is pointing directly at me and so the kiss lands upon his plump, pink, sexy lips instead.

It’s the first pebble of a rock slide; the impact of lip to lip shakes our bodies and throws them together and causes them to bump and writhe against each other. I nibble that lower lip. He runs his hand down over my shoulders, down my spine to the hollow just before the curve down to my bottom. A hand of mine strays on to hischest and wiggles its way between buttons before roaming across warm flesh.

My legs uncurl and I am propelled on to my back. His heavy body is on top of me, my hand is trapped between us, his crotch is in my crotch, his legs are between my own and I am trapped, deliciously trapped. Held down and held still, I savour the moment, the sensation of being controlled, knowing that I am not in charge right now, That I am not the responsible one here. I am the controlled, not the controller.

God, it feels good.

‘What do you want?’ The heavy breathing fades into the background and there are concrete words.

‘I … I …’ I stumble, my cheeks flare and I look up into his eyes.

‘Tell me, Leanna, what do you want, right now, right at this moment. Tell me, tell me in detail.’

I can’t look away from those eyes. Those darkening grey eyes. I wait for a flash of lightning to slash through them, as they look so much like gathering storm clouds. I know what he wants to hear, I know his every turn-on and kink. He wants to hear me say it. He wants me to plead for it.

‘I … I …’ The words are there but they stick in my constricted throat. My cheeks feel as if they are burning under his gaze. ‘I want you … inside me.’ It’s weak, I know, but I am building up, gaining my footing. ‘I want you to touch me, to kiss me, to ravish me.’

A low moaning growl escapes his throat as he ducks his head and kisses and bites at my oh-so-sensitive and bared throat. I gurgle and moan my surprised pleasure and continue. I know he wants to hear more.

‘I want you, Joe, I desire you, I need you, Joe. I need you to fuck me.’

His lips graze my collarbone, down into the crevice of my cleavage. His hips press down, his cock hard and luscious through my panties. It is only now I realise that my skirt is up around my hips.

In response, I press my hips up against his bulge, curving my back and grinding my aching breasts against his chest. I move my hand to it and, as I do, I hear the “snap” of the button as it pops off. The movement from above me freezes. The lips still in their path and I let out a gasp.

‘Oh, I am sorry.’ My cheeks flush with a little guilt and a lot of frustration.

‘Look.’ He sits up as he pulls on the middle part of his shirt where his button once was.

‘I’m so sorry. Let me find it and I’ll sew it back on later.’

‘Leanna, you have been very naughty.’

I look up from my half-hearted button search. ‘Yes, I have, sorry.’ My head droops; I’m feeling ashamed.

‘Yes, what?’

I can see it burning in his eyes; he’s not really angry, this is a game. A game I want to play, a game we have played regularly in the safety of the typed word. It’s a whole new ball game in reality, though. My body is zinging and tingling with arousal but can I really let him …?

‘Leanna. I am waiting.’ The loud, angry voice snaps me out of my quandary and makes me start.

‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’ The words come out of my mouth automatically.

‘Good.’ He nods his head and I see just the smallest slip of a wink before his face turns back to concrete lust. ‘Stand up.’

I stand before him, back of my legs knocking the smallcoffee table, hands hanging at my sides, my eyes directed to the floor.

‘Now take off that skirt.’

My heart is banging so hard, I could swear someone was playing techno in my chest. I slip down my skirt and step out of it. I am very aware of the brief nature of my, erm, briefs.

‘Turn around slowly.’

I pivot, highly aware of his eyes upon my bared buttocks as I go round.

‘My, what erotic panties.’ I blush yet more and bite my lip.

‘Over my knee.’ It is a simple command but one which makes me go all a-flutter.

Joe stands up and walks to the dining table in the corner. He pulls out one of my well-worn, straight-backed chairs and sits down upon it. The button missing in his shirt gives me a wonderfully teasing view of his hair-dappled chest.

I walk over to him, my breath ragged. I try to calm down, forcing myself to take small breaths. I walk close to the side of the chair before I bend over at the waist and lower myself until I am resting in his lap. He’s so hard, so potent, so there, right in the centre of my stomach.

‘OK, Leanna. Now this is your punishment for being so naughty.’

I know he is using that word to turn me on. He knows from our online chat I love the way his voice curls around the word and makes it sound so sexy. Actually, his accent makes virtually any word sound sexy. God help me if I ever go to America; I’d be on the brink of orgasm all the time. Although I don’t know, there is a special purr in Joe’s specific tone that vibrates within me. I don’t think any other man’s voice could do the same.

‘Yes, sir.’ Suddenly the hard palm of his hand impacts on my right buttock. I yelp out in shock more than pain. A brief whoosh of cold air and SMACK! His hard palm strikes my soft yielding buttock flesh with a “whap”. I feel the heat of the imprint as his hand rises again.