Nobody can completely disappear anymore. The internet and social media have made it more or less impossible. So past lovers might not stay gone, no matter how you parted from them, no matter how long ago.

I hadn’t seen or heard from Josh since Christmas Day almost five years ago. Before my marriage to Charles, he’d been the one true love of my life.

We had tried to make it work. He’d been as stuck on me as I was on him, and our relationship had been intense and all-consuming. He had imprinted himself on my soul.

And of course the sex had been outrageously fantastic. He was impossible to forget.

I needed only to close my eyes and nudge my memory to conjure the shape of him in my mind, his muscular hardness and the tender touch of his hands. He was the first boyfriend I wanted to do everything with. No sexual position was too outré, no act summarily ruled against. I dressed in the hottest lingerie for him. I let him come on my tits and my face. I greedily swallowed his come.

But our lives were going in different directions. He loved to travel, and his burgeoning career meant he was going to have to move around a lot. I wanted to settle down, become a homeowner and get married.

We split up on Christmas. We’d both known it was coming. Why we picked such a festive day to break up, I don’t know. It just sort of happened. We had planned to meet, to talk, to make one last desperate attempt to come to some kind of compromise.

But it ended up being a bad scene, with harsh final words exchanged. I always regretted it — even though the breakup was inevitable. Still, that Christmas hung like an empty ghost date in my life’s calendar ever since — the last time I’d seen Josh, the one who got away.

Life, however, had moved on. There had been other guys, then I met Charles and fell in love all over again; this time in what seemed a more mature, realistic way. Charles wanted the things I wanted, and when we married, I felt safe and loved and happy.

But nearly five years on, Josh contacted me through social media. It was a brief message. Friendly. Curious. He asked how I was. He also told me he was in my town and asked if I would I like to see him.

His note seemed to open a slew of possibilities. Instantly my memories came surging. I didn’t have to prompt them. All that exotic lovemaking, the many, many heavenly hours we’d spent together.

Maybe he, too, was married and only wanted to have coffee with an “old friend.”

I didn’t reply to the message at first. Instead, I mulled my options. But there was another factor entering into my calculations. Charles, two years earlier, had cheated on me. An old girlfriend had gotten in touch with him at his office. He’d thought a lunch with her that same day would be harmless.

But one thing had led to another, and they’d ended up in a motel room. He had confessed to me, torn up about what he’d done. It hadn’t seemed so terrible to me at the time. Guilt had erased whatever pleasure he might have gotten out of it, and I forgave him.

Charles, as part of his self-imposed “penance,” had told me, “If you ever want to even the score — you know, settle this thing in your own mind — go ahead and sleep with someone. Just don’t tell me about it. OK?”

I’d been touched by that extreme contrition. But I’d never thought of taking up the offer — until Josh contacted me.

I let a few days pass before I responded to Josh’s message. Then we exchanged a few more. Memories sang again in me, and my excitement grew. I had the growing sense Josh wanted more than a friendly get-together, and he admitted as much when I confronted him.

Lust and reluctance battled within me. I said nothing to Charles. It was late summer, the heat was still high and everything was buzzing with heightened life. That energy hummed in me as well.

Finally, I texted Josh: “Just this once.”

He countered with: “OK. We’ll make it count.”

I went to his hotel. True to his life plan all those years ago, Josh traveled a lot and was only briefly stopping over in my city. When he met me in the lobby, my whole body lit up. He appeared exactly as I remembered. His eyes danced as he looked me up and down, and desire crackled between us. After exchanging friendly hellos, we went to his room.

For a moment, I stood in a kind of limbo. I barely felt the carpet underfoot. Josh had a dazed look on his face, and I thought maybe our hookup wouldn’t happen.

But lust came roaring up through me, and before long, we were in each other’s arms. I was kissing a man other than my husband for the first time since my wedding vows.

The contact was electric. Our lips parted, and our tongues met with savage urgency. I pressed against him, feeling his muscularity. His hardening cock prodded my mound, and my pussy was already flowing.

There was no looking back. We stripped out of our clothes and tumbled onto the big hotel bed. I no longer felt like I was floating. I felt incredibly in the moment, like every piece of me was alive. Sensation rippled across my bare skin, and when I touched Josh’s body, it was as if sparks flew between us.

I love my husband, but he’d given me permission to do exactly what I was about to do. The only catch was I could never tell him.

As Josh and I rolled together across the broad bed, I thought, Yeah, I can keep my mouth shut.

We kissed like fiends, our tongues tangling madly. I remembered his kisses, the vibrant passion that had always been in him. But our hookup also somehow felt new. I took his erect cock in my hand as he cupped my breast, and we were like recently minted lovers. He was simultaneously both familiar and a stranger.

Those conflicting feelings only made the moment more exciting for me. I pumped his shaft, and he moaned into my mouth. He tweaked one of my sensitive nipples, and I squirmed with pleasure. He dropped his mouth onto my other breast and suckled. When his teeth grazed my nip, I groaned with joy. He nibbled softly, then with a little more pressure.

I squeezed his cock in my tight fist. I moaned deep in my throat, consumed by a rising heat. My skin seemed to sizzle. Pre-come drizzled from Josh’s dickhead, and I smeared it over his swollen cockhead, making him squirm.

There were a hundred memories of him on tap in my mind. I thought of all the scenes we might replay. Then I threw out the old playbook. I wouldn’t preconceive this thing. It was to be the last time we’d be together like this. I decided to just let it happen.

We played for a while more, with fingers exploring and hands questing. I caressed his balls. He pinched my butt, and I licked his throat. He trailed two fingertips up the slick groove of my pussy, without penetrating me. Pleasure swarmed over me, and the expression of lustful enjoyment on his face was gratifying.

I wanted his taste in my mouth. I slithered down between his legs until his erection reared up before my eyes. I held his balls again and studied the impressive length of his rod. When I licked away the fresh dribbles of his milky pre-come, he shivered and groaned in approval.

My lips closed over his crown, and my tongue explored his enticing texture. His flavor, a purely masculine tang, hit me then, racing out of the past into the luscious present. Hungrily, I dropped my mouth down his shaft. I kept my tongue moving, coaxing the maximum amount of pleasure from him.

By the time I’d sucked him down to his base, he was groaning helplessly. Inwardly, I grinned. Then I started raising and lowering my head, deep-throating him with every downward plunge. It was hypnotic.

I increased my tempo, giving him some tight suction. I took his knob into my throat again and again.

But he pulled me off before he could shoot. Panting, he said hoarsely, “Let’s save that, OK?”

He urged me onto my back, and his shoulders pushed apart my thighs. I felt his hot breath on my waiting pussy lips, the second before his tongue parted them and delved inside. My pleasure soared, suddenly becoming intense. My breathing shortened, and the room seemed to spin.

Fastening his mouth to my slit, he licked the needy throbbing bud of my clit with the skill I remembered. A cry escaped my lips, and I reached for his head, lacing my fingers into his hair and yanking hard as my climax rocked me.

“Fuck me,” I murmured. He shifted upward and lay atop me, his face dripping with my juice and his eyes dancing crazily.

He slipped his cock into me, and the feeling was lovely. The connectivity of lovers, the ultimate primal bonding. Cock to pussy, an ageless tune, and we sang it once more.

He stroked into me slowly, letting me feel the entire glorious length of him. He’d always been well-endowed. That, of course, hadn’t changed. But he could also still fuck with skill and sensitivity — attuned to me, to himself — bringing us together. In and out. Laying the foundations for my next climax and setting himself up for his own. We were in perfect sync, so much so that the decision to change positions occurred to both of us nearly simultaneously. The old varieties, which were also our new varieties. I wanted him every which way. I got onto my hands and knees, and he fucked me doggy-style. When that was done, I put him on his back and impaled myself on him, riding him like a bronco. Then I spun around and was doing a bucking reverse-cowgirl on him.

He had me from every angle. It was a glorious re-visitation of our old sexual stomping grounds. It was also the sweetest farewell ever, more than making up for that mournful Christmas years ago.

We ended up as we’d started, with him atop me. My orgasm boiled over, drowning me in joy. At the same time, he came like thunder inside me, unloading his sweet come and sealing us together the one last time that would forever be imprinted on my memory.