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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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WARNING!
This text file contains sexually explicit
material. If you do not wish to read this
type of literature, or you are under age,
PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!!
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Her Birthday, by Rajah Dodger, Copyright (c) 2002. All
rights reserved, except that electronic not-for-profit
reproduction rights only are explicitly granted with
the stipulation that this authorship and permission
note must remain attached.
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For Her Birthday
by Rajah Dodger 2002 (rajahdodger@gmail.com)
***
A woman has a very surprising birthday party from her
colleague. (FM, bd)
***
She sips her tepid coffee and reads the newspaper,
trying to decide what to do after the bills are paid
and some sort of dinner is prepared. The house echoes
heavily with memories of past birthdays, some bright,
some dark, all sharing the presence of other people.
Making a face, she takes a marking pen and circles a
movie as the best alternative to a solo evening of
television or mingling with anonymous strangers at a
bar.
As she sits up and sighs, the quiet is broken by the
abrupt ringing of the telephone. The voice at the other
end is familiar, one of her office colleagues, a friend
if not a close friend, for she has not allowed herself
the danger of close friends since he left.
"What are you doing tonight?" Her normally attractive
face creases into a frown, the question an unwanted
reminder of the malaise and anomie assailing her. "I
was going to catch that new Adam Sandler movie..." she
begins, but her colleague dismisses her plans with
unexpected enthusiasm. "Oh forget *that*, there's
always a new Adam Sandler movie. I'm having a little
get-together tonight, and you simply *must* come!"
The phrase "simply must", echoing as it does the image
of blonde debutantes and Junior League members, would
normally elicit a polite but firm dismissal. On the
other hand, there *is* always another Adam Sandler
movie, and the tone of excitement in the other woman's
voice is at least intriguing. Her attempts to clarify
the nature of the get-together are politely but
effectively sidestepped, and directions are given with
a target of eight o'clock.
She hangs up the phone, wondering briefly at the
unexpected gesture of friendship, then shakes off most
of her mood and heads to the study to take care of the
household finances.
Dinner, when the time comes, is a diet tray from the
frozen food section of the grocery store. The
microwave, she sometimes thinks, is the recluse's best
friend. Once the table is cleared, the question now
arises, what to wear? The simple housedress that
suffices during the day indoors is of course out of the
question, even had the invitation specified "come as
you are."
Lacking any helpful suggestions, she rummages through
her closet and puts together a simple ensemble,
comfortable pants with a blue-and-purple shaded pattern
blouse, one that neither hides nor accentuates her
figure. She checks her watch; yes, on schedule. A visit
to the bathroom to brush her teeth, and she picks up
purse and keys for her first outing in quite some time.
Her destination is a simple ranch-style home in one of
the better-off neighborhoods. She brings her car to a
stop a half-block away from the address, idling, a
sudden hesitance about dealing with people in a social
setting giving her pause. But an accepted invitation is
a social contract, so she puts the gear back into Drive
and pulls up to park.
For a moment she wonders where the other guests have
parked, then shrugs and opens her door to stretch her
legs. Clicking the car alarm behind her, she walks up
the paved stones to the front door, initial hesitance
quickly covered with an assumed facade of pleasant
anticipation.
"Marge, I'm so glad you could make it. Come in, come
in!" Her hostess flutters around her, pointing out a
place to lay her purse, asking after her day, all of
the niceties of a standard party greeting.
They leave the entryway and move deeper into the house,
arriving at a small dining alcove where a birthday
cake, a glass of champagne and two crystal glasses sit
beneath dimmed lights.
Unexpected is an inadequate word.
She could turn and run home. She briefly wants to cry.
The touch of her colleague's hand on her back urges her
forward, helping her sit down at the table.
"Surprised? Well, I have a friend in Personnel, and
when I found out that it was your birthday, I said to
myself, April, you can't let that nice Marge go without
someone remembering her." A knife appears, two slices
of the cake are cut, and the champagne is poured, all
without disrupting the flow of words. "Now I do
apologize for not having a whole group here, but I'm
afraid it's a little difficult to get a group together
from our office, you know how everyone has their other
commitments."
She finds a fork in her hand, and automatically inserts
it into the cake. The piece she brings to her mouth
tastes of vanilla and amaretto. April lifts a glass,
and so she must also, hearing a cheery "Happy Birthday"
toast. April eats her slice of cake with the grace of a
social director, timing her last bite to finish with
Marge. "Now, dear, for your birthday present!"
Marge finds volition returning to her, as she begins to
demur. "Oh please, April, this was a lovely surprise,
but I couldn't possibly..."
It is as if she has not even spoken. April takes her
hand in a warm but insistent grip and leads her away
from the table, through the elegant living room, and
down a hall to a room with a closed door.
The door is opened...
"Oh! My! God!"
The boy - no, not a boy, but certainly a young man - on
the bed lays nude, hands tied over his head, a pair of
stereo headphones covering his ears and a pair of
leather pads covering his eyes. The hair on his head is
fair and full, that on his chest is downy, and further
down...
She blushes, staring at his semi-aroused state. What
can she do? Her legs are shaky, rooted to the spot. And
her body generates its own messages, nipples brushing
against her thin bra, a heat building inside. It's been
so long, after all...
Somewhere outside she half-hears words, like a radio
broadcast in bad weather. "...woman like you needs...
didn't know until my friend told me... you've been so
nice around the office, not like those other... longest
time to find just the right..."
A tug at the back of her neck, and the cool air in the
room washes over her suddenly warm neck. Another tug,
and the buttons down the back of her blouse give up
their attachments. Hands slide the garment forward over
unresisting arms, and those same hands slide the zipper
of her slacks down to push it to the floor. Her mouth
gapes, breath echoing loudly inside her head, eyes
looking hungrily between the young man's legs, watching
the member pulse on his stomach. A pat on her bare
bottom rouses her to step forward, leaving her clothing
behind, stopping just a handsbreadth away from the bed.
"Go ahead," comes the voice at her ear. "Touch it."
She reaches out as if in a dream, laying her hand along
its length, feeling the heat and the sudden answering
growth. Her tongue peeks out to dab at her lips, and
she knows what she wants.
As the door behind her draws closed, one last comment
enters her consciousness. "And just wait until you see
what he can do with his tongue!"
END
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. 4-million people around the world
contract HIV every year. You only have one body per
lifetime, so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 63