Birthday Party Pt. 01

As many of my stories are, this is a slow burn. Patience will be met with more parts and action.

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The dream was especially vivid. He could feel her lips on him, her mouth surrounding him, cupping him softly in the warm wetness. She began to suckle him gently, urging him on, and he felt himself grow larger, harder, inside her. Fully erect now, she began to suck him in earnest, sliding her mouth down to take as much of him in as she could, then slowly pulling back until only the tip of him remained encased. Each time she withdrew he could feel the cool air of the morning on his damp cock, and each time she dipped back down the cool was replaced with her warmth. The alternating sensations added to the wonderful feel of her oral massage.

He felt her hand reach down and her fingernail trace a design on his sac. She cupped her hand beneath him and fondled his balls gently, careful not to bruise but eager to please. She moved her hand and took his shaft between her thumb and forefinger, and followed her mouth up as she withdrew, then led the way with her hand as she took him back inside her.

His moans told her he was nearing the point of no return. She slipped up his shaft and held only the helmet of his cock in her mouth, tracing the rim of the crown with the tip of her tongue. Holding just his head in her mouth she began sucking strongly. Without seeing, he knew her cheeks were making that fish face look that would always make him want to laugh if her actions weren't distracting him with intense pleasure. She flicked her tongue back and forth across his urethral opening, knowing how this drove him crazy.

Sensing he was ready, she sucked hard one final time and then thrust her face down, swallowing all of him as she cupped his balls perfectly - tight, but without danger of pain. He exploded into her, shooting burst after burst of his cum as his cock pulsed with orgasm.

Knowing how sensitive he would be, she lay still, holding him inside her mouth without touching the head of his cock. She felt her head rise and fall with his breath, and heard the pounding of his heartbeat through his body. She waited until both began to slow toward a more normal pace and then slowly started to withdraw, keeping her lips pressed against his shaft lightly. She heard the sharp intake of his breath as she neared the head and knew he feared the contact with that sensitive area that cut too sharply the line between pleasure and pain. Opening her mouth, she let him slip out without contact, cradling his shaft in her hand.

Just as he let his muscles relax she darted back to him and swallowed his head, sucking strongly and flicking her tongue across the tip. He screamed her name in agonized pleasure, and thrust his fingers into her hair to pull her head back off him, just as he fully wakened and realized this was no dream.

"Morning, baby. Happy birthday" she smirked. "Coffee?"

When she went into the kitchen to start breakfast he headed to the bathroom, where he brushed his teeth, shaved, and showered. As he was toweling off she returned, carrying a tray and ordered him back into bed. Propping the pillows up behind him, she set the tray on his lap and slipped into bed next to him.

She speared a strawberry, dragged it through the bowl of whipped cream, and fed it to him. He bit half off, then took her hand and fed the remainder to her. They continued to play throughout breakfast, she dabbing cream on his nose, he dropping jelly on her nipple then licking it clean.

"So, what are your plans for the day," she asked? She had instructed him several days ago that she was handling all the arrangements for the evening, but that he was on his own for the day. It was, she had said, his birthday after all, so he should be able to do anything he wanted. Up to a point, she said, with a mock look of warning in her eye.

"l'm going to hit the gym for a while, and see if I can find a pickup handball match." Saturdays the courts were always completely booked, but often a player would have their planned partner cancel at the last minute. They forfeited the court if they couldn't find a replacement - no singles allowed on the weekends, due to the high demand for playing time.

"Then l'll probably drop by the bookstore for a while. See what's turned up since I was there last." An avid reader, he also thoroughly enjoyed rummaging through the used and rare bookstore in search of obscure writers. "After that, I think l'll run downtown and see if I can score a hooker or two". His wince of pain when she slapped him was dramatically overstated, as was the hammy grin on his face.

"Oh'? Wanting a little "strange" are you? What you have here isn't good enough? The thrill gone, baby'?" she teased him. Leaping out of bed she pirouetted away from his outreached fingers. "Unh uh. No way, dollface. The hands that touch a hooker will never again touch this goddess. Besides, you need to save it up for tonight. This morning should have taken the edge off for you" she leered.

"That was wonderful, babe, but you know how much you excite me. And you can't keep a good man down, see?" He moved the breakfast tray and she laughed at the tent his erection was making in the bedsheet.

"You just stuff that thing into your pants and go work off your frustrations at the gym. l'll see you tonight, babe." Taking the tray, she headed off to the kitchen, bidding farewell to him with a wiggle of her naked butt.

Pulling the Porsche into the parking lot, he grabbed his gym bag and jumped out. Once inside the locker room, he quickly stripped and dusted his pubic area with talc to ward off chaffing. He pulled on a jockstrap and reached inside the waistband to position himself comfortably. Then he slipped into a t-shirt and shorts, grabbed his lifting gloves and headed into the gym. His first stop was the handball courts, where he neatly printed his name on the standby list, checking the "single" box.

He hated cardio, but knew how important it was, so once he had stretched and warmed up he headed over to the elliptical to get that part of his routine out of the way. As he pumped the footboards up and down, he let his mind wander, wondering how she was planning to celebrate tonight, and what she was doing right now. Always creative, he knew she had more in store for him than the theatre and dinner, but she had dropped no hints whatsoever as to what it might be.

Roused from his reverie by the chime from the machine's computer telling him he was done, he gladly wiped it down and headed back to the free weight room. Detouring past the handball courts, he noticed that several of the singles who had signed in before him had already been invited to play, raising his hopes that he'd get a game today.

In the weight room he found his favorite trainer and they began his rotation. With the trainer spotting, encouraging, and occasionally goading, he ran through the series of upper body lifts he did three times each week, having worked lower body strength the last time he was here. Forty-five minutes later, covered with a thin sheen of sweat and feeling a nice light burn in his muscles, he was done.

Checking once more at the handball courts, he found that a player named Jeff had written "Court 3" and a time only 35 minutes from now next to his name. He circled the notation -- standard gym shorthand for acceptance -- and headed off to the steam room. Twenty minutes there followed by a cool shower and he felt totally refreshed and ready for the match.

Jeff turned out to be a lawyer who looked as if he spent far more time pushing papers than weights, but quickly demonstrated that he was a capable and sometimes ruthless opponent. It took almost all he had to squeak out a 21 -20 win in the first game of the match and Jeff fought back well in game two, forcing them to a tie-breaker with a two point win. Tie-breakers going only to eleven, the game was particularly hard-fought, and he managed to win only by virtue of a very lucky final shot. A gracious opponent, Jeff shook his hand and complimented him on the match, offering to play again anytime he was available. They both promised a rematch and headed off to the locker room.

Back in his car he decided to take the scenic route and open her up a bit. It had been weeks since he had taken the opportunity to give the Porsche her head. She was built to run and particularly loved the kind of winding roads, hairpin turns, and switchbacks along the canyon, so he headed that way. With traffic light due to the weekend it took only fifteen minutes for him to reach Route 25.

Traffic here was even more sparse, and he wasted no time bringing her up to speed. His practiced foot could sense the rpms and he kept her right in her sweet spot, between 4100 and 4850, while he flicked the shifter in response to changes in the grade and tightness of the curves. His left hand caressed the smooth leather of her wheel, twisting it back and forth to keep the perfect line. The wind rushed by his face, blowing his hair back and pressing his sunglasses into his nose.

Running down into the canyon the road hugged the wall to the left and dropped off steeply on his right. With few guardrails and even less shoulder, he knew that a mistake at speed would cost dearly, but the car was a precision machine, finely tuned, and in top condition. He imagined her as a thoroughbred, and at times could swear he heard her breathing, taking in huge gulps of cool air and expelling spent, hot gases she had no further use for.

As if she were that thoroughbred, he felt that all he need do was nudge her in the right direction and she would do the rest, and she did. Soaring down the canyon, the speedometer well past the hundred mile mark, she sliced through the turns like an Olympic figure skater, balancing speed and power with grace and beauty. Turn after turn he took her to the ragged edge of the pavement and she held as he knew she would.

At the bottom of the canyon he pulled into a turnoff and, leaving her running, stepped out of the car. He traced her flanks with his fingertips, felt her heartbeat through her gleaming, smooth, metallic skin, and listened to her purr as she relaxed in the aftermath of their session. He heard the turbo ticking as the intercooler did its job and the heat slowly dissipated. Giving her time to recover, he turned and looked up at the walls of the canyon engulfing them. He never ceased to marvel at the beauty of the sharp, multihued walls, carved from the rock and dirt by some long gone ice floe of ages past.

Later, temporarily sated with the beauty of nature, he slid back into the Porsche, letting her embrace him in the soft, supple leather of her perfectly formed seat and nicked her back into gear. The trip up the canyon road was every bit as exhilarating as the one down, punctuated by one moment of adrenalin rush when he met a trucker in the opposing lane two feet across the yellow line, in the middle of a sharp curve. Easing the wheel to the right he managed to slip her between the truck and the cliff with mere millimeters to spare. Once they had cleared the danger, he patted her lovingly on the dashboard and whispered 'Just for that I'm treating you to a day at the spa. Hand wash, rub down, detail, wax, and all your fluids checked and topped off. Thanks, sweetheart.'

Half an hour later he had exchanged the fresh air, sunshine, and wide open vistas of the canyon for the cramped, dusty, slightly mildewed confines of his favorite bookstore.

"Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in! Good to see you again, my boy. Long time," bellowed Mr. Hennessey, the proprietor. They'd known one another for years, ever since he'd stumbled on the place quite by accident after school one day. Not much of a reader at the time, he'd ducked into the shop to dodge a sudden thunderstorm. Mr. Hennessey, who seemingly hadn't changed one bit in the ensuing decades, welcomed the seventh grader out of the rain and started him on a lifelong love affair with words.

After exchanging a few more pleasantries, Hennessey showed him the two volumes he'd set aside, just for this special customer. The first was an original copy of "The Pearl", volume 1, issue 2, from August 1897. This glorious, risqué, underground erotic magazine lasted only eighteen months, but contained serialized versions of six of the most renowned erotic novels of the era. Though slightly tattered, yellowed with age, and extremely fragile, he was thrilled to hold an original in his hands. Having long since read each of the issues in reprint, his delight was in the appreciation of the magazine itself, rather than the content.

The second volume had a relation to "The Pearl", in that it had been first published in that magazine. This copy of "Miss Coote's Confession" couldn't rightly be called "original" but the flyleaf dated it to 1903, with a London publisher's mark.

"As always, I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Hennessey. These are incredible. Would you be so kind as to hold them here at your counter, while I prowl a bit'?" he asked.

He spent the next several hours slowly wandering up one crowded aisle and down the next. While Hennessey maintained an order to the shop, grouping books into like categories (classics, Old Masters, early 20"' century, modern, French, etc.), the sheer quantity of volumes made some intermingling inevitable. In addition, he had very varied tastes, so that treasures might be found nearly anywhere, in any category, in several languages.

Each book that caught his eye captured also his undivided attention, at least for a while. Spotting a favored author, or an interesting title, he'd pull the book from the shelf and lay the spine in the palm of his right hand. With the fingers of his favored left hand, he often ran his fingertips over the binding, taking in the feel of the pebbled leather, and the rise of the embossed lettering. Lifting open the cover gently, he examined each page for original markings, and for hated graffiti or underlining. Though he preferred virgin texts, he often made exceptions for those with heartfelt, sincere dedications, handwritten by a long ago purchaser to his or her intended recipient. "To my dearest Emily, may the wondrous worlds within these pages help occupy your hours until we are once again reunited"; "Rodsworth, with affection, Father"

He found several other interesting books, much less valuable or exciting as those Mr. Hennessey had set aside, and left the bookstore with a smile and a bounce in his step after paying for them all. Just as he reached for the doorknob, he heard Hennessey call out.

"Wait one more minute, my boy. Certainly you don't think I've forgotten what today is, now do you? Dear me, no, no, no. That would never do."

He turned to see his old friend holding a gaily-wrapped package and beaming broadly. He returned to the counter, slightly embarrassed but secretly pleased as well. Nothing would do for Hennessey but that he unwrap the gift immediately, and so he did. He gasped when he found inside the remaining 17 issues of "The Pearl", each matching the one he had just now purchased. Individually, each was worth only fifteen or twenty dollars, but a complete, matched set could reach nearly one thousand at auction, in good condition.

"My dear old friend, I'm speech-bound. I cannot express my gratitude, but clearly I cannot accept such a generous gift. This is too much, too much" he said with a crack in his voice.

Hennessey giggled and said "Don't be silly. You'll absolutely accept if because I know of no one else who will love and appreciate them as will you. These treasures are not ours to own, but only to safe-keep for future generations. Besides, I got them for a steal from someone with no earthly idea what he had and not brains enough to care to learn! Should he have had either I would most happily have helped to educate him and offered a firm, though good, deal. I am not, however, in the business of salvation of dullards!"

With a laugh, a hearty handshake, and a loving bearhug, he thanked his friend and mentor and headed out to the car.

He considered stopping by his favorite watering hole, but checked his watch and saw that it was already shortly after six. She typically liked to eat at seven, which gave him just enough time to get home, shower, shave again, and get dressed. Not knowing what she had in mind for the evening made it difficult to plan, so he decided he best head home so he'd be certain to have enough time for whatever he needed to do.

He popped Norah Jones' "Come Away with Me" into the cd player and cruised home to her interpretation of the mostly sexy torch songs. Smooth and sweet, like jazz with a more personal touch, the music helped him mellow out and heightened his curiosity about what lie ahead.

Pulling up to his drive he immediately burst out into laughter. The entire front of his house, yard, driveway, and garage door was covered in decorations...mostly black crepe paper. "Lordy, Lordy, Look Who's Forty!" shouted a huge sign held up by a cackling witch standing in the center of his lawn. Black and white balloons were tied to every possible anchor point and a Styrofoam grave marker proclaimed "Over the Hill... R.l.P."

He parked the Porsche in the garage and entered through the connecting door. As he walked into the living room she greeted him with a drink in her hand and little else. Spike heels, a dental floss thong, black demi-bra exposing nearly all her breasts, and a lacy black "French maid's" apron were all she wore. Well, that and a grin stretching from ear to ear.

Taking the drink, he wrapped his free arm around her and they kissed deeply. Breaking off, he sipped the drink, pulling an ice cube into his mouth, then leaned down and took her nipple between his lips, using his tongue to press the ice cube against it.

"Ohhhhh, you bastard, that's cold! Do me more." She loved ice games and he knew it. For reasons she'd never bothered to try to understand, ice on her nipples, ear lobes, or pussy drove her insane, made her hot and horny. This time was no exception, but she had plans.

"Okay, that's enough...for real. Go get your shower while I finish the hors d'oeuvres."

Pouting mostly for effect, he let her go and said "Okay, babe. What should I wear?"

"I'II put something out for you while you clean up. Now go!"

Taking his drink with him, he headed into the master suite, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. Setting the glass on the vanity, he turned on the shower and adjusted the temperature while he finished undressing. Satisfied, he tossed his clothes in the hamper and stepped into the shower.

After lathering and rinsing his body - paying particular attention to his private parts - - he shampooed his hair, rinsed it out and rubbed conditioner in. Taking the shave cream from the shelf, he lathered his face, grabbed his razor and turned to the "fogless" mirror on the back wall of the shower. Softened from the steam and heat, his five o'clock shadow was no match for the sharp razor. In just a few minutes his face felt smooth and clean to his touch.

Turning off the shower, he reached for a towel and began to dry off. He grabbed the blow dryer and dried and styled his hair. Taking his favorite scent, he sprayed a mist into the air and walked slowly through it on his way out to the bedroom to get dressed.

Laying across the bed that had been clear when he entered the bath were a pair of slim fit short black silk boxers and a beautiful short silk robe with an elaborate, multicolored Oriental print. Smiling, he slipped into them, picked up his drink, and went out to the living room, filled now with platters of snacks and lit only by a few candles and a blazing fire.

She was sitting on the floor in front of the fire, holding his drink when he entered. He sat down beside her and leaned over to give her a kiss and took her breast in his hand at the same time. She uttered a low "mmmmm" and leaned into him. Their tongues began exploring one another, darting out and flicking across each other's lips. His palm scribed circles over her nipple, coaxing it erect for his fingers.