Monthly Archives: December 2011

The Gift

Standard

The group was large, tables had been pushed together to accommodate them. A few wrapped packages and a cake box explained the party atmosphere. It was obvious who the guest of honor was, she kept having drinks set before her, which she accepted, it was her birthday, after all.
Across the restaurant, alone at the end of the bar, a man sat, unnoticed by the group of friends and family singing “Happy Birthday.” Well, except for one of them, the birthday girl herself. She saw him, had smiled as she would have any friendly face. He watched the group, but not enough to be creepy. He ate his burger, watched the TV screen above the bar, tapped his foot to the jukebox.
“Shar, are you having a good birthday?” her husband asked.
“Yes, a really good one,” she told him, eating cake, served with champagne. “It’s been fun, hasn’t it?”
“Yeah, but I’m ready to go home.”
She looked around at her friends and family gathered at the table. They were all laughing, talking, eating, she didn’t want leave. Her glance took in the tall man at the bar. He caught her eye, held her gaze for just a moment.
“Can’t we stay just a little longer? We never go out, we never do anything.” As she said the words, she realized she didn’t really care if he stayed or not. She was enjoying herself, although he was hardly talking to her.
“Look, why don’t you go on home,” she suggested. “I can get someone to drop me off later.” A couple of the people there were not drinking, designated drivers. Her eyes drifted to the man at the bar.
He talked casually to the bartender and a couple of drinkers, smiling, laughing, but it was obvious he was not a “regular.” He sat facing the tables, his view of the birthday celebration unobstructed. If anyone knew him, or watched him, they may have realized he was taking a bit more than casual notice of the table, especially of the guest of honor. When she laughed, he smiled, even if he wasn’t looking at her. He occasionally closed his eyes, as if he was concentrating, listening, but it was only for a few seconds at a time.
And Sharon was looking at the stranger at the bar more than she did any of the other patrons of the restaurant. Her husband did not notice, if anyone else at the table did, they didn’t ask her about it.
“I don’t want to leave you here on your birthday,” her husband told her. He turned to face her, pulling her face to him to kiss her mouth. “Don’t you want to go home with me? C’mon, you didn’t wear that skirt because you want to sit here with your sister all night.”
He was right, she had not worn the skirt, so short she was afraid to bend over, with seamed stockings and fuck-me-pumps, for the benefit of her family, or the friends from the office. She had hoped there would be an extra guest at the restaurant that night, a tall man with a relaxed smile, someone who no one else knew, a stranger who acted as if he knew the people eating and drinking in the restaurant. A man who would without doubt notice her skirt, who would express his wish for her happiness on her birthday privately, who would make sure she remembered.
Her husband put his arm around her waist, nuzzled her neck, whispered into her ear.
“Let’s go home, I’ll make you glad you did. Let me make love to you on your birthday, please baby, please.”
What could she do? She could think of no excuse to stay, no reason she shouldn’t go home with her husband, nothing she could say that would enable her to stay here, where there was a man at the bar that no one knew.
No one except her. Sharon knew him. So well that she could feel him from 20 feet away. She knew what his breath tasted like, when she looked at him she could hear it. She could feel the vibration of him, sitting so close to her, she could smell him, feel his skin under her fingers. She knew, with only a glance so quick no one noticed, that he heard everything she said, that he was acutely aware of her, as she was of him. She knew he was hard, even as he seemed to watch the TV above the bar.
They did not speak, did not even acknowledge each other, there was no need.
From the moment she had seen him, casually talking to the people at the bar, her body had reacted. She had had to steady her hands, slow her breathing. But there had been no way to completely stop herself, there hadn’t been since the first time she had seen him. Her legs under the table felt strange, her belly tightened. She realized she was wet, powerless to stop her pussy from readying for him, crying for him. She thought she could smell her own arousal, she imagined he could smell it as well.
But now, it seemed there would be no release, her husband was gone to pay the check and get their coats, was in fact standing next to him at the bar. They chatted, her husband nodded toward the table, telling the stranger at the bar the birthday girl was his wife. As her husband waited for his credit card to be charged, the tall man walked past her on the way to the restrooms. When he was next to her table, he casually slowed, smiled.
“Happy Birthday,” he told her. The air left her lungs, she was, for a split second, paralyzed. She felt her cheeks burn, her pulse thumped in her ears.
“Thank you,” Sharon told him, her voice sounded strange in her ears. The women at the table smiled at him, sat up a little straighter, interest sharpening their features. But he kept walking, stopping at the jukebox, a digital monitor hanging on the wall. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him, his hand on the top of the machine as he touched the screen to page through the selections. He looked for no more than 30 seconds, played no music, and walked on to the restroom.
Sharon started gathering her presents, saying her goodbyes. As she did this, she walked over to the jukebox and picked up a small piece of paper, smaller than a business card, that was on top of the monitor.
“I want to hear you come,” was written so faintly it was barely legible. She shoved the note into her coat pocket along with her cell phone. She swayed on her feet, the effects of the drinks and the words on the scrap of paper combining to make her dizzy, disoriented. She took a breath, shook her head as if to clear it, and walked out with her husband.
As he drove home, Sharon kept her hand in her coat pocket, the note wrapped around her cell phone. She closed her eyes, thinking of the eyes of a man that would come to a bar where he knows no one, who wished her a happy birthday as casually as he would any stranger. She thought of his face, his mouth on hers, swallowing the shouts of her orgasm, joy in his eyes as she came under him, grinding into him, her arms and legs and cunt clutching his body down on hers.
“I want to hear you come.”
He had heard her come, many times. He knew what it sounded like — crying out, no words, just sound, her voice. It was the sound of release, of letting go, heedless of being heard. He loved it, he told her, loved when she gave that to him, surrendered.
They drove through the night, lights flashing like strobes on their faces. Sharon sat sideways, facing her husband, closed her eyes and put her feet in his lap. He reached down and slipped her shoes off, ran his hand up her leg and under her skirt. She scooted down in the seat, let her legs fall apart, listening to the radio, Bruce asking if her daddy was home. “Can he do to you the things that I do?” the Boss asked. ‘No, he can’t,’ Sharon thought. ‘Nobody does.’
Her husband’s hand pushed her panties aside, his finger slipped into the slit of her pussy.
“At night I wake up with the sheets soakin’ wet,” Springsteen told them, and Sharon thought of sheets wet underneath her, soaked through by hours of fucking, sticking to her ass and thighs. She lifted herself up off the seat, just a little, her husband took advantage of the encouragement, sliding a finger into her, two, three. She heard herself gasp, breath catching in her throat.
The car pulled into the driveway, both Sharon and her husband trying to regroup. Leaving her gifts and leftover cake in the car, she ran barefoot into the house, not bother to turn on the lights.
Her hand was still in her coat pocket, clutching her phone. She opened it, found the preprogrammed button and dialed, did not speak into it. Walking into the bedroom, she laid her phone on the nightstand, making sure it was facing the bed. When her husband closed the bedroom door, she faced him, shoved her tongue down his throat, cutting off any conversation. He pulled her blouse over her head as she unbuckled his belt, pulled his jeans down.
“Baby, slow down,” her husband said. “We aren’t in any hurry are we? We’ve got all night. Why so rough?”
“I just want it, now,” she told him, she could hear the demanding tone in her words. She thought of a man, a stranger to her husband, somewhere with his phone held to his ear, eyes closed, listening to a voice both familiar and strange. She thought of him hard, his hand unbuttoning his jeans, pulling out his dick, all the while listening.
“I have just wanted this since we were in the restaurant,” she told her husband. “You fingering me in the car, I’m so hot, please, please, fuck me, make me come.”
She walked to the bed, her side of the bed, facing the headboard, inches from her cell phone. She thought of her lover, writing his request at the bar, leaving it for her to find, knowing she would give it to him, whatever he wanted. Knowing she would be thinking of him while her husband pounded her, climbing into bed with the two of them as surely as if he were laying beside them.
Sharon’s husband put his arms around her, kissing her softly, his hand cupping her breast, bending down to suck her nipple. She pulled his head up, broke out of his embrace and turned away from him, climbing onto the mattress on her hands and knees. She pulled up the skirt she hadn’t bothered to take off, arched her back so her cunt was exposed in the light coming through the window from the street.
“C’mon, c’mon,” not asking, demanding. “Give it to me, now.”
Her husband knew the slow lovemaking he had planned was not to happen, Sharon left no doubt she wanted fucked, not kissed and coddled. He grabbed her hips and shoved himself into her, holding himself still for a moment, until she started rocking forward and back, slamming her ass into his pelvis, the motion pushing the air from her lungs with a grunt.
“Hard, hard hard hard,” she told him, her teeth clenched. She pushed back against him, panting, “Uh, uh, uh,” with each stroke. Her hands balled the sheets up, she used this for leverage, almost knocking her husband back, off his feet.
Sharon squeezed her eyes closed, her lover behind his lids, listening, his hand around his cock, sitting somewhere in the dark and yet here with her, making her come as surely as the dick in her pussy.
“What brought this on?” her husband ask, struggling to stand up at the edge of the bed. “Just me telling you I wanted to bring you home? Fooling around in the car?”
The Springsteen song came back then, his voice a high pitched ‘whoo-hoo’ on top of a tempo she matched as she crashed back into her husband’s dick, a slapping sound filling the room. She could see her lover’s face, hearing the smacks, his dick growing in his hand, she could feel him stroking himself, felt her orgasm flood into her from her belly and her thighs and her nipples brushing against the bed.
She opened her mouth, and let it come out, a wail, a shout, like a banshee howling into the wind.
“Oh, oooooooh, coming, coming for you, for you,” she cried out. “Coming so hard for you, love. Do you hear me?”
“Yeah, baby,” her husband grunted, holding her onto his dick as he came, squirting into her. “I hear you Sharon, I know, I can feel you coming.”
She stayed like that, pushed up against her husband’s body, as his dick jerked, stilled. She collapsed onto the bed, catching her breath. Her husband laid down next to her, laid his arm across her back. She turned, facing away from him, toward her bedside table.
“How was that?” she said.
“Wild,” her husband answered her. “Your birthday seems to have done something to you this year. I think you gave me a gift tonight.”
“I hope you liked it,” she said. “My present to you, and myself.”
Sharon reached over and silently closed her phone, curling herself into a fetal position, falling asleep. Juices seeped from her twat onto the sheet, she felt them soak into the bed. She thought of Springsteens soaking sheets and smiled.
‘Happy birthday to me,’ she thought.