The Birthday Party 16

The azure haze of early summer sunset crept upon us stealthily, tip-toeing its way into our midst as we talked and drank and laughed the afternoon away. It wasn't until dusk was almost upon us that we realized that the light had shifted hue from the gold of afternoon to the blue of evening.

The barbecue grill was still hot and the air of char grilled beef and fresh cut watermelon filled the yard. Your birthday cake was little more than crumbs.

We sat in lawn chairs and nursed our drinks. The large plastic table held a wide collection of finished bottles, dirty plates and half-eaten burgers. You sat on my left with your hands wrapped around the base of your beer, resting them in your lap.

You wore something 'picnicky' as you put it -- cheap sandals that showed off your painted toes, a tight crimson wife beater t-shirt, and a denim skirt that appeared to have been resurrected from a Motley Crue video. It was far too short, barely covering your ass. The t-shirt was just a bit too tight as well, and the lace outlines of your bra could easily be seen.

As always, you enjoyed the attention your outfit brought. Today you were in heaven -- my friend had invited her brother and his fraternity friends. Despite their disheveled hair, woeful nicknames and boyish antics, they were still men -- young men, but men nonetheless. I caught you more than once eyeing the lines of their shoulders, tanned legs and thighs. You were aware of being watched, and glanced away, grinning as you took a long swig of beer.

It was a game we played -- we both liked to look, as long as we remembered the rules. Looking was fine, but no touching without the other's consent. I enjoyed showing off your body, so it wasn't a terribly hard bargain if you asked if you could flash your tits to a truck driving by or take your panties off at a concert in plain view of some hunk you wanted to tease.

Of course, it was still a bargain. You had to barter something in return. Usually you came up with an offer I couldn't refuse. Like the long car ride along the coast where you wanted to show off for the bikers that were riding in the lane next to us.

You unbuckled your belt, leaned close to my ear and whispered.

"Can I show these guys my pussy while I suck your cock?"

How could I refuse while you pulled your skirt to your waist, pulled your panties off, and turned in the seat to present your ass for them to watch as you wrap your lips around my shaft? How could I not slow down to keep pace with them? I even lowered the window so one of them could make a passing grab at your cheeks. He missed unfortunately... however I could tell that his finger stroked your cute little asshole by the way dug your nails into my thighs and moaned around my cock.

Your hard laughter brought me back to the present, spreading your legs as you doubled over. Your hips had slid low in the chair, putting your cheeks at the edge. As your torso bellowed and peals of lingering giggles rippled through you, your skirt rode up until it was high on your thighs.

As you sat back, you glanced down at it and then across at the football player. He held his cup close to his lips, not drinking it. He paused unnaturally before raising his eyebrows at you, curiously.

You took another long swig of beer and raised your eyebrows twice in response, acknowledging that forgetting to fix your skirt was no accident.

In contrast to your outfit, your panties were simple blue cotton. Soft and snug. I could make out in the light that there was just a small crescent of darker blue running down the triangle. I rolled my eyes. You are such a fucking slut... it doesn't take much to make your cunt wet, even sitting at a table among our friends.

I glanced over at the football player again. He lowered his cup on top of his left hand, which rested in his crotch. As he moved it to the side you followed it as it rested unnaturally high -- as if he were holding it only by the base. He looked up at you then back down again as the cup rose and fell, apparently without him adjusting his grip.

I realized that his left hand must be cupped around his cock, which was straining against his loose shorts. He had rested the cup on tented mound and was bouncing it to show you how hard he was. You bit your lip and nodded confirmation, then glanced over at me.

I pretended not to notice, looking instead at our hostess who continued on with her story.

The football player mumbled that he needed a 'refill'. He leaned forward and picked up some empty bottles on the ground as he rose. His position hid his hardness as he tossed the trash away on his way to the keg at the other side of the house.

You raised your own bottle and quickly downed it.

"Looks like I need to fill up too!" you chirped, before standing.

"You want anything?" you looked down at me, batting your eyes innocently.

"Yeah... I'll get it in a bit though." I replied, holding your gaze.

You chuckle and place your hand lightly on my shoulder, trailing across my back as you kick off your sandals to walk barefoot across the grass, swaying your ass as you go.

I watch you walk, admiring how you trail your toes through the grass, letting the tiny blades tickle the spaces between. You revel in your sensuality, embracing all the hidden delicacies and decadence that life offers.

I wait a few minutes after you've passed out of sight before rising to follow. The story is still going strong with no sign of ending. Our host is a good storyteller and no one wants to miss out on what happens next.

As I walk quietly around the corner, at first everything seems normal. You stand with your back to me. The college boy is pumping the top of the keg, handing you the hose to fill your... cup? That's when I notice that your feet are planted wide and the front of your skirt is bunched up.

"Almost there... almost there..." you urge him whimpering.

He's bent over the keg, furiously pumping the piston to build up pressure. I follow the length of the hose to see that you're holding to your crotch, where the tip has been inserted to your pussy. Your discarded panties lie next to the keg. A trickle of beer runs down your thigh.

Instinct or paranoia causes you to look over your shoulder at open your mouth wide in a mocking smile as you see me.

"Now...Billy, now!"

"It's Bobby." He corrects you in cracked voice.

"I don't care what the fuck your name is...just open your fucking mouth" you hiss as you grab the him by the hair and pull his face below to your pussy.

He opens his mouth as you yank the tip of the hose from your cunt. A stream of foam and beer sprays from your slit. He catches some but most sprays across your legs and the front of his shirt.

You glance down at him with disdain then look back at me again.

"You like that you dirty little shit??" you ask him. He nods vigorously swallowing his mouthful of beer, He leans forward as the stream slows, trying to follow your cunt fountain to its source.

You watch as his mouth nears your pussy, looking back at me -- daring me to speak.

To intervene.

I fold my arms and frown. You mouth one word slowly. "Please?"

I shake my head, denying you.

A moment before his mouth would have found your clit, you step back and slap him across the face with a resounding crack.

He looks stunned as you pull down your skirt and snatch up your discarded panties.

He swallows hard as he sees me. I recognize the look in his eyes -- behavioral psychologists called it a 'fight or flight' response. He knows we're together, and that I just caught him trying to lick your cunt. Montages of Rocky and Vin Diesel flicker through his mind as he considers the possibility that if he conquered me in front of you. You would fall swooning at his feet, tossing your clothes aside and worshiping his cock as if it were your one and only.

He stands and his hands curl to fists. He's in the wrong and on some level he knows it. You've teased him past the point of reason however. He's intoxicated on a cocktail of testosterone, beer, and the courage that only ignorant youth brings.

As he steps forward, he's boldened by the apparent advantage his size brings. He's an athlete, large for his size and confident sheer mass and size are on his side. You step aside as he moves past.

I glance at you. Your mouth is open as if to issue a warning. It's not clear if it's for me or for him. Then you close your mouth and look at me intently, the ghost of a smile haunting your lips.

Ah. So this is what you want then. A little blood sport?

"What the fuck are you looking at?" the young man-mountain demands, pointing at me.

I sigh wearily. "Let it go kid. Just go back to the party and forget about this."

I turn away from him to you, uncrossing my arms.

"Get cleaned up, Shannon."

"Hey! I'm talking to you asshole!" he sneers "She's not going anywhere."

I turn to him again. Waiting.

The thing about fighting is that most people expect it to happen like it does in the movies -- from some third person perspective, where there are ballet like kicks and jabs and choreographed grapples. Rousing theme music and breaking glass. Dozens of fisticuff salvos shrugged off before a critical blow is struck.

Real fights are quick and blurry. Like looking through a telescope while running over uneven ground. Sound fades away, almost as if you're moving through a vacuum and all that exists is that what's in front of you and that hazy tunnel. Some soldiers call it "fog of war" -- where you only see what's about to get you.

In this case, it wasn't a war. It was just some stupid frat boy who didn't know enough to be embarrassed by getting caught with his hand in your cookie jar and substituted a blush for a poorly executed right hook. I side stepped it easily; as I did with the clumsy left he followed it with. He leaned forward as he threw each punch, like he was trying to regain his balance by shifting his weight onto mine.

I knew you were watching, but I didn't see any point in showing off unnecessarily. As he swung his shoulder back preparing to throw another wooden right, I stepped forward and jabbed a short shot at his stomach. My knuckles pushed into the soft delta where ribs meet solar plexus. He gurgled and coughed wetly before his knees began to buckle. He swayed like a drunken sailor carrying an armful of firewood, wobbling back and forth wind-milling one heavy limb while the other grabbed at his stomach.

The punch would have snatched the breath from someone who had been sober. However, he'd been in the sun all day and had drunk heavily over the last few hours. And the last few minutes, ironically. I pushed his left shoulder lightly forward and his body followed turning to the side a moment before he heaved a gutful of half-digested burgers and guacamole dip onto the vinyl siding.

He looked back at me accusingly and even as he spit a mouthful of bile he was turning back for more.

Great. Add hubris and an unhealthy level of familarity with vomiting to his list of character flaws.

As he began to right himself I slid in close and hit him with a low left hook to the stomach, doubling him over again and finishing what gravity had started. He slid to his knees and collapsed to a ball on the ground. Taking a hard shot to the gut after you've just finished regurgitating your Sunday afternoon would take the fight out of almost anybody, and Bobby the football player was no exception. Or was his name Billy...? Not that it mattered.

He gasped for air and dry heaved.

I grabbed him under the arm and tugged him to his feet, leading him over to the nearby steps.

"Get him some water" I called out.

You fished one from the cooler and removed the cap before handing it to me. I pressed it into his hand, wrapping his limp fingers around it.

I patted him on the shoulder "Drink this, kid."

He looked up at me, confused and bleary eyed as he coughed and sputtered.

"It'll be alright... You just haven't had to take too many punches before, huh? Just shake it off. It'll pass soon enough. Next time don't be such a dumbass."

He took a long gulp of water and hung his head low, unmoving.

I turned back to you. You had your panties crumpled into a ball in your fist, the other hand tugging at the hem of your skirt nervously. You turned your head low and looked away trying to hide your smile.

"Get your ass inside Shannon.. and for fuck's sake get cleaned up."

You skip up the stairs and disappear into the house as I pat again the kid on his heavily muscled shoulder. "It's alright. Just head back to the party when you feel better." He nods slowly as I climb the steps into the house.

The kitchen is in chaos. Erica's lived here for almost six months, but she hasn't really had a chance ot unpack. There are boxes everywhere. I spot a carton marked "Grilling Tools" and open it. Rummaging inside, I pull out a heavy dun colored apron with a selction of cooking implements -- a meat tenderizer, a pair of tongs with spring clips and a heavy wooden handled stainless steel spatula. I withdraw the last and swat my hand to test its heft. Satisfied, I grab the bundle before following the sounds of running water upstairs.

The bedroom has a bare mattress laid on the floor and little else. Your clothes are in a heap on the bathroom floor. I toss the grill spatula and the full apron onto the mattress and walk into the bathroom. There is no curtain nor bath supplies so you simply pirouette under the water letting it flow over you, as you turn slowly. You're clearing up the scene of the crime, washing the evidence from your skin.

You turn to me as I lean against the counter watching. You place one foot in the soap holder and hunch your hips forward so the water can spray directly on your pussy, where the last vestiges of foam cling to your trimmed bush. You slide two fingers from each hand inside yourself and tug, allowing the spray to cleanse the entrance to your cunt. You writhe, riding the water stream for a long minute until I clear my throat. You shrug apologetically before turning the water off.

I walk back into the bedroom as you step out of the shower. As you use your hands to wipe the water from your frame, you watch me crook my finger, gesturing for you to come out.

Your eyes immediately go to the spatula on the bed as you watch me take off my watch and roll up my sleeves. You know what's coming.

Your words flow quickly, faux apology flowing forth in a long stream "I didn't let him touch me. I slapped him when he tried. If you hadn't come around the corner I still wouldn't have let him touch me. There's no need t-"

Ignoring your words I gab your wet hair and drag you to the bed before throwing you down. Your arms reach out to soften your fall as you landheavily. You turn your head to speak.

"J, honestly... what th-"

"I don't want to hear it. You didn't ask permission!" I interrupt, grabbing your wrist to turn you roughly to face me.

You turn your head so that your wet hair masks you. You don't want me to see the smile on your face. You're caught. On some level you hoped all along that I would catch you. All day you've been flirting -- waiting until I'm almost out of earshot -- almost -- before making flirtatious comments.

"Oh you're so big and strong."

I whisper mockingly, repeating your earlier comments as my fingers grab hold of your stiff nipples and pinch them hard enough to make you wince.

"Don't you have a girlfriend?"

I tug on your nipples, pulling them until the skin is taught then releasing them. The pain fades for a second before it returns sharper as my palm slaps your breast roughly -- first the right, then the left.

"I bet all the girls love what you've got."

Smack Smack

Each stroke makes your cunt throb. You can feel the heat rising from inside your core. It's enough to make you melt, but you know I'm capable of much more. You raise your head and shake the wet strands of your hair from your face.

"I wonder if he's free on Friday?" you taunt me, knowing that I have to go out of town for business this weekend.

I growl and wrap my hand around your soft throat, grabbing the back of your knee with the other. I lift your legs until they are straight up, your back flat on the rough mattress. I squeeze your throat slightly, restricting your airflow. You look up at me defiantly.

"Hold your legs up."

You shake your head.

I tighten my grip, and slap your tits hard. You kick your knees at me and writhe back and forth. But you don't make any attempt to grab my hand. Rather your fingers claw at the bed, and squeeze the sides of your ass. You're fighting not to give in. I slap your tits twice more before you finally wrap your forearms around the back of your thighs.

My grip relaxes as you gasp for breath.

I grab the spatula and hold it in front of your face. Your breath causes the shiny stainless steel to fog and clear. Fog and clear.

"Lick it, Shannon."

Your dainty pink tongue darts forth as you give the flat surface a quick lick. I raise the spatula high and pause dramatically, letting you savor the moment before the stroke comes.

You're not disappointed when it does.

SMACK

The hard steel strikes the soft flesh just below the cheeks of your ass -- the flat center slamming against your mound as it peeks from between your globes. You whimper.

"One" you count aloud.

I return the spatula to your lips and look at you expectantly. Your tongue licks the metal again as you prepare it for it's next stroke.

SMACK

"...two"

Lick.

SMACK

"...three"

Lick.

SMACK

Lick.

"...four"

SMACK

Lick.

"...five"

Lick.

The fifth time your tongue touches the metal, its slick but not from your saliva. You can taste yourself -- your juices on the metal. Sweet with a slight metallic tang -- as if your cunt flesh is marinating -- being tenderized by my strokes.

"...fuck... Six."

Lick.

"...Seven"

Lick.

"How old are you today, Shannon?" I say mockingly.

"..thirty...three" you pant.

"Then we only have twenty-six more to go. Happy fucking birthday."

As the spatula comes down you think...

This sure beats blowing out the candles...