Being Quiet at the Party

You give me a glance, cast across the dim room, over glasses full of wine and punch, through conversations of oh, isn't business booming? and yes, we really must golf when the weather is better, under the fluorescent lights, switched off for the occasion of the holiday party. I meet your eyes when I feel your gaze, but I look away immediately. No, I don't know what to do with you. It's easier to mingle.

I sip and stroll, feeling like I'm skating across the surface of the party. I'm only here to shake hands and make nice; I'd rather be fucking. Thinking this makes me smirk into my wine as I make small talk with the head of some department or other. If only she knew.

So, when your hand brushes the small of my back and you whisper close to my ear to say, "I know what you're thinking," I find myself at a loss for words. Resorting to superiority, I merely raise my eyebrows at you, hoping my blush is lost in the dim light.

With a deft, "Excuse us," to my conversational companion, you take my hand and pull me toward a sliding door. It leads to a bare courtyard, paved with cement and decorated with a handful of plastic planters. As a nod the distant possibility that people might make use of it, there are two wooden benches, slightly rickety. The only light is the meager glow spilling out the sliding doors, and the courtyard is empty.

I feel as though I've left my voice behind in the party. Maybe it's continuing its mingling in my absence, inserting witty repartees into conversations on my behalf. But it leaves me at a loss for how to ask you what you have in mind. I fall back on raising my eyebrows again. You laugh softly, making me shiver.

You draw me behind you into a pocket of shadow, hidden behind one of the planters, obscured by darkness and foliage. I open my mouth to ask, but before I can form the words, your hand pulls me past you, and you push me up against the wall, so I feel the brick against my cheek and your other hand on my neck. "Shut up," you mutter harshly in my ear. "You don't really want to talk, anyway."

I moan. Squirming against the brick makes me hyperaware of every inch of my skin, and I imagine the wall is another person you've invited to fuck me. Your hands slide down to my wrists and push my arms up above my head, while you tease me with the brushing caress of your chest against my shoulder blades, your hips against my ass, your knee grazing lightly between my legs, which I obligingly spread, wanting more.

My nipples stiffen against the rough wall, and suddenly, my entire body is on fire. I can't hold still, so I press myself back against you, wanting to feel your whole body against mine, wanting to strip down and feel hot skin on skin in the cool air. "Where do you think you're going, bitch?" you laugh, pulling away and pressing me back against the wall with your hand in the middle of my back. I could swear the only things holding me up are your hand and the cold bricks.

You kick my legs apart and reach down between my legs, tracing your fingers up my inner thigh. My cunt swells in anticipation of your fingers, but you like to tease me, lightly skimming the wet silk before bringing both your hands to my thighs and scratching, hard, up to my hips, making me cry out with surprise and a deep stab of pleasure.

"Shh!" I'm shivering against you as we hear other footsteps enter the courtyard. You press me hard into the wall and lean down to bite my neck, making me want to groan, but, instead, I simply clench my fists, scraping my fingers on the wall. You slide your hand down my back again, and this time, you let your fingers slip past the elastic of my panties and right into my slick pussy. I find myself biting my own shoulder to stay quiet while you oh so slowly fuck me with your hand.

Voices continue to talk about the stock market and who the hell knows what behind us, and I hope the shadow and the tree are enough to keep us hidden, if I can keep quiet. But your fingers in me are rapidly driving me beyond conscious thought. I arch my ass up, wanting more of you inside me, and you oblige, adding a third finger and a deep thrust. My legs buckle, and now I am only standing thanks to the wall and your hands.

With your fingers still deep in my cunt, you wrap your other hand around my mouth, just as I give in to the first convulsive jerk of my orgasm. I bite the flesh of your palm hard, gasping, while you push your fingers into me again and again, making me want to scream. I'm dimly aware of footsteps retreating back into the party while I slide into another blazing orgasm at your fingers' beck and call.

"Maybe this party wasn't so bad, after all," you say dryly, "But I still think my idea for the evening was better."