Happy Birthday

Being stoned like this feels good. Really, it is being stoned like this with him that feels good. I exhale a thick cloud of smoke and lay my head on his lap, passing the glass pipe. Beach House is playing quietly in the background, sounding foggy and far away. It was a great party, but we are the only ones still awake. I close my eyes and hum, "in a matter of time, you would slip from my mind..."

He pats my stomach gently. "I'm getting tired, babe." I sit up and nod. A quick survey of where people have fallen asleep around the house, and we wordlessly agree to climb into the same bed. We're stoned, it's late. We don't want to wake anyone else. No harm.

I can't help the way my body slides next to him as we cuddle under the cool, white sheets. His hand immediately finds the small of my back, and my face burrows into his strong, lean chest. Without thinking, I kiss his torso lightly, and he responds by kissing me on the top of my head. I murmur, a sound of childlike contentment, a feeling of safety and pleasure. I feel his whole body smile and he squeezes me tighter, his hands drifting down my back, testing his boundaries.

I lift his hand just before it reaches my ass - "behave," I tell him, laughing but firm. I betray my words almost immediately; rather than place his hands back in a location on my body I would consider safe, I slide my fingers up and entangle them with his. He squeezes my hand and even that simple gesture sends a surge through me. We lay for a while, just breathing.

The truth is, none of this is safe, and we both know it. It seemed so manageable, easy even, to just enjoy one another's company as friends earlier that night. But now, with the rest of the house asleep, without even thinking, here we are, our hearts beating in rhythm, the realities of the world shut out by the dark, moonless night.

I shift, turning my back to him, but I do not let go of his hand and we spoon quite naturally. He is taller than me, and leans his head in to nuzzle even closer. His breath on the back of my neck is not purposeful, but it gets me all the same. Each exhalation is another electric surge. I let go of our grasp and slide his hand slowly down my abdomen. He is a gentleman, but this is all the signal he needs.

His fingers trace up my side, slowly, but with purpose now. He stops at my ribcage, just under my breast. I am tingling, and wrap my foot around his ankle underneath the sheets, saying yes. He finds his way under my shirt, the shirt I wore as a promise of decency, and he wastes no time. His thumb brushes over my nipple and I murmur again, but this time it is a hungry, searching sound which turns me around and in one fluid moment we are noses touching, clutching each other, and we kiss.

The kiss is an unleashing, and what happens next floods out of both of us with such a force that there isn't time to consider what's happening. My legs twist around his tightly and his hands, under my shirt, press into my back, pulling me closer to him. Our tongues are fighting, trying with a physiological impossibility to delve deeper inside one another's mouths. My nails dig into his hips and we are grinding, undulating, the sheets quickly a mess at our feet.

I could kiss him forever, but I sit up to my knees and pull my shirt over my head. I'm showing off, knowing how good they look, full and round but lifted, with my arms stretching up. His eyes drink me in for a moment, but we lose little momentum as he reaches up to my tiny pink nipples and pushes me back on the bed. The sheets are officially a lost cause - we are upside down, our feet dirtying the pillow, my long hair hanging over the edge of the bed.

He runs his smooth hands over my breasts, twisting my nipples until they harden, but it doesn't hurt, at least not yet. The cotton of his briefs are stretched, rubbing against my panties, which are a modest cut, an unremarkable blue plaid. I giggle a little at this, how I so consciously tried not to be provocative, but he muffles me with his lips, a deep, sensuous kiss. Unexpectedly, he twists my nipples, hard, but with his lips pressed on mine all I can do is moan deeply into his mouth and squirm. I grab at the back of his head, run my fingers through his short hair, trying to steady myself as he wills his power over my body. I haven't had a chance yet to tell him how sensitive I am there.

His firm tweaks turn into a softer caress, allowing me to catch my breath. His turn, I think. But my approach is less aggressive. Still kissing, still grinding like teenagers, I run my index finger gently up and down his spine - once, twice, teasing the waistband of his briefs on the third time. His fingers do not slow the circles they are tracing over my breasts, but his body is impatient, his pelvis thrusting wantingly into me, and finally I slip my hands underneath the fabric, my nails grazing what is undeniably a perfect ass. As if to goad me further, he reaches down and pulls on my hair, keeping me deep in this kiss, but more importantly shocking me into grabbing his ass, and he moans now too, affirming.

I push his briefs down over his ass, and feel him, warm and hard against my body. I break our kiss, scrape my nails down his chest to touch him. Even in the dim light of the room, the sight of him already so hard and eager makes me wet. I'm a good Jewish girl, and his is the only uncircumcised dick I've ever seen, but I don't think he can see me blush. I take him firmly in my hand and stroke slowly, our eyes locked on each other. I quicken my pace and he grasps at my hair again, exhaling in pleasure. He leans in as if to kiss me but his lips linger mere centimeters above mine. It appears he can tease, too.

He grabs my wrist and releases himself, pinning both my arms at my side as he kisses down the side of my neck, over my breasts, taking his time, flicking his tongue lightly over both nipples. Lowering his head, he bites gently at the skin of my stomach, my hips. He releases my wrists, but looks at me to make sure I know, that no, I am not to move. His finger runs over my damp underwear, from the crack of my ass all the way up. He gently kisses me over the fabric of my panties. I sigh, a sigh of real pleasure, and unconsciously open up for him, just slightly. Carefully, he dips under the fabric and slides one finger into me. I am tight, but slick. I have been waiting for this. As he touches me, he watches my face. I bite my lip and tug on my nipples as he looks on, ever the performer. He speeds up, presses a second finger into me. My back arches. He keeps a steady pace, sliding deeper and deeper into me, curling his fingers, searching for my G-Spot. He knows he's close; his fingers are coated beneath underwear that is now almost embarrassingly wet. My heavy breathing has become short whimpers in time with his movements. Just when I feel myself approaching the edge, he slides my panties off and tosses them aside. Finally I can open myself fully to him, and he buries his face between my legs. His tongue makes long, thorough strokes, twirls around my clit, plunges in and out of me, as if trying to taste something he'll never be able to reach. I am making low, guttural sounds now, which he seems to take as a sign. He hones in on my clit, kissing, licking, sucking, and slides two fingers back inside me, finding my spot again and working in a rhythm that causes my whole body to shake. My toes slide down his back. I bite into the back of my hand to keep from making noises that would wake the whole house. Impossibly, he picks up his pace, and before I know it I am grabbing at his hair, scratching his scalp, murmuring his name over and over until the shaking of my body subsides.

In some cases, this tremendous release could knock me out; I would be happily asleep in minutes. But no, he has ignited me.

I sit up and take his face in my hands, and when I kiss him hungrily, I taste myself. I grab his fingers too, licking them clean, insatiable. We embrace, his hands rubbing my shoulders, down my back. I love this because I am still shaking slightly, still sensitive all over, and his soft touch is just what my body wants. I wrap both my arms around his neck, press my flesh against his. He kisses my face, his teeth tug gently on my earlobe. We look into each other's eyes for a full, pregnant moment. And then smiling, I push him back onto the bed.

I can't describe the face he makes when I slide down onto him. I moan soft and low at the sweet feeling of being deeply penetrated. I grind my hips slowly, acclimating to the way he stretches me, but soon we are moving in rhythm, his hands on my hips, my fingers tracing down his arms, up his chest. He scratches his nails down my back and I whimper, closing my eyes. He fits so perfectly that before I can help myself I am undulating over him with what is approaching a reckless abandon. I bend down to him, the ends of my hair grazing his skin. Our bodies are warm, becoming slicked with sweat, and when I suck on his neck it is deliciously salty. He kisses me, holds me tightly, my breasts firmly pressed against him. I nip at his earlobe, and he responds by taking my breasts in his hands, sucking and biting as I ride him faster. Our eyes and hands and mouths travel all over each others bodies, gasping, breathy. There is a ferocity now to our touch. Every kiss is deeper, every bite less playful; the look in his eyes is determined.

He pulls me off of him forcefully, flipping me onto my back. He leans close to my face again, brushes back my hair, kissing my cheek, down my neck, my collarbone, my shoulder. It tickles, but I don't laugh, just moan softly, eyes closed. I feel his hot breath in my ear. "No," he whispers. "Look at me."

My gaze meets his, curious, and with unmoving eyes he enters me again, one fluid stroke, and I cry out. Instinctively I pull my knees up, wrapping my legs around him, but when I toss my head back, his hand strokes my face, bringing my eyes back to him. He's strong, and every stroke is thorough, controlled. I contract around him involuntarily. We have found our tempo, enveloped in each other, our cheeks brushing as he pushes into me over and over again. I grasp at his hair, his ears, the beautiful crest of his hipbones, my own hips bucking wildly to meet his thrusts. My teeth tug on his bottom lip, and he makes a noise so full of arousal and longing that I get butterflies in my stomach. Our foreheads slip off each other, slicked in sweat, and I bury my face in his chest, our bodies melting into themselves, a perfect energy spreading from our interlaced fingertips. With heavy breaths, it feels as though his every exhalation fills my lungs, and mine his. We are lost in each other, caught in that one perfect moment in between the ticks of the second hand, infinite and precarious all at once. He has me.

He approaches his climax. I want to feel you, I say. I need to. I plead this over and over again as he takes my body roughly. My flesh is as insistent as my words, giving him all of me, and the warm, wet, powerful force that he fills me with turns my whispered desperation into a scream of release. I grab tightly to him, scratch my nails down his back, moaning his name. Everything falls away.

He stays inside me, the air silent except for our slowing breaths. The hurried, rough need of our bodies is gone. "Happy birthday," I whisper, and he kisses me on the forehead before sliding carefully off and curling himself against me, which is how we stay as we both fall asleep.