Valentine's Day Birthday Service

My birthday falls on Valentine's Day and so presents from my husband, Steve, tend to fall into the "romantic/risqué genre." This year, Steve knew that he would be out of town, so he craftily enlisted the aid of my favorite work husband, Mark, to deliver the presents, and bring me coffee in bed-a family tradition.

Mark is rather gorgeous, but we spend so much time together, each on headsets, one of us at my kitchen table, the other in the living room, that I had come to regard him as family. I had pretty much stopped noticing his rich, dark chocolate skin, so smooth and youthful. His graceful evenly muscled swimmer's build, his kind eyes and luscious-looking mouth. Yeah, I paid zero attention to all that. I was to turn 52, and he was 28. I regarded him as my high functioning, Stanford-educated son. Which made what followed that day a little like incest...Interracial incest.

Mark had accepted a job as a software designer after grad school, and then the pandemic hit, and the company rescinded their offer. He was forced to settle for an IT support job with the outfit that I had been working for years. I had been doing the WFH thing way before 2020, so had ensured that our little house had top-notch connectivity, enough bandwidth to launch rockets in Korea as my husband liked to say... So, on a group zoom after Mark was hired, I learned that he was in an apartment downtown, so walkable from my house, and that the internet sucked there. He found the job a real challenge for purely mechanical, technical reasons. I pinged him in a private chat and introduced myself, gave him my address and invited him to join me here and see if he wanted to work from MY home instead of his. He walked over that very afternoon, and we hit it off. I hadn't realized, obviously, how tall he was in the little zoom screen, like a foot and half more than my five foot nothing. I came to the States in my 20's so I still sound like a gal from Donegal, and he came from Angola, by way of the "Texas ole patch" as he liked to drawl. So we both had the "accented immigrant" thing in common, too. Frankly, I loved having company. Sometimes when Steve was home, he would make us lunch and ply us with coffee and his famous baked goods and joking that we were "a right United Nations." So, that's why Mark had the access code to our gate and a key to our house, and his easy friendship with Steve was why Steve enlisted him to help with my birthday surprise.

As I mentioned, when Steve is home (he mostly isn't-doing "consulty" things all over the place, even right through the Pandemic), he always brings me coffee in bed. We get up crazy early but enjoy just lying in bed together snuggling and sipping. So this year, I drowsily heard the door open, then the kettle hiss. I really wasn't awake, just wallowing in that delightful, its-Saturday-I- don't-have-to-get-up- feeling. When Mark made his way into the still dark bedroom and gently set a mug of coffee on my nightstand, I roused a little and looked up at him looming over me.

Quietly he said "Happy birthday, sunshine"

"Thank you!" I croaked. "What a wonderful surprise! Did you bring a cup for you?" as I propped myself against the headboard and reached for my mug.

"Uh, no. I was instructed to deliver this, he gestured to a red -wrapped box that he had placed at the foot of the bed..."

"Go get a mug and come sit with me," I commanded.

My phone rang just as Mark returned with his cup, I gestured to him to sit beside me, as Steve bellowed birthday greetings on speaker. He thanked Mark for playing delivery/barista and then apologized for having to run off. He had hoped, he explained, to have Mark facetime me while I tried on the presents, but he had to "race, kisses, talk soon..."

Mark said, "That guy just has one gear, you know, HIGH" I laughed and agreed fondly, that he was rather like a big kid.

"Well, that saves me a rather awkward request...he wanted me to record you prancing around in whatever is in the box. And I gathered it wasn't church clothes"

"Well," I said drily, "glad to save you the agony of watching granny in garters."

I reached for the box which necessitated climbing out from under the covers, vaguely aware that a non-husband was seeing me now in my nightie, climbed back into bed and opened the box. I reached over and turned on the lamp and suggested that Mark film as I held up each part of the enclosed ensemble. A lovely pair of red heels, with a delicate little strap and side buckle, a little red dress with a zipper back. Sheer white thigh-highs, a wisp of a thong and a suggestion of red lacy bra. Mark blushed adorably as I held up the last two.

"Ok, then, I'll leave you to it," he said as he bent down to kiss my forehead.

I reached up and clasped his hands, said "Don't go, pleeeease? I think it would be fun for Steve to see me in the outfit. Then you can piss off" I paused. My eyes were watching his and it was apparent that his eyes were not focused on my face. I realized that the bedside lamp perfectly illuminated my breasts, almost like they were spotlit for display. I was wearing a pale pink nightie, and my nipples could be seen casting shadows where they tented the filmy fabric. "Never mind. I'll just take selfies as I get dressed. Or I'll get dressed and then prop up the camera and video getting undressed for him. Anyway, not your problem. Run along. You probably have 100 women lined up today, studly."

We were still holding hands, and he was still not gone.

"Uh. I guess it would be better to have a photographer for that. Its awkward trying to do both and get good angles"

"YAY", I used him to pull myself out of bed and gave him a big hug, slightly aware that I was squishing my boobs against his broad chest and tippy toed up to kiss him on the lips. I went into the en suite to change, not bothering to close the privacy curtain. I could see him in the mirror, sitting on the foot of the bed, his phone directed at me...I stepped mostly out of sight around the partition wall and pulled on the underwear and stockings, the shoes. Pulled off my nightie, climbed into the bra. I stepped out so that he had a side view of me, then dropped the dress over my head. I would get him to zip me up, I decided, but after I put on makeup. I stepped into full view in front of the sink and gave my red bob a quick brush, then leaned in to apply lipstick, lip liner, and do my eyes.

"Do my zipper, please?"

He approached and with a little fumbling got it done.

"Do you have pearls? He asked, his voice a delicious low rumble in my ear. I reached for the black velvet bag and handed it to him, indicating that he fasten them around my throat. I had goosebumps and was vaguely aware that he was ever-so slightly pressing me against the counter.

I tried to keep the stammer out of my voice as I said: "I think it would be fun to shoot me coming through the door in my coat, as though I had been out for drinks or whatever...I'll have a glass of wine in my hand as I shed the coat and uh, he can see the outfit. Steve can see the outfit." Deliberately trying to remind myself that I was married.

Sidebar: Steve probably wanted just this awkward situation to arise. He loves to intimate that Mark and I spend the days soulfully staring into each other's eyes and giving each other massages and shit. Steve has cuckhold fantasies. Weird. I know.

Back to the present, Mark said he would open a bottle. It was 5:35 am, still dark outside. Sure, I'll have a glass of wine! It's my birthday!

I put on my long black coat, stepped onto the porch and when Mark was in position, opened the door and stepped inside. I tossed my coat onto the couch in the living room and went to where a stemmed glass had been poured for me. Mark had artfully selected a place in the hall outside our bedroom that had a full-length mirror, the wine set on a little table that tended to accumulate keys and phones. I took a hearty swallow of the wine and was gratified to notice that Mark was working on a glass of whiskey. 05:45 am!

My new dress was slightly stretchy, fell just above my knees. It was moderately low cut and supported by straps over the shoulder.

Leaning against the bedroom doorway, the mussed bed looming suggestively behind, I took another swallow of wine, my glass now empty and handed it to him for refill.

"Now what?" I asked quietly.

"Uh, now I switch to stills. I was shooting vid before. Let's try bending down to unbuckle a shoe. Facing me. Now on the other one, back toward me. From this angle I saw him in the hall mirror again and saw a generous display of my own cleavage in the mirror.

"Straighten up," he said. "I need to adjust the dress."

Gripping the material at the hips he rucked the fabric up so that it was much shorter, and leaving one hand on my hip, gently pressed between my shoulder blades to have me bend over again, repeating the unbuckling shoe motion.

"That's good, really good, but I want to see the tops of the hose, so do you want to pull it up a little higher and we'll try again?"

I did want. I was starting to get aroused. No, hell, I WAS aroused. I picked up my glass for another slug and watching him in the mirror began to pull my dress up more. Deliberately, I inched it up, waiting for a sign from him that that will do, pig...In the mirror, I saw the tops of my hose exposed and still he gave no sign, but just watched me through his viewfinder, snicking away. When my thong hove into view I stopped and slowly bent over, legs straight.

"How's that?" I breathed.

"Perfect. Now do that thing where you take the bra off but leave the dress on."

I did.

"Turn to face me. Drape the bra over a finger and take a sip of wine, looking straight at me."

I did.

"Bend forward, with your head up, still looking at me."

I did.

He paused for a moment then, thinking.

"Can you unzip the dress?"

I did.

"One strap down...Now the other."

"Bend forward."

I bent forward as directed; my eyes locked on the camera's lens.

"Stand up. Reach up and remove your thong but leave it around one ankle.

I complied.

"Ok, shoulders back against the doorway, hips thrust forward. Legs apart. Farther apart. Good. Now, pull the dress up. More. More."

He was on his knees now, shooting up at me, the red tufts of my sparse pubic hair clear in his view finder. My sex just right there. He zoomed in.

"OK, now lie down on your back on the bed, so your head is draped down off the side of it..."

To himself I heard him mutter, "Oh perfect."

He snatched up my hand lotion and told me to close my eyes, squirting some of the white milky fluid carefully alongside my nose, my lips, chin, throat and down to the exposed tops of my breasts.

He was chortling to himself, so pleased with his simulated ejaculate.

"Awesome. "He reached over and delicately thumbed away the lotion on my face and began rubbing all of it into my throat and chest. It was the most he had ever touched me in our year long friendship and I practically purred with pleasure.

.

Watching his eyes, I pushed my dress completely exposing my breasts for the first time.

I craned my neck up to watch his dark hands filled with the creamy white of my breasts, the pink nipples taut, tweaked between his gentle fingers. Who was happier then, in that moment? Hard to say.

It turned out that we had both indulged in a little fantasy about this sort of thing. I had wanted to see his naked chest, and he longed to see and touch mine. He said he been obsessed with the sprinkle of freckles that sometimes revealed themselves, depending on what I wore to work...

Eventually, I took him into my mouth, feeding him down my throat. There is a great shot from this period where you can see my pearls, and see the obscene bulge of his cockhead inside my throat...

Mostly, he was well-behaved but when he got close, he forgot himself, forgot that I was a woman, a friend and not a hooker, or an appliance...At the point is was all bets off and he shoved himself deep, too deep, down my throat, again and again, holding me in place, gagging me, tears leaking from my eyes, my mascara running...

At some point he must have propped up the phone, because now he was mauling my tits, painfully pulling and squeezing with one hand, while holding my head down, as he liked it, with the other. And then, just like that, he spasmed, and he released me, withdrawing from my gasping throat, choking and bubbling on the first full blast even as he painted my face, throat and tits with the subsequent shots... he recorded the aftermath of this effusion, then spun me around, like a rag doll, limp and un-protesting, and collapsed atop me, between my legs, his face to my face.

He kissed me then, open mouthed, and hard, aggressively, a new side of his normally placid exterior exposed. We were both panting from exertion and oxygen deprivation. We didn't speak. He supported himself on his elbow and now gently caressed my breasts. Lightly teasing the distended nipples. Playing. I was aware that he was already growing again, his member lengthening and stiffening where it rested on my thigh, slightly slick from my saliva, and sticky from his ejaculate...

He adjusted his position so that he was centered on me, the tip of his penis growing to lightly scribe circles on my sex.

I shook my head. "No."

He moved himself up and down my desire-slickened lips, the head tracing the length of my sex.

"Really, no?" He asked. "Or just sorta no?"

"No!" I said again, louder this time, and tried to squirm away. He was not looking at my face, he was peering intently down where our two bodies met. I could imagine the scene: Mine small and moist and garishly pink and inflamed, and his dark, muscular, threatening.

"Mark, no. I don't want you to fuck me. The BJ was bad enough..."

"Cmon. You know you want me to. You have been flirting with me, teasing me since that first zoom meeting..."

"What?! No. and I haven't teased you. Ever"

"But you're always waving that ass at me, pointing those titties at me..."

"Mark, seriously? This morning is the first time I have ever flirted with you. And I deliberately do NOT wear anything lowcut or sheer or, revealing when I know you're coming over."

"Well, what about that day at Trader Joes, that top was practically see through."

"I had just ridden for like 50 miles, asshole, and yeah, I was sweaty, and I DIDN'T EXPECT TO SEE YOU THERE! So that doesn't count either."

"Colleen, admit, you have a black on blonde fantasy. All of you white girls do...

"I'm a redhead, not a blonde, thank you very much, and frankly, skin tone never figures into my fantasies"

All the while we were bickering, he was sliding himself up and down, dragging over my increasingly aroused clit, then allowing himself to gently part the lips on the way south, rhythmically. Hypnotically... Inexorably

Suddenly, when he was perfectly lined up, and my breathing was betraying my now extreme arousal, he picked me up with a hand under each ass cheek and locking eyes with me, impaled me, driving his whole furious length inside in one painful, violent thrust. I screamed in shock and pain and outrage. And he grunted in satisfaction, registering the betrayal in my eyes, but so caught up in the sensation, the heady sense of potency, that he simply began slamming into me. I had never had anything like that inside me. But the fact was, I was designed to push out a baby, something the circumference of a cantaloupe, and by that time I was plenty warmed up. So, while it wasn't exactly enjoyable, at first, my scream was more of outrage, than actual pain. Had he eased in, warming me up, stretching me bit by bit, and had I wanted him too, that would have made all the difference for me. But it wouldn't have given him the crazed sick thrill that I saw igniting his eyes. Panting like a sprinter, He quickened his thrusts, and then: I started to feel pleasure, I slid my hands between us and rubbed myself, which had the added benefit of leaving a gap between our bodies: He couldn't go as deep, which alleviated some of the discomfort, and he was no longer slamming into my pubic bone which solved the rest of the pain. By the time he began to cum, I was already there. This time he softened all the way and slid out. He roused himself and resumed his photographic chores. Documenting the creampie oozing out of my poor abused cunt. I didn't protest when he arranged me to clean off his wilted cock. Nor when he rolled me onto my tummy and once more dragged my legs over the edge of the bed, spread them: Snick. Snick snick.

I still had the new red dress on, bunched up around my middle. The hose and shoes too.

Later I would recount that it was the most fun a gal could have dressed and shod.

He knelt down between my legs and began diligently licking, stroking, and...that didn't suck.

He cleaned me thoroughly, as a cat would, getting the dried cum from my front, then sucking my pussy clean. I came again.

He crawled up alongside and said, wrapping himself around me: "That's three of my fantasies accomplished..."

"What, you wanted to throat rape an old lady?"

"No, I wanted you to suck my dick from the moment I saw you. And I wanted to see your titties. And your ass. And I wanted to fuck you. And I wanted to lick my cum out of your sweet pussy."

"That's more than three things, dumbass," I said, though not-unkindly.

And gradually, I drifted off, sinking into the first nap of my 52nd year.

We both passed out then, I guess. Me on my stomach, red dress bunched, still around my waist, my ass proudly exposed, and he alongside, starfished on his back. Steve found us that way when he returned from his site visit. Steve told me how he had tried to wake me and failed. So he did what any pervert would do: He tied my hands behind my back. Then he took it upon himself to fluff my new lover with his oiled hands...Apparently, Mark woke up understandably startled by the manual ministrations of a middle-aged man but understood what was expected of him with a bit of sign language: Steve wanted to watch another man's penis enter his wife's vagina. Sure. Fucking pervert.

At least Steve had the sense to apply oil to my somewhat battered pussy, At which point I started to rouse. By that time, though, Mark had arranged himself atop my prone body, was able to enter me for the third time that morning-if you count my mouth. Steve recorded it all. He wasn't able to recreate the moment and point of penetration that somehow always features in pornos, but he captured my face, again with the surprise and frustration with being tied and violated...But this time, at least, it was altogether more pleasant. That is my favorite position, and Steve knelt by head while I was being fucked, kissing me. Which was OK.

By some unspoken accord, the two switched places before ejaculation. Steve entered me, loose and probably sloppy, and Mark came to stand by the bed with his slick penis in his hand. Warily, I took the head in my mouth to help him finish and it was OK. No force. He warned me and withdrew shooting mostly onto my dress, as it happened. And then Steve was cumming, too. Inside, like normal. Kind of dreamlike, really.

So, I DID receive a lot of attention on my birthday, not all of it bad. And we're all still on speaking terms. So I guess that's as much as anyone could wish...