CW: strap on, choking, blow job
It’s a Saturday, the Saturday before my birthday, and you have a special gift for me. Last night I opened the first of the birthday gifts—I put my face between your beautiful, full breasts and breathed in your rich, warm scent. I kissed your soft skin, I nipped at your delicate seashell of an ear and delighted in your uncoiling moan. You are such a sumptuous present. Your full, soft body is a voluptuous store of riches, spilling out of your clothes. I love having you naked, soft and vulnerable in my arms. I love your soft pillowy breasts, your beautiful peach of an ass, and your dreamy ginger-haired pussy, the jewel between your legs. I pulled the most colorful moans from your mouth with my tongue, and I pulled the richest cream of your orgasm out of your pussy with my fingers last night. What a gift. But you whispered in my ear after we lay together, sweat cooling on our bodies, just before we fell asleep together, that you had a gift for me that could top this most wonderful present.
Late afternoon begins to turn to evening, and you announce that you have made a reservation for us at a fancy steakhouse downtown. You disappear into the bathroom to perform your toilette, and emerge from the steam in a suit. I already shiver in anticipation at the well-cut suit jacket and pants. I dress accordingly in high heels, garters, thigh high tights, and a lacy black bra. My little black velvet dress is just the thing for the occasion. You call a cab and we sit close in the back of the darkened car. Your hand rests on my thigh, playing with the seam where bare skin transitions to silky pantyhose and lace. I rest my hand on your thigh in response. You smile conspiratorially at me in the dark and you move my hand to your crotch. I gasp and my eyes widen at the bulge I feel there. I feel my pussy heat with the implications.
At dinner, we are seated in a private booth with a curtain shielding us from sight. I eagerly scoot to your side of the circular booth, aiming to put my hand on your cock, but you kiss me, tweak my nipple, smile, and say, “Not yet. Be a good girl and be patient.” At this moment, the waiter arrives.
“Good evening, ladies. Can I interest you in something to drink? An aperitif perhaps? Or some wine?”
“A vodka martini. Belvedere. Very dry. Shaken, with a twist, please,” you say. Every night I watch you make precisely this beverage for yourself. (And I watch your breasts move as you shake your cocktail.) Then sometimes I will shake it for you. And every once in a while, I will shake it for you wearing nothing but a little lacy apron and high heels.
“Anything for you, miss?”
“An aperol spritz, please.”
The waiter leaves, thank God. I can feel my wetness through my panties already. It’s going to be a long dinner.
After the salad course, you bring a little velvet drawstring bag out of your pocket and place it in my hand on the table.
I feel immediately through the velvet its shape—a lovely sinuous curve, hard, just a little heavy. And another object, not quite as heavy or hard. I go to open it, but you smile and say, “Don’t open it. Tell me what you think it is.”
I look around to see that no one is listening in. Then I lean across the table and you lean in close with a conspiratorial glint in your eye. “It’s a butt plug.”
“Good,” you say, satisfied. “Now I want you to go to the ladies room and put it on. You have everything you need in the bag.”
My eyes are wide in surprise and arousal. I put the little black bag in my purse and make my way to the bathroom.
It’s a fancy bathroom, with soft lighting and real cloth hand towels instead of paper ones. The stalls are extra private, full doors. I lock myself inside a stall and slip my black lace panties down. I play with my clit for a moment and then take out the little black bag. The butt plug is shiny and silver. I’ve never had such a heavy butt plug before. I set it on the little table beside the toilet and squirt a little lube onto one finger.
I am already feeling pink and rosy flushed with arousal as I circle my tender little asshole with my finger. It feels so wonderfully dirty and subversive to finger my asshole over the ladies’ room toilet in such a fancy place. The bathroom is all luxury; there’s even a section with plush velvet and gold couches and a little glass bowl of peppermints. The stall itself has a little table with a bowl of artfully arranged potpourri. Any stodgy old lady could walk in to use the restroom and never know that only a few feet away, a bisexual is opening up her little rosebud at the behest of her lady-love. I try not to pant audibly as my hole warms and loosens.
I spread a slick of lube on the plug itself, appreciating its heft in my hand. I ease it in, slowly, enjoying the sensation of stretching as I master the widest part of the plug. And then it sucks in, filling me, stretching me. My clit is throbbing to be touched and my pussy is getting wetter all the time, but I think you must be wondering what’s taking so long, so I pass my finger just once from my wet pussy to my clit and then twice, a third time because I can’t resist, and then I master the impulse and pull my panties up to hold the plug in. It feels so deliciously weighty and causes all kinds of pleasurable sensations as I get up.
As I go to wash my hands, feigning nonchalance, I accidentally make eye contact with another woman at the sink next to mine. And she smiles like a predator at my rose-flush. I blush harder and look away. But she doesn’t follow me as I make my way back to the table. As I sit, the plug shifts and I close my eyes. When I open them you are smiling knowingly. I do my best begging face. I’m so turned on and fuckable. But you just smile and say, “I am so looking forward to having a nice steak, aren’t you?”
“Some lady knew something was up with me in the bathroom,” I say.
You put your hand on top of mine. “She wants you. But she can’t have you. You’re mine.”
“Yes,” I say. “I’m yours.”
It’s all civility and chivalry between dinner and my apartment—holding open doors, offering me your arm, squeezing my hand, kissing my temple. Everything above board (with the occasional surreptitious ass-squeeze that makes my plug shift deliciously inside me).
But inside my apartment is a different story. You order me on my knees and pull your gorgeous electric blue cock out of your fly. I kiss the tip tentatively, then lick up and down its length. I swirl my tongue around the tip, enjoying the sensation of being on my knees, loving the shape of it in my mouth. Only a minute or two has passed and you grab me by the hair, making me choke on it. It’s as though my mouth was made to choke on cock; I produce so much thick, ropey spit. It coats your cock and makes my progress easier. You hold my head down on your cock, waiting for my puckered throat to open up. “Stick out your tongue, baby,” you say, softly, coaxingly. I oblige and the cock slides into my throat. At first I choke; it’s a struggle, it feels unnatural. But you say, “relax baby, let me,” and I let you because it’s hot for me, because it makes me unbelievably horny. I moan around your cock; I love sucking it, I love choking on it, I love taking it deep into my throat, where it feels unnatural, and I love it even more when you pinch my nostrils for a moment, limiting my air supply. And you know I love these things, God bless you. You lean forward to slap my plug-filled ass, your cock deep in my throat, and then you pull back. Thick, white ropes of spit hang between my chin and the tip of your cock.
Then you let me drive a while. Now that I’m warmed up, throat and mouth sloppy with spit, I choke myself on your cock, lavish attentions with my throat and tongue. Then you pull me up and throw me over the arm of the couch, pushing my skirt out of the way and pulling down my panties to examine my pussy.
“You’re dripping, literally dripping,” you say as you swipe one finger from inside my slick pussy up to my clit, which aches to be touched. I whimper.
You pick me up and carry me to the bed, where you put your face next to my pussy, breathe deep with a long mmm of appreciation, and then bury your face in my wetness, licking me and tugging on that plug until I’m begging for your cock inside me.
The fucking is the most intimate part. We’re naked now, but for the cock and its harness on you. We’ve taken out the butt plug—it served its purpose, we agreed. Your beautiful breasts press against mine. You hold me close. I’m surrounded by your smell. You put your cock inside me. And you stare into my eyes as you plunge it in and out and as I cry out in pleasure. From above, you watch the pleasure contort my face, your cock moving inside me and your hand on my clit—you know just how to touch it to make me come. You lean down onto my torso, still fucking me, your hand trapped between our bodies, grinding hard on my clit, and you whisper in my ear, “Come for me, baby, come,” and I do, explosively, squeezing the cock so hard it pops out and you shove it back in, and out, and in and out, all the while grinding my clit with the heel of your hand, making me really scream through not just the top of my orgasm but also through the tail of it.
I come down from my pleasure concerned about yours. “Did you like it? I know this is kind of a new thing we’re doing…”
“I loved fucking you,” you say. “And you know, I thought the choking you thing would be too much for me, but I knew how much you’ve been wanting to do it, and seeing you get so wet, hearing you moan… it was really hot for me.” You take the harness off, tossing it to the side. “If you eat me out, you’ll see just how wet I got.”
I growl in approval. “That’s my girl,” I say, feeling hungry for pussy. “That’s just what I wanted to hear. Let’s see about this wet pussy, then, shall we??”
And so I lick and lick and lick you, my lady-love, until you come into my mouth and I drink in your juices and your shuddering moans; the juices run down my chin, beautiful, sticky, and clear.
As we fall asleep naked in each other’s arms, I murmur, “Best birthday ever,” and you smile, but I think you may already be dreaming, and in the next moments, your gentle snore lulls me to sleep.