Birthday Inspiration

Eddie was right. Once I'd lost my virginity, it was harder than ever to go without sex. The first (and only) time had hurt in some parts, but on the whole, it had been great and had scratched the growing itch I had had since that first fingering when I was a little girl.

But as with all itches, just scratching it once was not enough. Once you scratched, you needed it more and more, and the feeling became both increasingly exhilarating and maddening.

Eddie's present had opened that world to me, the world into which I'd been staring covetously for so long, but I was thrust back out after that infuriating little taste. At least now I could buy that blue waterproof vibrator I had been denying myself.

But honestly, why would I complain? So what if I hadn't had sex since that day on the train? So what if my prospects were about as promising as they had been before that morning? I had had one of the most spectacular experiences I could ever remember having had. The train rides to and from our weekly breakfasts were filled with my secret wishes to find a groin against my butt or another note being tucked into my hand. I was afraid to wear pants, just in case. How heinous would that be if I found a groin against me and a note pressed into my hand, only to have the way blocked by a pair of tight trousers? I ached between my legs and felt the rivulets on the inside of my thighs. Every ride, to and from.

And my showers were so much better now. After buying the vibrator, I made quite the purchase of a dildo with suction cup base, so I could back myself onto it and pretend I was playing with a stranger behind me.

All in all, though, the status of my lovelife was pretty sad.

I was a little surprised to see Eddie's frustration. Every breakfast, she asked for details of my lovelife, having enjoyed immensely my recollection of her birthday present to me. No more wish to hear about my fantasies.

At first, this made me sad. Then I was depressed. After all she had done to give me a fantastic present, I hadn't done a single thing to further my own experiences and make the most of this new world.

But strange as the progression of my thoughts can be, I found them alighting on rather an interesting realization.

Eddie, in her own strange way, lived vicariously through me. She may have had sex all the time, but there was something about me that really got to her in a way that a man inside her never seemed to. Her disappointment wasn't so much a friend wishing pleasure for her friend. She found pleasure in mine, or at least in my telling. I couldn't answer why I was that catalyst. All I knew was what I could see.

Eddie's birthday was coming up, conveniently enough, and the birthday note from her that I had propped up on my dresser gave me an idea. I didn't know how I was going to do it, but I was going to do for her what she had done for me. Somehow, I was going to give her a fantasy.

But how?

I needed inspiration.

On a Sunday afternoon, I hopped the train and traveled all the way to the other side of the city. I didn't know Eddie's routine when we weren't together, but I had a good feeling that she would be sleeping off her Saturday night and I'd be safe to try and come up with some idea with which to surprise her.

I found myself standing on the street corner across from the café, staring at Eddie's and my usual table. It didn't feel right to go in there alone. There was something special about our breakfasts there. Maybe I could incorporate the café into the present…

"Fancy seeing you here," I heard behind me.

I started in surprise and apprehension, and froze. Whom would I know who'd be here, especially a man? The voice was familiar. But one of the perks of coming to this part of town was that it was so far away from anybody else I knew or with which I worked. This was definitely not what I wanted to happen right now…

And then the face appeared in my vision. "Wow, you always seemed so friendly when you came into the café. Should I take this as a 'back off'?"

I relaxed. It was our usual waiter from the café. "Sorry, I just didn't…well, Chris, was it?"

He grinned and gave me a nod. "You got it. Are you debating whether or not to go in?"

"Sort of," I answered.

"Well, I dunno, the place is pretty crumby," he answered, stepping so that he didn't have to crane his neck. "Especially the wait-staff."

"Oh yeah," I played along. "A friend of mine goes there, and the guy who always serves her is such a lech."

I snapped my mouth shut and tried to keep my face from showing chagrin. Why the hell had I just said that?

"Then it's probably best not to go there," he replied, not seeming to take offense or be taken aback by the sexual suggestion of the comment. But then maybe I was just reading too much into my own words.

"Probably so," I said, self-consciously.

Chris looked at me for a minute, I think to try and read what was going on in my weird little head, before saying, "Since you won't be going to the café, and you're obviously ravenous, how about I take you to a little place I know of. My treat."

"Your treat?" I repeated. "Why?"

He looked at me, amused. "Do I need a reason?"

"I guess not," I conceded.

"If you need a reason," he continued, "How about…making sure you don't have to deal with any lecherous wait-staff."

A response was on the tip of my tongue, but I stopped myself before I could make the joke. My six-days-a-week persona was taking over. I was becoming self-conscious and reserved again.

He noticed my face and said quickly, "I guess that was too forward of me. I'm sorry. As if you were even interes—"

"Yes," I blurted out.

Chris looked shocked, then relieved, and offered me his arm. "Let me show you to a nice little nook where I enjoy many a Sunday breakfast."

We walked along the street, volleying between easy camaraderie and awkward self-consciousness, until he slowed and stopped in front of a plain looking apartment building. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't quite what you would call luxurious.

I looked up at him, curious. "Chez Chris?" I ventured.

"B-11 Bistro," he corrected and then added, "if that's alright with you. I mean, I know we're not the best of friends, but…" He suddenly looked unsure of himself as he explained further. "I got the feeling that you needed a little help. And given what your conversations with your friend are mostly like, I didn't think you'd like to share out in the open where anybody could hear."

My face went scarlet at this, as he had guessed correctly, though I doubt he had any idea what the whole story was.

"No, that's fine," I answered. "I've got mace if I need it." I didn't, but I didn't want him to know that.

"I swear, you won't have any reason to use it," he urged.

"Okay. That's fine." I gestured toward the door.

He was only on the second floor and it wasn't long until we were inside his clean, simple studio apartment. His bed was made over in the corner by the window, and the table in the offset kitchen had a few piles of unopened mail.

He offered me a seat and something to drink, and proceeded to make breakfast. As he worked, I wondered what I was doing here with a stranger, in his own apartment and helpless. I did know Chris, sort of, if you call being served breakfast by him once a week knowing, but work persona and personal persona were two completely different things.

"So," he finally began as he set before me a plate, "what brought you to hover around the restaurant on a Sunday?"

"Well, it's Eddie's birthday coming up," I began and then stopped. Should I explain or should just make something up? No, I decided. He's heard some pretty weird stuff from you. How much weirder can this be?

So I explained to him about Eddie's birthday present for me. I didn't mean to go into so much detail, but by the end of my telling, I could tell he was bunching up the napkin on his lap on purpose.

"Um…wow," he said, clearly at a loss for any better words. "That's just…wow."

"I know," I replied. "And I haven't had any since then. Eddie's pretty…frustrated."

"You haven't had sex in four months and she's the one who's frustrated?" he asked, disbelieving. "You must be crawling up the walls!"

"Eh…let's not talk about me," I said as I stole another look at his lap.

"Why not?"

"Because it's Eddie's birthday. We should be talking about Eddie."

"Right, but Eddie seems to really like to talk about you," he pointed out. "I'd almost call her a voyeur, getting off on your…you know, maybe that's the problem," he said suddenly. "Maybe you just can't think of anything because you haven't gotten any in so long!"

"What?" My voice was flat. "Seriously?"

"Maybe you should…have some experiences and write about them. Then give those to her for her birthday."

"No…" I picked up a piece of bacon and tapped the edge of it against the plate, and my eyes went once again to his lap. "No, I don't know. It doesn't seem…awesome enough," I answered. Then I let out a sigh. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I just need to get laid, and that'll unblock my gifter's block."

He made a gesture, but I couldn't tell what it is, as my eyes were on something. I took a deep breath and formed the first sound of a word with my lips. But I hesitated.

Chris continued to speak, but I just sat there, mesmerized by the napkin in his lap.

"Do you have a girlfriend, Chris?" I blurted out.

He stopped mid-word and stared at me, stunned. "Uh, m…girlfriend?" I nodded. "No, why?"

In answer, I got off the chair and walked up to him, turned his chair, and straddled his thigh. "I have a proposition for you. I need help."

"Wh…wha?" he stammered.

"I've hit a gifters-block," I explained. "I've got no prospects. I haven't had sex since that train ride. Have sex with me."

"Wh…now?"

I nodded to him and picked up the napkin in his lap. I could see that his lap was growing as we spoke. I stared at it, a sudden curiosity causing me to reach out and pinch the zipper-pull between my thumb and index finger. I had had sex, but I had never seen a penis, not a real one. My vibrator could hardly count.

But I hesitated, my grip on the zipper and my pinky's knuckle almost touching his jeans. I heard a small sound, almost like a groan, and his lap twitched. I noticed a small aching between my legs and lowered my knees, so that my lips were pressed through the fabric of my panties against his leg. He clenched his thigh muscle. I shivered and the aching grew.

And I pulled down his zipper.

I guess I was expecting it to spring right out and stand rigid beside me, but I hadn't unbuttoned his jeans, nor had I removed his underwear. I was a little disappointed, but then again, in reality things aren't always what you read about. Still, I wanted to see him. I stood up to take care of these oversights, but as soon as I had, his hand slipped under my skirt and brushed up the inside of my thigh.

"Uuuuuh," I breathed out a long breathy vowel, which turned to a groan when his fingers reached the wet fabric of my panties and glided over the saturated patch. One of my hands gripped his button-fastening and the other caught his shoulder. I think the slight pull and squeeze on the waist of his jeans caused a reaction, even though I hadn't intended for it to happen.

His finger pressed up. I could feel a slight rubbing of fabric against my lips, and the aching deepened and sharpened. My hands tightened and he pressed up more, until the panties were pressed into the crevice. The sharp corner of the crease poked my clitoris. I shuddered, the movement sinking me down onto his finger. His finger was now folded between my lips and in the fabric of my garment.

My fingers flexed and looped into the opening at the front of his jeans. When I closed my hand and pulled, I could tell by the sound he made that the waistband of his jeans was cutting into his sides. I released the button. I didn't want to hurt him, but by God, it was difficult to control myself when he did something like that to me.

Quickly, while I still had my faculties, I slipped the button from its hole and slipped my hand into his underwear. The air was amazingly hot and wet, like a sauna. I looked down at his lap. He was bowed, trying to fight up but being held down.

My fingers slipped through a thicket of hair until they ran into the top of his penis. The skin was so warm, but what amazed me was how he could feel as firm as rock, but as soft as a piece of rubber. He was so smooth. I felt down over his bowed length, over the veins, but as I did, the movements of my hand pulled the underwear away from him and he sprung up.

I gasped and backed away. His finger slipped out of my folds, leaving my panties wedged between my lips. The movement of air across the wet fabric sent a chill. I shivered on impulse, but what started as a shiver of cold ended as a shiver of…I couldn't say if revelation is the right word, or discovery. Perhaps baring witness to something in real life that, until then, I had only imagined or seen on websites.

His penis bobbed there—I say bobbed since he was breathing heavily—the skin a little darker than the rest of him. It stuck up, pointing to my navel. Part of its pointing might have had something to do with how his underwear was nestled snug around its base, wrapping his testicles for me to see later. One thing at a time, I thought. Let me just look at this and concentrate on them later.

The skin looked as smooth as it felt, in fact looked just as it felt, as hard as rock and soft as rubber. The helmet of his penis was smooth, doming over the tip and sweeping together at the very end. Like a woman's up-do. He was circumcised, I realized. At the tip, some liquid had leaked. Just at my staring, a little more was produced. Just from my looking. The thought made the aching between my legs zing and I moaned.

I was so dumbfounded and enraptured by the sight of my first real-live penis, I didn't notice him shift forward and take the hem of my skirt in his hands. Then I felt the rush of cold air against my wet cloth-wrapped lips. I blinked when he shifted his hips. His helmeted head was no longer pointing at my navel, but now between my legs as he leaned forward. I looked down at myself and saw that he had raised my skirt. I couldn't see what he was looking at, but I knew. My muscles clenched.

Chris gazed intently at the area between my legs. I imagined what he must be seeing. My panties were white with purple swirls. The fabric had been pushed between my lips, forming what I've read is called a camel-toe. It would be glistening, the two puckering lips. The purple swirls would shine. The imagery caused me to unclench and to clench again. I heard a small squishing sound.

His jaw had gone a little slack, and at the squishing noise, he licked his lips. I couldn't tell what that meant: if he wanted to look at it without my panties, if he wanted to feel me with his fingers, or if he wanted to taste the liquid. But with his hands holding my skirt up, he could do nothing.

I reached down and gathered the folds, freeing his hands. In response, he reached out and took hold of the outside of my thighs, just below my hips. His top two fingers rested on the bottom of my cheeks and the other fingers curled around the back of my thighs.

He leaned forward and inhaled. I had smelled myself before, the thick smell with a little tanginess. I imagined his lungs filling with the scent of my arousal, as sometimes I had pause to do myself. He was the first person to do this, also the first person to see me like this.

His fingers moved down, until I could feel the bottom three against my skin. The top, his index fingers, were still above the fabric. He turned his hands, tucking the three fingers of each hand under the fabric and against my skin. His hands were cool. I let out a small shiver as he slid them back, cupping my cheeks, then slid them back to my side, where his index and middle fingers pinched the fabric between them and started to tug down.

If he had just pulled, it wouldn't have been as exciting, I don't think, as the fabric was tugged out from between my lips, tugging at the skin itself. I heard the liquid sound of the fabric pulling free, sopping wet. The edge of the fabric was wet, too, drawing lines of cold down the inside of my thighs as it went.

When my panties were halfway down, Chris moved his face away and just looked at my folds as his hands continued to move. It was slow, but he didn't seem in any hurry; his eyes were devouring me. His fingers brushed the back of my knees, sending a shudder up to me.

They stopped at my calves, releasing my panties and letting them drop to the floor. His palms cupped the curved muscles of my legs; his face closed in on the area between my legs. I watched as the tip of his nose disappeared beneath the hem of my skirt. Even before his mouth touched me, or even began to tickle the short hairs, a buzz of anticipatory pleasure warmed my body. My hands twisted the skirt and I squeezed my eyes shut, my breath caught. My heart pounding.

And then there were his lips. They closed over the edge of the crevice between my legs, at first in a kiss. I moaned as his tongue slipped into it. The buzz turned to a haze, and then a jolt as his wet tip found my clitoris.

My gasp was almost like a sob. His hands squeezed my calf-muscles in response and then pulled my left to the side. I complied, widening my legs for him. His tongue went deeper, but not so far as my opening. Not yet. The texture of his tongue rasped against my clitoris, not unlike the fabric but definitely warmer and wetter. The tip curved up in a point, between the wings of my sex, and stimulated the skin between clitoris and opening.

The aching inside me sharpened and my opening puckered and flared, as if trying to draw his tongue to it. I felt my knees start to shake the tiniest bit, wanting to go weak but knowing they couldn't or else I'd fall on my butt.

At first I thought it was because he was aware of my plight, but Chris' hands left my calves and slid up the backs of my thighs. But rather than go to my back and hold me up or support me, they stopped at the top of my legs and his fingers reached between them, over the sticky wet skin, pulling back and apart, widening his way even more.

His chin tilted up as he got to his knees. The aching sharpened more, because I knew what that meant. His tongue was on its way to my opening, tasting along my folds to the opening of my sex. I felt like I was just hovering there, lost in the vacancy of anticipation for that spark. But all I could see were the sparks you see behind your eyelids when you close it. Yes, I was hovering. His hands grasping my thighs and his face pressed up between them were the only things holding me up.

And then I cried out in surprise.

His tongue dipped into my opening. It played with the skin at my hole and tasted along the inside of the rim. My hands tore from my skirt and shot back behind me, searching for something to hold me up as my knees gave. There was the table. The heel of my hand caught the edge of his plate, and a bit of scrambled egg dumped on it, but God help me, I didn't care!

As I leaned back into the steady presence of the table, Chris' tongue went deeper. I gasped and pleaded wordlessly and lay back, needy. My opening fluttered and tried to catch at his tongue, but he was playing. It flicked in and out as the inside of me clambered for more. Then when it calmed, his tongue moved a smooth motion, in and out, the muscles of his tongue working against the muscles of my vagina. And when my opening became greedy again, he would flit about.