Birthday Girl

by Galloway

The clock on her computer was wrong again. The only reason she noticed it at all was her anxiousness and desire to be finished with work and leave. When she glanced up and saw, according to it, that it was four fifty-eight her heart lurched in her chest. Almost done! She smiled, and keyed the computer to save the document as her cell phone started to ring. Digging through the flotsam at the bottom of her purse she pawed through a few old napkins, a spare button or two, a broken off pencil, her fingertips searching for the plastic surface of the phone. Where was the damn thing? As her hand closed on the curved surface of the telephone she wondered how it was that anything she wanted always managed to migrate to the bottom of her handbag. She thumbed the key to answer the call before she had it out of the bag. She lifted it to her ear, and answered.

“Hello!” she said brightly into the receiver.

“Hi, honey, it’s me,” came the voice on the other end of the line. It was her boyfriend. She smiled as she looked over the surface of her desk, mentally reorganizing the piles of paper on the blotter. She thought he was sweet to call her, even though they would be seeing each other shortly.

“I’ll probably be over at the apartment around the time you get home,” he continued, “after you get ready, we can go out for dinner.” She nodded to the empty room. Very sweet, she thought, fondly. Very predictable, some other part of her mind whispered in response: how very dull. An interior voice like scales over dry leaves. She smiled, and pushed the thought aside, and replied. “See you there.”

“Bye; love you,” he answered. He rang off before she could say another word.

“I love you, too…” she said into dead air. She glanced at the timestamp on her phone. Four-fifty. Damn computer clock. She flipped the cell phone closed and contemplated its shiny surface for a moment. She noticed she needed a manicure, but there wasn’t time. Such a dear man, her boyfriend, she thought. As her birthday approached, he made plans with her, asking her all the while where she wanted to eat, what she wanted to do. He made the arrangements, just as she had asked. She half wished that he hadn’t, that he would do something that would surprise her, do something unpredictable for her birthday…something special. It all fit so neatly, she mused, patterned and repetitive as trying to roll a rock uphill. She could chart her life moving forward with perfunctory blips of excitement that barely registered in her mind before moving on. She pushed the thought back into its little box in her mind: She was happy enough with things as they were. The thought shifted like sawdust in her belly.

She fumbled in her bag for her compact. She opened it and looked at her face in the mirror. It was small, and would only reflect her features in patchwork glimpses. The curve of her cheekbone, the angle of her chin, the arch of her eyebrow caught in narrow pieces, as she tilted and angled her hand. She dabbed powder on the end of her nose, her forehead. It was a better than serviceable face, she thought, actually rather pretty. She fixed her lipstick, the sheer pale color almost invisible, sensible on her full lips.

She shut down her computer, and looked at the ghost of her reflection in the darkening screen. She straightened her beige skirt and navy blouse, the pearl necklace resting properly at her throat. She laughed inaudibly at her ghostly image. And she had been critical of her boyfriend for being predictable, as she stood there in her sensible shoes and conservative clothes. How did I wind up like this, she asked herself flicking invisible lint off of her shirt. She wondered for a moment why she never wore crimson lipstick to the office, why she always chose the same restaurant for dinners out. She was complacent, she realized suddenly, bored with herself, her responses. She itched for change, not for novelty, per se, but simply to set her feet off of the path. She wished deeply for her boyfriend to startle her. She missed the elation of not knowing what was under the wrapping paper, the breathless tension of knowing, that it was exactly what she really wanted, even if she didn’t know it yet. She sighed and gave her skirt one last thoughtful brush, then she picked up her handbag, and tucked the birthday card from her coworkers into its recesses.

She stopped off at the dry cleaners on the way to the garage. She paid the ticket and picked up her clothes: more of the same, a group of skirts, jackets, and blouses in the same dull, sensible neutral tones: Conservative, bland. Her reliable dinner dress too, was there. It was a plain, navy blue with a conservative cut and short sleeves, and a neckline that was not too deep, a skirt that was not too short. It was the perfect, boring, tailored dress. She suddenly wanted to wear something red with a full skirt and fitted bodice, something unexpected. She pushed the thought aside. Dodging traffic she darted across the street, muttering her annoyance at the bleating horns as she made her way to the garage. She shifted her cleaning as she dug for her keys, feeling for the key fob. She thumbed the button on the side as she walked along the rows of cars

The alarm clicking off echoed in the concrete warren of filled stalls, the dormant machines hunched over in the cramped spaces. Huge SUVs loomed like hungry monsters under the flickering florescent lights. They seemed to watch over her with a life of their own, with headlights like drowsy eyes, full of a nascent hunger. They looked as if they wanted to devour the smaller cars around them, or pounce on anyone who drove little vehicles, just like hers. She opened the door to her low-slung car and put her cleaning in the back seat as she turned on the ignition. She put her purse on the floorboards on the passenger side. Glancing at her reflection in the rear-view mirror she smiled at herself.

“Birthday girl, birthday girl,” she whispered under her breath as she pulled out of the parking space, “I’m the lucky, lucky birthday girl.” A sing-song chant half remembered from childhood.

She drove through the garage, the turns and stops blending seamlessly such that she barely was aware of it. Winding to the exit she paid the daily charge and drove out into the dimming light of evening. She put on her sunglasses, and made her way home. Unlocking the door and carrying her dry cleaning over her arm she clumsily shifted her purse as she kneed it open and shuffled into the cramped hallway. She could see the light from around the half closed door of her bedroom. She walked down the hallway and peered around the edge of the doorframe. He was already there, lounging on the bed. A part of her mind regarded him with dismay even as her heart skipped, and she felt the warmth of her blood in her neck. She realized that she had wanted to get home before he arrived, to be ready for him when he came to the door. Just like she always was.

He lounged, indolent, on the bed with his tee-shirt sticking damply to his chest. His gym shorts had crept up slightly, revealing a muscular expanse of his thigh. She watched as he kicked off his sneakers and stretched toes. One of his socks was going threadbare at the heel, she noted, thinking that she should get him some new pairs as he turned the page of the book he was reading. Looking around she didn’t spot his gym bag, or fresh clothes. Her puzzlement had developed to a mild irritation in the amount of time it took her briefcase to hit the floor. She hoped they wouldn’t miss their reservations, as she hung her dry cleaning on the back of the closet door. “I thought we were going out,” she said. Her voice sounded more brittle and angry than she had thought it would. She had thought that she was merely ruffled, not angry. He made an affirmative grunt, and turned another page, and her hands tightened on her purse before she set it carefully down.

“You know,” she said as she pulled the plastic off of her dinner dress, “I can get dressed and just meet you there.” She cringed inwardly at her own voice, it had an edge of Joan Crawford about to go on a tear. Bitchy, bitchy, bitchy, she thought to herself forcing the wave of anger down into the pit of her stomach. Blushing furiously she unbuttoned her blouse and dropped it on the carpet. Her skirt soon followed, kicked unceremoniously into a corner. She had planned to change her pantyhose for stockings, but she wondered if she should even bother, the same part that whispered that one should really be careful what one wishes for, after all, you might get it. She shrugged into the blue dress, and zipped it up almost savagely. Standing in her stocking feet she picked up her lipstick and began, with nervous hands to put it on. Usually the patterned rituals of getting ready soothed her, she could go through the motions and resume placidly moving through the evening. Not tonight. She could only wonder what would come next.

He stood up and stretched lazily, his shirt pulling up a little over his belly, and she caught a glimpse of the fine trail of dark hair that ran from his navel down under the waistband of his shorts, and she couldn’t suppress the warm curl of desire that made her want to run her hands over him. He walked over to her and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her hips against his, nibbling on the back of her neck. His strong fingers began to crumple the hem of her skirt up. A dark ripple of lust uncoiled itself in her and she shifted her hips, rubbing her pelvis back and against him. But the dress, the reservations, the pattern, some part of her consciousness whined, putting its foot on the neck of the surging in her blood. She turned her head and kissed the soft place on his neck just below the ear, and said “You’d better knock it off, we’re going to be late.” He spun her to face him and slapped her sharply. An explosion of not-quite-pain under her skin, and she heard herself gasp. He just laughed at her sudden intake of breath. He grabbed her chin with one hand and kissed her with bruising ferocity, igniting a dark heat in her that coiled itself around the base of her spine, and twisted through her innards with a thrill of delicious anticipation.

She could only respond to his touch, her lips swollen with kissing by kissing him yet again, liking the scrape of his unshaven cheek on her skin. She tried to put her arms around his neck, to draw him closer to her, but instead he grabbed her wrists in strong hands so tightly she could feel the small bones grinding together. She gasped again, but whether it was from the pain, or in anticipation she couldn’t say. And somewhere, in the recesses of her mind the serpent bared its fangs in a smile. He pivoted sharply, and threw her face down across the bed. Before she could recover herself she felt him yank up the back of her skirt, and deliver a volley of hard spanks, the flat of his hand catching her so that not just her buttocks were punished. He grabbed the top edge of her pantyhose and ripped them down her legs, leaving her bare to the waist under her dress. He slid one hand up her thigh, and cupped her throbbing pussy, and meditatively stroked the slick nether lips before spanking her there once, sharply. She moaned, and he shoved the wadded trunk of her panty hose into her mouth. Quickly, he wound the legs tight around her head and ended by tying them at the back, leaving the empty legs to trail like reins. Gathering them tightly in his hand he began to spank her sex, slowly, almost gently at first, then with greater speed and ferocity until she bucked against the mattress, strained against the makeshift reins. He stopped suddenly. She squirmed over onto her back and looked up at him.

He hooked a fingertip under her necklace and pulled her to sitting, all the while with one hand grasping the ends of her gag. He pulled suddenly, and the silk stretched, then snapped, the pearls showering down on her lap, the bedspread, the floor. She made a muffled noise of protest and was rewarded with a gentle slap. She gasped. Looking up at him from under lowered lashes, she could see that he was aroused, and the coil of lust in her constricted tighter, biting into her flesh, permeating her veins. Reaching out, she stroked the hard length of him through his clothes, and was rewarded with seeing him shiver. He snatched her hand away, and said softly, “Not until I tell you, bitch.” She was, strangely, delighted. He grabbed her by her hips and flipped her over again, this time grabbing the two sides of the neck opening of her dress, and pulling. Something primordial in her took hold and she began to kick and struggle as he tore her dress open down the zipper and hauled it off of her. He shoved her back onto the bed, running his hands over her prone body, from her shoulders, down over her breasts, sliding further over her belly to her thighs, pressing them apart. The damp heat between them rose, and made her back arch in response to his prolonged caress. He slipped a finger into her, stroking her all the while, and she moaned, stifled by the wadded nylon. Please, she thought, Oh, please.

“Dirty little girl,” he whispered pleasantly, as he stepped back and pulled off his gym shorts, and tossed them casually away. She looked up at his hard penis jutting forward between his muscled legs and thought she had never seen anything more perfect, or more beautiful. He slapped her between the legs again, and she felt the thick spurt of moisture between them in response. He grabbed her up roughly, shifting her weight and turned her to face the bed yet again, and bending her forward to brace her arms on the top of the mattress, kneeing her legs apart. He took hold of the trailing feet of her pantyhose and yanked her head up, and back as he thrust into her. She sighed and pressed back against him, loving the way he filled her, how she could feel him moving inside her. Then as suddenly as he had started, he pulled away and gave her a shove that sent her sprawling face first onto the covers. He crouched over her, pulling her hips up high, and spreading her buttocks apart. When she felt the tip of his penis pressing against her anus she couldn’t help it. She bolted, scrabbling across the bedspread, only to have him grab her by the ankle and pull her back to him. He reached around under her and pinched he breasts almost painfully as he pulled her hips back up.

“Ready for your present?” he whispered in her ear just as he began to work is cock into her anus. He was still slick, and wet with her juices. The pain was sudden and sharp as her body tried to close to him, making him thrust harder, his fingers digging into her hips leaving pinpoints of heat on her skin. She heard a high keening moan, and realized she was making it as he penetrated her there. Tears started at her eyes even as that reptilian voice in her mind whispered, “good.” He took hold of the loose ends of the hose yet again as he began to work himself in and out, pulling her head up and back, his thrusts making his belly gallop against her backside. The first sweet, sharp, shock of it was followed by an intense building heat as he continued fucking her, finally letting go of the gag and holding tight to her hips as moved. She reached back and began to stroke her clitoris in time to his thrusts. She felt his balls start to contract as he began to come, his orgasm flooding into her, leaving her gasping for breath as her own shook through her leaving her sated.

He rested his head against her back for a moment, then bit her shoulder gently as he took up the flapping ends of her panty hose and tugged them to bring her to attention. Without withdrawing he pulled them of the bed together. “You’ve scattered all your pearls,” he whispered to her as she felt his penis giving a last throbbing twitch inside her. He pushed her upper body down until she was on all fours. “You have to pick them up,” he said as he drew himself out of her. She heard him rummaging through his unseen gym bag for a moment, and out of the corner of her eye she saw him pull out his belt, which uncoiled in a lazy spiral from his hand. She shuddered in anticipation as she crawled over to the first pearl. As she reached out to pick it up he slapped her bared backside with the belt, leaving a stinging welt. She dropped the pearl again when he struck her with the belt again. She stretched out her hand for the next pearl as he lashed her again with the belt, and the pain blossomed into a voluptuous heat that made her sigh, even as she faltered in crawling across the floor to the next, winking gem. Pearl after pearl, he had her crawl across the floor, goaded by the belt, picking them up, one by one. Sometimes the belt would catch her between the legs, licking at her still heated pubis, making her swivel her hips as the pain and the pleasure of it fused inside her. Finally, he held out his cupped hand to her and she poured into it the remnants of her necklace. Impulsively, she rubbed her cheek on his thigh like a cat. He sank his hand into her hair and petted her. The serpent hadn't lied, the apple was delicious.

His hand tightened in her disheveled hair and again she felt the flutter of anticipation in her belly, as he began to pull her towards the bathroom. Pulled by the hair she struggled to crawl fast enough to keep up with him feeling the rough carpet give way to the tiles on the bathroom floor. He pulled her to her feet and helped her step into the bathtub. “You have to have a shower,” he said softly, “we can’t go out for birthday dinner if you don’t have your shower.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and helped her lower herself to her knees. She looked at his naked frame, the way the muscles of his legs joined in at the hips, the way that the hair on his legs became fine and delicate high up his legs, just before it began to grow dense again over his groin. He took one of her hands in his and placed it on his penis, wrapping her fingers around the tumid shaft. She stroked it gently, enjoying the delicate textures of his skin. He wrapped his fingers over hers and shifted his balance slightly. The streaming golden arc of urine struck her squarely between the breasts. It coursed down her nude body, its heat almost seeming to burn. She tried to pull her hand away, but he would not release her as he shifted his aim to cover her breasts, the pale droplets spattering her thighs, pooling under her knees. Even when he let go of her fingers, she didn’t remove her hand, as the stream faltered, then ceased.

He reached out and pulled the gag from her mouth, leaving her lips raw and abraded. He kissed her then, and whispered “happy birthday,” as he turned on the taps for the shower.

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About myself: What do you really want to know about a former Catholic schoolgirl who writes stories like this? What flavor of ice cream that I like? I read de Sade and giggle, I read the paper and weep. You figure it out.

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Birthday Girl © 2004 by Galloway