Party Favors

"I've been trying to show you over and over/Look at these, my child-bearing hips/Look at these, my ruby red ruby lips/Look at these, my work strong arms and/You've got to see my bottle full of charm...."

I never sit down at my own parties, even on Valentine's Day. I need to be sure everyone else is happy. You finally catch me in the kitchen, simultaneously carrying several empty wine glasses, swinging my hips freely, and waving toward someone at the front door. I trade lines with three women clustered together in front of the prep table like flowers in a corsage: "Gonna wash that man right out of my hair/Just like the first time he said he didn't care/Gonna wash that man right out of my hair/Heard it before, no more/Gonna take my hips to a man who cares/Turn the corner, there's another one there...."

I deposit my burden on the table and just as my head falls back for the chorus, you reach out and grasp my elbow. I swing gracefully around, already laughing at myself for the jolt of surprise I felt at your touch. I'm a study in contrasts with my full, red taffeta New Look dress, like something out of a Douglas Sirk movie, my hair wild and full, and my makeup teetering on the edge of goth. "Hey," I murmur breathlessly, eyes crinkling with pleasure. "I've been waiting for you, doll." And then I say, "Open your mouth and close your eyes and you will get a big surprise!" You obey, expecting a soft kiss, and instead find that I have popped an hors d'oeuvre into your mouth, my fingertips lingering only the slightest bit on your lips.

When you open your eyes I've already disappeared into the throng again.

The next time you find me I'm on the deck, pouring champagne into a dozen outstretched glasses. The music is quieter, in deference to the hour. Frank Sinatra is crooning about the blues in the night, and you can see even in the feeble moonlight that I've managed to eat off all my lipstick, leaving my lips naked and a little swollen. You approach me from behind again, one hand circling my waist and the other in my hair, drawing it back from my ear as I settle comfortably against you. We rock a little, side to side, and I pass the bottle to Anna with a saucy grin. "Temptress," you whisper in my ear, the consonants tickling me. "Succubus. Darling. Angel. You steal my dreams -- now, what will you give me in return?" Pressing back against you, I say, as if to the group at large, "I need to fetch some more wine, I think," and then I stride into the house, pulling you behind, your fingers braceleting my wrist.

We duck inside my makeshift pantry, not much bigger than a closet, and as soon as the door shuts I lift my head like child, wordlessly asking for a kiss. My eyes are wide, my lips cold. It's the champagne -- they warm soon enough under your ministrations, and the inside of my mouth feels almost hot in contrast. "Good party," you murmur, your lips against mine, the phrase felt more than heard. No time for romance, though - as my right hand tenderly, lightly strokes the back of your neck, my left is already burrowing in-between us. I sense your reaction to my touch at the same moment that I cup your crotch, thumb tracing the length of your shaft through layers of fabric. We both gasp within the confines of our kiss. You burrow blindly beneath layers of crinoline, bat at it in vain for a few moments, toss it into the air only to have it gently settle over my thighs again. Finally you bunch it up in your left fist, holding it tight against my hip. The back of the dress falls down behind me like a train. The entire time, your mouth never leaves mine.

I wore thigh high stockings just for you, so it's an easy matter for you to slip the crotch of my thin silk panties to one side, your fingers lathered with my excitement. You pull away just long enough to lick each finger in turn before my transfigured face, and then you charmingly intone, "Open your mouth and close your eyes and you will get a big surprise." Your mouth descends on mine again, carrying traces of my own tangy elixir.

And then you are inside me. I feel you stretching me inch by inch as I almost involuntarily clench against you. My body leans forward and back as I adjust my center of gravity. I'm on my toes, trying for a little more height despite my heels.

Then, in one quick thrust, you are truly inside me. What came before was just a trailer. I gasp and bury my face in your neck, my breath coming quick and shallow. But you won't let me hide. With your free hand you tip my head back, cradling my chin, and say, "Open your eyes." You want to see my face; know my desire.

I realize that part of you wants everyone else to know it as well. There are guests no more than 3 feet from us, the door is a cheap hollow core suburban model. I can see the tension in your face; the challenge to me.

You're moving faster now - or perhaps I am. My upper body sways back, incongruously keeping me steady. But we are joined below like some mythical creature.

I know, at this moment, you want to make me scream.

It's a little scary. But that also makes it a little fun.

My mouth opens and I look at you pleadingly, beseeching you to have pity on me in my weakness, and you do. You're so good to me; you slip four fingers into my mouth and I let my head drop back against a shelf, happily gagged. Part of me is grateful to you for pulling me back from the edge, and part is still trapped in sensation. I'm so fragile, I suspect the only thing holding me up is your steadfast cock.

Slam! Slam! Slam! It's almost bruisingly violent, but like an actor pulling a punch, you hold back just a bit at the end of the stroke. It's just what I needed; the dress didn't fool you. In my mind, I'm calling to you, praising you, begging you. I try to take all of the thoughts and force them downward to whisper to my pussy. I know that I only have a minute, or you'll have no choice but to leave me aching and empty for the rest of the evening. Rising and falling in place, I suddenly think that I am in relevé -- as if this were a most unusual ballet class.

Then I feel the orgasm coming, and I bite your fingers when what I want is to open my mouth wide and scream. It's so much harder to be quiet now, especially since you don't slow at all. Usually you hold me in that moment so we can both savor every contraction, but there's no time; if anything you thrust even faster, my pussy clamping down on your shaft as you move, but unable to hold you. The rhythm breaks for a moment, we're at cross-purposes, and I'm afraid we'll have to stop.

But instead you give me one good shake, press down and drive through the confusion. I am stupid with pleasure and all I can think is that this is so fucking good. Each new stroke feels as though it is opening me anew.

You make a pained noise and I look at you full on, my eyes almost gentle despite the wanton movement of my hips. I know you want to come. At this moment I am merely a vessel for your pleasure. This isn't ideal, I know, but it's all we have right now, and I need it, though I'm unsure how much you are even entirely aware of me anymore. Your thumb grasps the underside of my jaw, and the flailing of my head sends several boxes of pasta to the ground. I feel you come, hear you swallow your own groans, and it makes me giggle with a simple, uncomplicated happiness. It takes a long time for you to pump it all into me, but I press my palm against the base of your spine until I'm sure you're completely drained.

In the background I can just make out Julie London's voice, singing, "When love is slow, oooh, honey -- what a tonic for my nerves...." We stand sweating and gasping amid neatly arrayed cans and boxes, and start to laugh, damp foreheads pressed together.