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Another Birthday Surprise

Although Lisa was married, we’d been seeing each other for some time. “Seeing each other” might not be the most accurate description, actually. It was an odd relationship, and it had started oddly.

Lisa and her husband owned a restaurant/nightclub in my neighborhood; I’d first wandered in there shortly after they’d opened the place, and I soon became a “regular.” Regular enough that, on occasion when the Maitre d’ hadn’t arrived, Lisa would ask me help out, seating guests, etc. Or Stan, her husband, might ask me if I’d run out to a supermarket when the kitchen suddenly found they’d run out of some vital item. I sometimes helped them close up, or on a slow night, might help out in the office, running spreadsheets, or laying out a menu or promotional mailing (I was far more computer-literate than they, and a far better editor, although Lisa was trained as a graphic artist.) In fact, it was that sort of collaboration that probably led to our first flirtation.

Not that I hadn’t been attracted to her from the first time I’d walked into the place — there was something subtly but powerfully sexual about her. She wasn’t gorgeous, though few would fail to call her attractive, and she had very long, very red hair. But it wasn’t that; there was something else, an aura. Maybe it was the flashing, slightly amused look that was always present just behind her eyes. At any rate, I was aware of the chemistry from the outset. I was also, however, an extremely discreet and fairly conservative man, and I ignored my reactions to her.

I also ignored her increasingly less oblique hints that any advances I cared to make would not be unwelcomed. Still, I had by now become a friend of both of theirs. I played dense when the flirtation got too “real.” That had changed one night, though (but that’s another story, for another time), and Lisa and I had been having a steady, if irregular, sexual relationship for a couple of years. I was not her first (nor her only) partner outside her marriage. In fact, Lisa was more than moderately active. And her sexual experience was far broader than mine.

Some of the things she told me, always in a teasing sort of way (she’s great at teasing), were hard to believe; they were almost always a turn-on, though. Among other things, nothing turned her on like the notion of a strange prick (“prick’ was her word — I’ve always thought it a silly word, but since it’s what she used, I’ll use it here). She loved strangers, especially teenage boys (she was in her mid-thirties at the time), she said. And often more than one at a time. She also liked women occasionally, but she never felt as powerful, she said, as when she was on her knees with two or three or four eager pricks vying for her mouth.

“Wouldn’t I like to see that?” she often asked as we were making love. I wasn’t so sure. My ambivalence was composed of about equal parts jealousy and insecurity and prurience. Our relationship had become, over time, a deeply emotional one. Her wisdom lay in not pressing the point; she kept tantalizing me with stories of some of her bolder past sexual escapades and, at the same time, reassuring me that it was neither necessary to participate in anything similar nor to hear about them. Still, her evident excitement as she related such stories to me was a significant aphrodisiac for her, and that, in turn, had a strongly stimulating effect on me.

I was, at that time in my life, “hanging out” at a neighborhood bar; it was, in many ways, a lot like “Cheers.” Everyone knew your name, and the “regulars” (of whom I was one) were a bit like family. Nearly every male customer had slept with at least one of the barmaids at one time or another, and each of the barmaids had slept with a number of the guys. It was a casual, friendly sort of place, without jealousies and — among the regulars, at least — no tensions; we all knew each others’ faults too well to get upset with each other. We had a softball team, played endless games of Pac-man and pinball, celebrated each others’ birthdays, lent the needier among us money from time to time, smoked incredible amounts of grass, and — of course — drank ourselves into oblivion occasionally. We were a mixed bunch: a few minor executives, a couple of construction workers, a few nondescript ‘white-collar workers,’ a few cops, a bookmaker or two, a medical editor, a couple of cab drivers, and a couple of people who ‘lived by their wits.’

The regulars might as easily found behind the bar as at it. If someone hadn’t shown up for work or if whoever was tending bar had to make a phone call, a customer often stepped into the breach. Marty trusted several of us, and no one ever gave him reason not to.

When Marty was there, the backroom office was nearly as busy a place as the bar, with softball schedules and strategies being planned, or picnics, or chats. The door was never unlocked, though. Too often, Marty and someone would be in there smoking a joint, and we *were* careful about that.

If you’ve known any bar or nightclub owners, you know that it’s common practice for them to visit other similar stablishments. It seems just to be part of the culture. I used to take Lisa to Mario’s (no one had any idea who Mario was — the place had been named that when Marty bought it, from a guy named Dave — the origin of the name was lost in time) fairly frequently. Often, we’d stop in there after she’d closed her place up for the night. Mario’s was usually open to regulars well “after hours.” Only the small reading lamps behind the bar, over the bottles and the till, would be on, so as not to advertise its status, but if you knocked and if they knew you, they’d open the door. Once inside you’d find five or ten regulars, most of them growing fuzzy with the hour as well as with the various substances they’d been ingesting all night. “Mellow” was the right word. Marty was a good-looking guy, with the sort of looks that Lisa was particularly partial to (a very different “type” from me), and I’d often noticed her looking at him with a clearly erotic curiosity; Marty looked at every attractive woman with a frank “I think it’d be fun to fuck you” look. On occasion, just to make sure I’d caught it, Lisa would point out to me his looks at her. “Do you think Marty wants to fuck me?” she’d ask, “He never would because he’s your friend, but I think he wants to.”

One night, Lisa and I had been out to dinner and we stopped by Mario’s afterward. Marty was there — he was always there on a Saturday night — and Angie was behind the bar. At dinner, I’d mentioned to Lisa that it had been Marty’s birthday the day before and that I wanted to drop in to buy him a birthday drink. She got that look in her eyes and asked coyly whether I wouldn’t care to give him a present he wouldn’t forget.

I knew what she meant, of course. I said, “Maybe. We’ll see.” I only half meant it. I could tease as well as be teased, after all.

Meanwhile, she flirted with the waiter. As usual, she was dressed slightly provocatively. Her skirt was short but not radically so, and she wore a loose sweater with a fairly open weave; since Lisa had never, in all the years I’d known her, been known to wear a bra, there were occasional tantalizing glimpses of flesh through the sweater. She was never too obvious, though, and an observer could never be sure whether whether he’d just seen a flash of her nipple or whether he’d just imagined it. The sweater was cut low enough that when she leaned forward as he served the wine, he almost certainly got a brief but distinct look at her tits. She loved that sort of flirtation. When I mentioned that we were getting especially attentive service as a result, she asked whether I thought he was hard yet.

That was her way. And there was always a smirk that said she would just as soon take the situation a step further. In this case, she speculated on whether she ought to take him the waiter into the ladies’ room. I wasn’t overly concerned that she would, though. I could tell when she was just toying with an idea, or with me. Not that she wasn’t capable of it — she was quite capable — but her goal on this occasion was to stoke her own excitement so as to arouse me. And she was succeeding. There’s no aphrodisiac like your partner’s excitement. It was a ‘feedback loop’ we’d perfected over the years.

As a result, by the time we arrived at the bar, we were both at a high pitch. It wasn’t very late, but it was a fairly slow night at the bar. We had a drink or two and flirted quietly with each other. Finally, Lisa asked if I’d thought about Marty’s gift.

Half bluffing (it was tough to tell, even long afterward, whether I’d been bluffing or not; the wine had fuzzed my inhibitions by then), I said I thought it might be a good idea. She suggested then that we visit Marty in the office. “You can decide later,” she said, “and let me know what you want me to do. There’s no pressure. I’d be willing to leave it a fantasy.”

Lisa was good at putting me at ease. She had a kind of wisdom, as well as an electric sexuality, that allowed her to always make me feel unpressured. At the same time, of course, she aroused my imagination in ways that made me able to consider what might otherwise have been unthinkable.

When we knocked on the door to the office, Marty let us in and locked the door behind us; he was just rolling himself a joint, as it happened. We passed it around and chatted, and I rolled another. As we smoked, I could catch him stealing glances at Lisa, and I could see why. Her nipples were erect, and she had that moist-eyed glaze of excitement that was due to more than just the grass.

By then, the liquor, the earlier teasing conversation with Lisa, the smoke, and her evident arousal had numbed my own inhibitions and misgivings thoroughly. I mentioned Marty’s birthday and told him that I’d been trying to think of a gift; he said it wasn’t necessary, but I wouldn’t accept that. Lisa shot me a glance that told me she was more than eager, so I told Marty that we’d finally decided upon a truly memorable present. At that point, I looked pointedly at Lisa and touched her shoulder.

Playing the wide-eyed innocent, she looked back at me and asked, “Do you want me on my knees now?”

“I think that would be appropriate,” I responded.

Marty was taken utterly by surprise (as I mentioned, I was known as a rather conservative sort), but he was quick to understand the situation. Lisa knelt before him and began to open the zipper on his jeans. To her pleasant surprise, Marty wasn’t wearing underwear, and his nearly erect prick was suddenly at her eye level. As she wrapped her lips around it, she gazed into *my* eyes, to show me how pleased (and excited) she was. I started to open the door to leave them, but she reached out a hand and pushed it back closed. “Stay,” she said, “there’s nothing you can’t see.” Marty could only say, “oh.”

Slowly, she ran her tongue up the shaft of his now very hard tool. “Tell him what a good cocksucker I am.” With that, she engulfed him again, reaching out one hand to grab my hand. She placed it on the back of her head and then reached for Marty’s to place it on her head, too. He groaned.

I shoved her head down on him, and he soon had taken over, holding her head in both hands, pushing his prick down her throat. In seconds, he was bucking and humping her face as he filled her mouth with semen.She intentionally held on to his prick with her lips while she let some of the cum drip down her chin. All the while, he’d said nothing but “oh,” “wow,” and “Lisa.”

She swallowed, looked coyly up at him, and said, “Happy Birthday, Marty.” Then she looked at me and said, “I’m glad you didn’t go, but you didn’t tell him what a good cocksucker I am, so I’ll have to show him how wet I get when I have a hard prick in my mouth.” She took his hand then, and pulled it under her skirt. I knew then that she’d probably removed her panties earlier, when she’d gone to the ladies’ room in the restaurant. “Sometimes it makes me so excited that I come,” she said, “but poor Marty came too fast . . . this time.” She smiled.

Suddenly, she reached for my zipper. “Why don’t you help Dean take my sweater off,” she said to Marty, as she dropped again to her knees, this time in front of me. “I’d hate to get cum stains on it.” She smiled coyly again. I didn’t come as quickly as Marty had. When I did, though, she took my prick out of her mouth before I’d finished, and directed the last hot spurts to her breasts. That triggered her own orgasm (it was a quirk of hers that I, of course, knew about, that when she was really highly aroused, she could sometimes climax merely at the touch of hot semen on her breasts) and she screamed. Fortunately, the jukebox outside the door was loud enough that no one could hear.

She stood up then, and asked Marty to roll another joint; she made no attempt to put her blouse back on. When he handed her a lit joint, Lisa looked directly at Marty and explained “this was a birthday present I wanted to give you, but don’t misunderstand. It only happened because Dean was here. For tonight, I’m your birthday present; tomorrow, I’ll act as though it never happened, and it never will, without him. I just want to make that clear.” With that, though, she grinned and said, to us both this time, “but the night is young.” And it was.

That was our first such experience. It never could have happened had Lisa not understood her own sexuality so well, nor her ability to make it non-threatening for me. She was wise to know that jealousy and raw sexuality, when openly confronted, don’t have to go together.

The night was, indeed, young. Before it ended, she and I had taken our relationship to a new plane. More on that later. Maybe.

So, what do you think ?

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