Her Birthday

by Rajah Dodger {rdodger@hotmail.com} (c) 2002, 2009

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons
Attribution-Non-Commercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License (by-nc-sa). In
jurisdictions where the Creative Commons license is not recognized, United
States copyright and Berne Convention provisions apply; all rights reserved to
Rajah Dodger except that electronic not-for-profit reproduction rights are
explicitly granted with the stipulation that this authorship and permission
note must remain attached.

Abstract: A woman gets a very surprising birthday party from her colleague

She sips her tepid coffee and reads the newspaper, trying to decide what to do
after the bills are paid and some sort of dinner is prepared. The house echoes
heavily with memories of past birthdays, some bright, some dark, all sharing
the presence of other people. Making a face, she takes a marking pen and
circles a movie as the best alternative to a solo evening of television or
mingling with anonymous strangers at a bar.

As she sits up and sighs, the quiet is broken by the abrupt ringing of the
telephone. The voice at the other end is familiar, one of her office
colleagues, a friend if not a close friend, for she has not allowed herself the
danger of close friends since he left.

"What are you doing tonight?" Her normally attractive face creases into a
frown, the question an unwanted reminder of the malaise and anomie assailing
her. "I was going to catch that new Adam Sandler movie..." she begins, but her
colleague dismisses her plans with unexpected enthusiasm. "Oh forget *that*,
there's always a new Adam Sandler movie. I'm having a little get-together
tonight, and you simply *must* come!"

The phrase "simply must", echoing as it does the image of blonde debutantes and
Junior League members, would normally elicit a polite but firm dismissal. On
the other hand, there *is* always another Adam Sandler movie, and the tone of
excitement in the other woman's voice is at least intriguing. Her attempts to
clarify the nature of the get-together are politely but effectively
sidestepped, and directions are given with a target of eight o'clock.

She hangs up the phone, wondering briefly at the unexpected gesture of
friendship, then shakes off most of her mood and heads to the study to take
care of the household finances.

Dinner, when the time comes, is a diet tray from the frozen food section of the
grocery store. The microwave, she sometimes thinks, is the recluse's best
friend. Once the table is cleared, the question now arises, what to wear? The
simple housedress that suffices during the day indoors is of course out of the
question, even had the invitation specified "come as you are." Lacking any
helpful suggestions, she rummages through her closet and puts together a simple
ensemble, comfortable pants with a blue-and-purple shaded pattern blouse, one
that neither hides nor accentuates her figure. She checks her watch; yes, on
schedule. A visit to the bathroom to brush her teeth, and she picks up purse
and keys for her first outing in quite some time.

Her destination is a simple ranch-style home in one of the better-off
neighborhoods. She brings her car to a stop a half-block away from the address,
idling, a sudden hesitance about dealing with people in a social setting giving
her pause. But an accepted invitation is a social contract, so she puts the
gear back into Drive and pulls up to park. For a moment she wonders where the
other guests have parked, then shrugs and opens her door to stretch her legs.
Clicking the car alarm behind her, she walks up the paved stones to the front
door, initial hesitance quickly covered with an assumed facade of pleasant
anticipation.

"Marge, I'm so glad you could make it. Come in, come in!" Her hostess flutters
around her, pointing out a place to lay her purse, asking after her day, all of
the niceties of a standard party greeting. They leave the entryway and move
deeper into the house, arriving at a small dining alcove where a birthday cake,
a glass of champagne and two crystal glasses sit beneath dimmed lights.

Unexpected is an inadequate word.

She could turn and run home. She briefly wants to cry. The touch of her
colleague's hand on her back urges her forward, helping her sit down at the
table.

"Surprised? Well, I have a friend in Personnel, and when I found out that it
was your birthday, I said to myself, April, you can't let that nice Marge go
without someone remembering her." A knife appears, two slices of the cake are
cut, and the champagne is poured, all without disrupting the flow of words.
"Now I do apologize for not having a whole group here, but I'm afraid it's a
little difficult to get a group together from our office, you know how everyone
has their other commitments."

She finds a fork in her hand, and automatically inserts it into the cake. The
piece she brings to her mouth tastes of vanilla and amaretto. April lifts a
glass, and so she must also, hearing a cheery "Happy Birthday" toast. April
eats her slice of cake with the grace of a social director, timing her last
bite to finish with Marge. "Now, dear, for your birthday present!"

Marge finds volition returning to her, as she begins to demur. "Oh please,
April, this was a lovely surprise, but I couldn't possibly..."

It is as if she has not even spoken. April takes her hand in a warm but
insistent grip and leads her away from the table, through the elegant living
room, and down a hall to a room with a closed door.

The door is opened...

"Oh. My. God."

The boy -- no, not a boy, but certainly a young man -- on the bed lays nude,
hands tied over his head, a pair of stereo headphones covering his ears and a
pair of leather pads covering his eyes. The hair on his head is fair and full,
that on his chest is downy, and further down...

She blushes, staring at his semi-aroused state. What can she do? Her legs are
shaky, rooted to the spot. And her body generates its own messages, nipples
brushing against her thin bra, a heat building inside. It's been so long, after
all...

Somewhere outside she half-hears words, like a radio broadcast in bad weather.
"... woman like you needs ... didn't know until my friend told me ... you've
been so nice around the office, not like those other ... longest time to find
just the right ..."

A tug at the back of her neck, and the cool air in the room washes over her
suddenly warm neck. Another tug, and the buttons down the back of her blouse
give up their attachments. Hands slide the garment forward over unresisting
arms, and those same hands slide the zipper of her slacks down to push it to
the floor. Her mouth gapes, breath echoing loudly inside her head, eyes looking
hungrily between the young man's legs, watching the member pulse on his
stomach. A pat on her bare bottom rouses her to step forward, leaving her
clothing behind, stopping just a handsbreadth away from the bed.

"Go ahead," comes the voice at her ear. "Touch it."

She reaches out as if in a dream, laying her hand along its length, feeling the
heat and the sudden answering growth. Her tongue peeks out to dab at her lips,
and she knows what she wants.

As the door behind her draws closed, one last comment enters her consciousness.
"And just wait until you see what he can do with his tongue!"

/END/