The Birthday Surprise

Written by molly - molly2610@hotmail.com (August 2000)

A cold shiver ran down my spine despite the heat of the day. It was my wife's birthday celebration and I had reserved us a balcony table at a popular riverside restaurant. Fortunately Bernadette had just lifted a third glass of Chardonnay to her lips and turned to look at the olive green river flowing swiftly by. She missed my momentary break of composure entirely. She turned back to our table and idly began to chase an empty oyster shell around her plate with a silver fork.

"Well, are you ready for your birthday present?" I asked, keeping my voice as steady as I could.

She nodded enthusiastically, her green eyes sparkling. Her black hair was cut in its typical Louise Brooke's bob, and shone with faint auburn highlights in the bright mid-day sun. Her face really should have belonged to a nun, I reflected for the millionth time during our marriage. Chastity, however, was the last thing on my mind for that day.

"Okay, drink up - it's all arranged" I suggested.

Conran was waiting to greet us at his clinic's reception desk. I covertly stared at my wife around the side of my Ray Bans as she checked out his offices. She rapidly took in the curving reception desk, black leather and chrome ultra-modernist chairs and the elaborate acupuncture charts hanging on the sponged walls. She even read the discrete notice on the desk that assured clients of stringent equipment sterilisation practices and added that for additional peace of mind all members of staff were voluntarily screened for HIV. Conran's Health & Beauty clinic was exclusive and expensive. I had made quite certain of that.

Next she appraised Conran. Her eyes travelled up and down his long, taut, six-foot frame taking in his close-cropped hair, deep, brown pools of eyes, axe-blade cheekbones and skin as densely black as the midnight sky. I had chosen him very carefully. His briefing had been long and precise, the negotiations on price rapid and his enthusiasm for the birthday surprise unconditionally guaranteed.

Conran took her boldly by the hand. He was already charming her with his idiosyncratic English in a honeyed baritone. He explained that I had gifted her an afternoon of massage at his competent hands.

I smiled and kissed her on the cheek. "I'll be back to pick you up in two or three hours" I skilfully lied, "You just relax and enjoy yourself. Conran knows exactly what he is doing. He really is the best in town."

All according to plan.

She looked dazed as Conran led her away to his inner sanctum. His muscular frame towered over her. His hands never stopped moving lightly over her curves. They were already moulding her to his powerful touch with faint promises of what was to come.

"So far so good," I muttered to myself as I climbed the stairs to the viewing gallery where Conran's students would daily gather behind the mirrored window to observe his techniques.

The cramped, hidden room afforded an unobstructed view into Conran's work area. The floors were polished timber, the walls painted in soft pastel shades, and the wide massage couch boldly occupied centre stage. It was a complex, custom-made affair of soft calf leather and polished stainless steel. Moveable supports enabled the masseur to position arms and legs in any manner they might choose.

Conran had already shown Bernadette behind the changing screen whilst he busied himself spreading white fluffy towels over the table. His bare feet were silent on the hard floor. He carefully made his selection from the bottles of essential oils neatly organised along an antique dressing table. Each bottle was laid to warm to body heat in a water bath. I tried to make myself comfortable on one of the hard chairs. My mouth was already dry with anticipation.

Bernadette emerged from behind the Japanese paper screen. Her cheeks were slightly flushed. A thick towelling robe embroidered with a Ying-Yang symbol shrouded her hourglass figure. Conran invited her to sit up on the couch whilst he explained its workings and how as the massage progressed he would reposition her limbs for better access. His voice carried perfectly, aided by the hidden sound and video system that piped directly into the viewing room.

"Excellent," said Conran, "If you could just take off your robe and lie down faced. Then we start."

He turned his back on her and went to dim the lights at the wall control panel. Faint strains of classical twelve-string guitar began to drift through the room. He walked to his oil bottles and began to remove them from the water bath.

Bernadette hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and slid the robe from her shoulders. She stood in the dim light, robe bundled at her feet, naked and exposed. I could see Conran surreptitiously gazing into the dressing table mirror, assessing her form with a practised, measuring gaze.

Her shoulders were wide; her collar bones sharply accentuated curves that lead his eyes unerringly to her full breasts. Below the gentle swell of her belly a dark triangle of pubic hair nestled between her odalisque thighs. The vision was gone as she nimbly climbed onto the couch and nestled herself face down into its comfortable embrace.

Conran approached with a crimson towel folded over one shoulder. It was a stark slash of colour against his white kimono jacket and black skin. He adjusted her limbs on the couch.

"Is that quite comfortable?" he asked.

She nodded, and he carefully placed the towel over her rounded buttocks. "To ensure your modesty," Conran reassured her.

He oiled his hands and began to knead and pummel her back. His hands never left her as he varied position and pressure from soothing strokes to long, hard presses into tender acupuncture points. Even from my distant vantage point I could tell that my wife's characteristically fierce determination was crumbling.

She lifted her arms languidly above her head and almost imperceptibly parted her thighs. A long, slow back rub had always been a powerful turn on to her and Conran's expertise at his craft made my own efforts seem crass and amateurish.

He moved down to her legs, smoothing her limbs with fragrant oils and working her tense calf muscles with probing thumbs. Never for a second did he disturb the covering towel. That would come later. For now it was important that she develop absolute confidence in him. The massage seemed to go on and on endlessly until his voice finally broke the silence of his intense concentration:

"Now I think we should turn you over and finish you off."

He helped her turn over onto her back and thoughtfully rearranged the towel. Her lush breasts were criss-crossed with red lines where her weight had crushed them flat against the couch, but her nipples were visibly erect. Conran stood at the top of the couch pouring more ylan-ylan and petulie oil onto his lightened palms. He began to massage her shoulders. She gave a long drawn out sigh at the welcome return of his touch. He worked on each of her deltoids then moved onto her pectorals.

Slowly and almost imperceptibly his fingers inched towards her breasts. Bernadette's breath qucikened as she realised his intended destination. Yet she made no effort to stop him as he moulded his hands to cup her wonderfully engorged orbs. Her brown nipples were less obvious now as the wide areolae arose around them.

Her smouldering excitement at last caught aflame. With a quick flick, Conran sent both of his hands skidding down the deep valley between her breasts to liberally coat her abdomen with oil. She groaned. His dancing fingers crept relentlessly down towards her sensitive lower belly.

They lingered there, right at the edges of her pubic triangle, then slowly moved outwards, under the covering towel to stroke her hips. After a long while they emerged from under the towel, only to reach over it and rub the full length of her thighs.

Even Conran's tall frame was doubled over to achieve this. I could picture my wife's dawning realisation that the firm pressure against her cheek could only be one thing. I swear that I noticed her turn her head to gently nuzzle the obvious bulge in Conran's shorts.

Conran straightened, "I can not reach from here, Bernadette. It will only take me but a moment to correct this."

Again his hands never left her as he repositioned himself to her left side. Now he could reach up to her outstretched arms and down to her spread legs. And reach he did as he covered every square inch of her skin with his caresses. For caresses were what they had obviously become.

Despite herself my wife was responding to his ministrations. The way that she bit her bottom lip and dug her fingernails into her palms were sure signs that she was losing control. Her resistance slipped a little more each time she allowed his explorations to go further without protest.

Conran's voice startled me. I had become so intensely drawn into the conflicting looks of moral agony and sensual ecstasy playing across my lover's face.

"I think perhaps you should let me thank you for your kindness and patience today," he suggested.

I was not the only one absorbed by the conflict of desires playing within her, for I don't think she truly understood his comment. Her slight nod was automatic, and more in response to the oscillations that had started in her pelvis than a real answer to his words.

Conran shamelessly slid his left hand deep under the shrouding towel. The colour drained from my wife's lower lip entirely. Her back arced upwards and her knees fell outwards in acquiescence. She allowed his hand unrestricted access to the growing neediness between her legs.

The crimson towel finally gave up its grip and slid to the floor. It somehow seemed an appropriate symbol. She was far beyond anything that could ever be described as modest. She lay naked and revealed, her sexuality scorching from her every pore.

A sudden wave of jealousy caused me to turn away from the scene that I had so carefully construed. This was not what I had expected. Did I really want it to continue? A further movement from Conran inexorably drew my attention back. He withdrew his teasing fingers and calmly walked over to the dressing table as if nothing had happened. I realised that events were going to unfold no matter what I felt. There was nothing I could do to control it now. The pangs of jealousy evaporated. Instead I was filled with an intense, voyeuristic fascination.

Bernadette lay passive and strangely still. Filled with an expectant tranquillity. She no longer thought. She no longer struggled to control her conflicting desires. She only felt. She felt the cooling oil on her skin. The staccato beat of her heart in her throat. The swish of blood in her ears. She felt a warm gush of arousal trickle over her thighs. Her undischarged sexual crescendo lay like a hard, painful knot in her womb. She ached for its release, but could not believe that she could feel so... wanton in the presence of a total stranger.

I eagerly took in every moment of our drama from my secret vigil post. Conran set a serving trolley with a ceramic bowl filled with steaming water, a coarse sea-sponge, a bar of scented soap and a glass filled with effervescent mineral water. He threw a fresh towel over his shoulder and wheeled the trolley over to where my wife lay so uncommonly still. First he supported her head whilst she gulped from the glass. Next he dipped the sponge in the hot water, and with the soap in his other hand began to systematically bathe and dry her.

He gradually moved down her body, washing away the residues of oil. Nary a word was said between them. His touch was visibly brusque and clinical. It was as if he knew that in her present state anything other than that would be too painful. He avoided her pubic region entirely and continued down her legs to her feet.

Her skin soon glowed pink from his tender scrubbing. Only her damp pubic hair continued to bear witness to this afternoon's excesses.

"Would you like me to finish bathing you?" asked Conran solicitously.

"Y-yes," her voice seemed shaky to me.

Conran dipped the sponge into the bowl, squeezed it out and leisurely placed his hand between my beautiful wife's legs for the second time that day.

The knot within her gave a savage twist as the streams of hot, fresh water poured over her vulva and down over her anus to pool at her buttocks. The sea-sponge tormented her aching clitoris as he diligently wiped her clean. The rougher texture of the towel rub finally caused her thighs to spasm clam-tight around both the towel and Conran's hand. She moaned. The tension was just unendurable.

Conran smiled knowingly. His voice was controlled, almost matter of fact: "Would you like me to attend to this last little bit of tension?"

She nodded, no longer trusting herself to speak. Conran seemed hesitant, but the parting of her thighs to release his trapped hand soon cued him into action. He untied his kimono jacket and casually dropped it to the floor.

His torso was lithe, carved ebony. He tucked two thumbs into the waistband of his shorts and slid them down his muscular legs. He stepped out of them and stood naked by her side. His penis was erect and canted slightly to one side. It was difficult to determine its dimensions from this far away.

He bent down to operate the couches controls, splitting it open into a V shape at its foot. Bernadette bent her legs and invitingly shuffled her bum to the new edge of the couch � ready to welcome what ever he had to offer.

He moved around her now spread right knee. I could not help but notice the way that his buttocks dimpled as he walked. He stood between her opened legs. His gaze lingered longingly on her breasts and belly and pouting vulva; laid out for his delight. He looked up again at her face, as if seeking further permission from her. She lifted her head and shoulders, propping herself up on her elbows to watch. Her eyes unerringly locked onto his as he reverently lowered himself to kneel before her.

She felt the first soft nibbling kiss at her innermost thigh and shivered. The kisses moved slowly upwards. The higher they went the faster her heart beat. Closer still they came. Probing now into her fecund nest of pubic hair. At last his rapt face hovered over his ultimate objective. He paused. Deeply inhaling the musky scent of her. She could feel his hot breath on her tender, swollen inner lips.

He breathed in and out. In and out. Then it happened. His lips and tongue and breath and face all buried themselves into her heat and wetness and need. A long, slow surge of pleasure emanated out from her vagina. The wave spread, warming her thighs and sending electric tingles from her belly to her breasts. She collapsed back onto the couch in a forlorn heap. Her legs fell wide in total, absolute surrender.

His tongue flicked around her clitoris, searching to find her rhythm and sensitive spots. His lips vibrated in a low pitched hum that was strangely and uniquely erotic. It seemed to flow right into her body and resonate deep inside her vagina. He finally found the right cadence and pressure. Her pleasure built in rapid, breaking waves. She knew that she was about to come.

Would soon be unable to stop it. Her knees clamped hard together, her thighs pressing tight against his ears, preventing him from moving. Reluctantly forcing his wonderful tongue to stop. She panted with the effort. Her legs shook. Her whole body shook.

Conran looked up at her. Wondering what lingering vestige of ambivalence had forced her to stop his attentions at such a late stage. She could not believe the words were coming from her own lips, but they somehow boiled out of the deep abyss of frustration within her:

"I want you inside me."

She released him and he climbed to his feet. Her juices glistened on his lips and chin. This time was different. This time she reached down to pull his penis towards her. She glided her fingers up and down its length, gauging its breadth and idly reflecting on how different it felt from her husband's familiar shape. Conran looked surprised as she started to rub its circumcised head against her creamy wetness.

His eyes closed.

I knew exactly what he would be feeling as she went through her preparation for his entry.

First she slid him up and down. Up and down. Using his penis to anoint her clitoris and allowing their lubrications to mix. Then she pulled just the tip of him into her vestibule, allowing him to discover the tightness of the strong ring of muscles guarding her innermost sanctuary. The same muscles that would milk him dry when she eventually came. I watched as her feet locked behind his buttocks to pull him closer still. Deeper still.

Now he would be feeling that circle of resistance descending over the head of his penis and tightly gripping his shaft. Next he would be experiencing the vast silky expanses of her vagina � its promises of infinite pleasure and infinite capacity for his ejaculation. Finally he would touch the sponginess of her undefended cervix, ready and waiting to soak up his cum.

She moved her hands to his pelvis and used them to control the pace and depth of his movements. She guided him slowly in and out of her. In and out. I knew that she would be using her wonderful muscle tone to grip him especially hard as he pulled out of her. Subtly encouraging him to plunge ever inwards and never leave her depths again. It was now Conran's turn to shiver.

The animal rhythm of the fuck claimed them both. A sheen of sweat seemed to coat their skins. I noticed a blotchy, scarlet flush beginning to spread across my lover's throat. She quickened the pace. Her lips parted.

Her nostrils flared. Her breasts slapped against her chest with the intensity of their rocking. Conran was panting too. His hands gripped her bum fast as he lifted her pelvis high into the air to deepen his long strokes. It seemed to work. Her heels spurred him on even faster. She seemed to be commanding a galloping stallion. She suddenly lifted her head from the couch.

Her hands grasped his biceps and she pulled him down on top of her. Her legs simultaneously flexed at the hips and doubled at the knees for maximum penetration. Conran shifted his grip from her buttocks. His hands slid under her armpits to firmly hold her shoulders. He pulled her smooth body relentlessly down towards his pounding ass. His blackness enshrouded and penetrated her. Her hands were twin splashes of white on his lower back.

I knew that her release was close. Had maybe already begun. Her fingers clawed at his back leaving long welts on his dark skin. Her eyes screwed tightly shut. Her head tossed to one side as if she was desperate to draw breath. Suddenly she opened her mouth wide and bit down on his shoulder. Her hips jerked spasmodically. I knew that she was coming hard. Coming around another man's penis.

Wringing the last drop of semen right out of him. For I had little doubt that one orgasm had triggered another. Conran's impassioned gasps and deep thrusts were quite unmistakable. It seemed that their synergistic orgasms would never stop, but eventually their locked bodies rolled to a long, slow, shuddering halt. Conran partially collapsed his weight on top of her. Completely drained by her rapacious hunger.

The moment hung as if suspended in time and space.

Slowly she loosened her bite. Her green eyes opened and she lifted her proud chin. She stared straight past Conran's bruised shoulder. Up past the dimmed lights. Straight through the one way mirror and into my eyes. Was it me or her own reflection that she spoke to when she mouthed a silent:

"Happy Birthday,"

I wondered?

Maybe I would find out next year.