Category: nineteenth birthday present

Nineteenth Birthday Present

It was the night before my nineteenth birthday, and, hell, had I waited long enough.

And I’m babysitting. Kids snoring in bed; me, alone watching a film downstairs when the door opens and the guy, hmmm, we’ll call him, hell, we’ll call him ‘you’ and his missus walk in. Home early. Her not well… Overindulged (hic), maybe… She goes straight upstairs, barely acknowledging me, and I hear her crash down onto the bed in the room above me. Small houses these. No secrets here,

The guy, you, you say I can stay and finish the film, pours a drink… Asks if I fancy a cider… Yeah, yeah, at almost 19 I’ve been drinking for four years or more already… And you hand me a can, cracking it open as you do so… Sit down next to me. Close enough. Far enough away.

I can smell you. Sweet, rum maybe, but my nose ain’t as refined as it’s going to be, smoky. And, not meaning to, I chew my bottom lip and pour a swig of cider down. You, I can feel you next to me, dark, moody, and I think you might be looking at me, but when I peer discreetly out of the corner of my eye, nope, your eyes are staring at the TV screen, not noticing me, now talking. Indifferent. And I push my arse back into the cushion behind me and relax.

It’s a bog-standard rom-com, a 90s film I just caught on the TV. I’ve got work tomorrow and I should be going but the cider slips down nicely, and you, though not watching get us both another drink, picking up a DVD on the way. Waving it at me, you ask if it’s okay to change, and I say cool as I take the can. Now I’m watching you, openly, just curious. You, still no interest in me, in talking, you sit down, a little closer. Warm.

I pluck up my courage and ask what we’re watching. You shrug. You don’t really know. A buddy leant you it, and then you just wink, all casual, told you to watch it with a girlfriend sometime. And I’m a girl, hell, a woman, aren’t I, and we both smile, laugh, and I take a sip.

Now you aren’t, this I know, the kind of guy to lure your babysitter into watching hardcore porn, because, baby that would be bad, you a married man and all. But something just a bit softer, a storyline slightly above, Chloeville and her amazing turkey baster. Something with a bit of story, tension… And we sit and there’s a tension all right. Tangible. Fucking tangible.

And you ask how’s my drink and I tell you good, and you, all Mr Moral-Protective say that’s it though. Two ciders. We’ve got to look after me, and you look at me for the first time right in the eyes, and I just melt and try to keep that gaze. And the cider helps me do so for a short while, until my eyelids close a little and I look down, biting my lip.

On the screen the young woman, older than me, I guess, by a year or two, early twenties maybe, goes back into the room marked staff only, with some shop assistant guy who looks like an ape, though a sexy one. You reach up your hand, all slow, and touch my chin, lift up my gaze, and you tell me I’m beautiful and to watch out for shop assistant guys who look like apes, because they’re only after one thing, and I am way too precious for that. Way too precious. And slower, slower than I can write, you do this, just looking at me, your eyes darting round my face, eating me up.

And gentle-gentle, you, your lips come down and kiss me, so soft, barely a touch, and I melt some more, don’t think, just go, with you.

And you pat your lap, tell me to come sit on you, and me, I hesitate, all nervous. But you kiss me again, you do, and my body just moves to sit on you, and we sit, pointing at the screen, where Fay Wray is kissing King Kong, his hands up her shirt, pulling out perfect breasts, sucking on them, while his hand rubs at her crotch, up her thigh.

You turn me round to face you, and you kiss me, full on, me astride you, and you stop and you just look. You pull up my t-shirt, my arms stretch above my head, bra underneath, and I feel you stir underneath me, mixing with you kissing me so hard now and one hand undoing my bra, and I just move my hips back at you, an unconscious response, and it all just goes at once.

There’s a shout from upstairs. Your wife, rude, rude, asks if you’ve taken the babysitter home and you, finger in front on my lips, shout that we’re just watching the end of the movie and she goes silent, and we pause. And then we move again. You, kissing me, my face, my breasts, me just letting you and gently gently moving still so I feel you, under your jeans, growing up against me.

And you flip me over onto the couch, you move the crotch of my knickers to one side, and me I’m so fucking wet and ready you just pull down your zip and you put your hand softly over my mouth and ease your way in. I glance at the screen where shop-boy is fucking his princess up against a wall in a room full of tins. And I feel you inside me, all gentleness gone, but feeling so fucking good. Murmuring, you, about showing me what a real man’s like and how you just want to fuck me so badly. In my ear. And all I can see and hear and smell and feel and taste is you, fucking sensory overload, man…

And this isn’t going to take long, but that’s cool, because, hell, you, this’ll happen again, soon, when you drive me home, and put your hand on my thigh, rub at me, already so fucking wet from you, with you. Just fucking dripping with you. And again. And again, maybe, til me, I outgrow you.

But for now, you fuck me on that couch. Me, quiet, learning, e-n-j-o-y-i-n-g. Pounding away inside of me, murmuring in my ear, you, until, oh yes, you just catch your breath and I feel those last few thrusts and you come inside me. Pause awhile. Roll off. Straighten us out. Kiss me, all hush, and head for the car.

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