B-Day Girl
by JT Langdon
Rating: NC-17
Dawn asks me what I want for my birthday. What do I want? Such a simple question. But one I can't answer . . . can never answer. Not with the truth, at least. I can lie, tell her I want to go out to dinner, that I want the Dido CD, that I want a new machete or a leather jacket or hoop earrings. But the truth I keep to myself.
What do I want? Faith on my bed, naked, frosting on her nipples, a lit candle sticking out of her shaved pussy. I want her to look up at me, mischief in her eyes, a smile playing on her lips, a smile that only I would get to see, a smile she would only to me, a smile I could fall in love with. Her body would be perfection, hard, lean, breasts that are soft and round, hips that curve just right, washboards abs that would make me jealous and want her at the same time.
"Happy B-day, B," Faith would say. "Like your present?"
I'd nod. She would watch me get undressed, her gaze like a laser beam that could burn the clothes off me, and when I was naked, at last, when I had striped off my top, taken off my bra, wiggled out of my jeans and panties, when I stood there in my birthday suit, stood there naked in front of Faith, that gaze would burn my skin, ignite it, set me on fire, until I was smoldering like the candle between her legs. I would go to her, cross the room, close the little distance there is between us, my nipples aching for the touch of her lips, my cunt dripping wet at the thought of her going down on me. Faith would watch me like a predator, like a lioness watches a gazelle stray from the flock, patient, dangerous.
I would get into bed with Faith, slide up along side her, then lean down and brush my lips over hers. The kiss would be soft, sweet, almost innocent, if two naked girls sharing a kiss in bed can share an innocent kiss. It would turn into something more, though, something deep, passionate, urgent, like we would die if we stopped kissing, like the world would be nothing but a charred ruin if her lips ever left mine, even for a second, a kiss where her tongue slithers over mine, a real kiss. Hungry, needy, desperate.
But I would break the kiss, tear my mouth from hers, even if it would mean risking the world, because I would need to suckle at her breasts. I would kiss along the side of her neck and keep going until I reached them, reached her frosting-covered nipples, then I would drag my tongue over one of them, licking off a dollop of frosting, savoring the taste of it. Mint? Yes, I think mint. She should taste like mint. Minty Faith nipples. I would kiss and lick them, cleaning the frosting from each of them in turn, one then the other, until all the frosting was gone, and my lips tasted of mint and her nipples were firm hard points in my mouth. I would keep licking them after all the frosting was gone, though, kissing and sucking her hard nubs until she was whimpering for me.
That's when I would kiss my way down her flat tummy, soft, nibbling kisses that take me to the flickering candle between her legs. I would pluck the candle from her pussy and blow it out, watching the wax pool on the end of it, then I would tilt the candle slightly and let the wax fall on her shaved mound. She would cry out when the wax hit her skin, arch her hips, thrust them at me like she is offering herself to me. I would kiss the beads of wax hardening on her smooth mound, soothing her pain. But then I would kiss lower, just a little lower, press my lips to her slit, kissing those lips like I kissed her other lips, gently at first, then more hungrily, opening my mouth wider, taking her all in, dipping into her with my tongue, my minty tongue, swirling around inside her, teasing her clit, licking her and sucking her until she was moaning and writhing and muttering my name over and over and over, until she was coming in my mouth, her wetness spilling over my lips.
So what do I want for my birthday, Dawn? Something I can never have.