Surprise!
by JellybeanChiChi
The following is an entry for the Brigits_Flame September Mini Contest. The prompt was "confessions" and should be a monologue that could be delivered by an actress. I wrote this for another community, but it fit this well. It was part of a three-part POV piece I did with insolentscrawl and seattlecsifan. Please note: Mature material, especially language. Hope you enjoy.
------
I know it was my birthday and quite honestly he should have been wearing the trench coat, but sometimes giving a treat is a treat in itself.
I just didn’t think I would be treating more than one person.
Or 20, for that matter.
So, it was my birthday. The big 3-8, and I wanted to say goodbye to 37 in a big way. Almost like a rebirth.
And I wanted to be reborn in front of the man I loved - Gilbert Dalton.
I had this good idea. Actually, I reasoned it as “poetic kink.” For a rebirth to occur, one must redo their outlook and their look. So, I went to Frederick’s and picked up something new. Something I wouldn’t have picked up last year.
A piece of evening wear that screamed, “Look at my tits,” instead of saying, “Hey, look. I’ve been to New York, New York.”
Sure my “birthday suit” would have been apropos, but call me devilish. I wanted Gil to see me in that lingerie and passionately rip it off to get to my birthday suit.
Of course, sometimes, the devil is in the details.
But I’m ahead of myself. It started when Gil found me in the kitchen five days before my birthday. I was staring at the coffee maker, when he came behind me and lifted the hair off the back of my neck. As he dropped gentle, lazy Sunday morning kisses he said, in that irresistible throaty voice, “I’d like to take you Le Pavillion on Friday night.”
“Really?” I replied, basking in the feeling of his breath close to my ear. “What’s the occasion?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, his hands flirtatiously stroking sensitive areas under my New York, New York nightshirt. “It might be someone’s birthday.”
“Well, it’s not yours, even though Le Pavillion is your favorite restaurant,” I said, my smile certainly hidden from his eyes, but not from the tone of my voice.
Gil turned me around and held me against him. “Don’t play like that. You love that place. I seem to remember having to work very hard one evening to upstage the, and I quote you, ‘orgasmic explosion’ offered by the polenta with wild mushrooms and white wine cream sauce.”
Well, that was true. And afterwards I had a mocha chocolate brownie with homemade vanilla sorbet. Oh my God. Gil did try hard, and did an incredible job. But … oh my God.
But back to the kitchen … I wasn’t about to turn down the offer because … well, shit, did I mention the fucking brownie? And it truly was his favorite restaurant. Although, I know my blow jobs could trump his fried calamari with rouille, cherry peppers and lemon, and that lamb dish he always gets. I’ve seen his food face and his fuck face. I win.
Then I got “the idea.” If I could wear something that could make him forget about our dinner reservations and just… well… fuck me right there in the living room, my “new life” would start off just fine.
So that was my plan. The hardest part was trying to find a place to change. Yes, I could have changed at work, but strolling down the hall wearing a trench coat in mid-September when it’s still 86 degrees outside just sounded like a stupid idea.
Then I thought about the dog park. They had clean restrooms and big stalls, including a handicapped stall that was bigger than my college loft. Minimal amount of people. Enough lighting to apply makeup and tweak those stray hairs. Girl’s gotta do, what a girl’s gotta do.
So I did that. And I tried to be as inconspicuous as possible.
Problem with that, is sometimes security guards view inconspicuous as “guilty as sin.”
When I came out of the ladies room in the trench coat and “fuck me” stiletto pumps (that’s right, I matched the lingerie with the footwear. I’m telling you, I had to pull the big guns. The brownies at Le Pavillion are that fucking good)… anyway, when I came out, I tried to make a beeline to the car, when I saw the flashlight beam straight into my eye.
“Excuse me miss,” the guard said. “I need to see an ID.”
I don’t know what was more embarrassing - diving into the depths of my trenchcoat pocket while trying to stand in stilettos or hearing the guard get on his walkie-talkie to confirm my identity. Note to self: Trench coats make you look fat, no matter what is underneath. 5’ 9” 175 pounds my ass!
But that was just a fluke, right? Just a bit of karma catching me on the tail end of my “old life.” The good stuff doesn’t start till I get home, right?
When I got to the townhouse, all was dark and quiet. I figured he was in the bedroom getting ready. So I yelled out, in that sexy, teasing voice that I know makes his dick twitch, “Oh Gilbert? Are you there, baby?”
He said he would be right out. So when I heard him come out, I flung off my coat and switched on the lights while yelling “SURPRISE!”
Oh, it was a surprise. It was like the world stopped. Well, until I saw that flash of light from the right hand side of the room. It had to be his slutty sister, Terri. Who else would say under her breath, “I can’t believe we now own the same outfit.”
I had to fucking fling the coat didn’t I? You know how hard it is to find a trench coat and put it on gracefully when there is a room full of people gawking at you like were performing a sex act on an animal at the zoo? In stilettos?
Not so easy, right? In fact, it was especially difficult because a certain someone who should remain nameless (my fucking brother, Greg) grabbed the coat and tried to play keep away.
Thankfully, Gil, who was probably more red with embarrassment than I was, grabbed the coat and whisked me away to the bedroom.
Well, one thing went right, I definitely distracted him from going to Le Pavillion.
END