Cake For Special Occasions
He’s fifty today. He’s fifty and he still fucks her like he did when he was forty.
He’s wearing that ridiculous fucking tie that she brought him on a whim, thinking that the blue would completely upstage his eyes.
What was she thinking?
He’s still got no dress sense, but his ass looks good in those black pants. His wife probably put the ridiculous ensemble together.
“Having fun?” His thick accent cuts through her musings and she smiles up at him.
“Sure.”
“You want to dance?”
She thumbs the rim of her glass and studies the cut crystal. The bubbles from her champagne slowly rise to the top of the flute and she wonders, idly, where the years have gone.
“I wouldn’t mind a piece of cake.”
“Come on.” He tugs at her hand and he begs because he’s had a little too much to drink, and at this stage in their respective careers, hell, at this stage in their lives, he’s not ashamed to hide anymore.
She rolls her eyes and indulges him. “Just one dance, and only because you’re the birthday boy.”
He leads her like a gentleman, until he trips on his shoe and stumbles across the polished timber flooring beneath their feet. He manages to turn the act into some kind of artesian courtesy.
The base line is heady, but they find their rhythm together, his thick fingers guiding her hips as he sways.
“People are watching us,” She tells him, because they are, people are starting to stare.
“So?”
“Chris.” She breathes into the crook of his neck and he’s sweating, hot from the brilliant strobe lighting above.
His clothed knee shifts the fabric of her party dress and skims her bare thigh. Before she can breathe, his erection is pressed against her body. He’s hard, and he’s letting her know with every bump and grind of his hips.
His wife doesn’t look twice, and she’s silently grateful for the night away from her significant other.
“Come on,” He laughs. “You know people talk.”
“You don’t have to make it so glaringly obvious. I have to work with most of these people. Oh my God, did John Travolta just wink at us? What’s up with that?”
He shrugs, pushing his knee higher, grazing the soft, silken skin with the pads of his fingers.
“I can smell you,” He whispers. “You must be so wet.”
He draws his hand across her swollen mound, not surprised to find that her panties are moist. Her legs very nearly buckle from the tentative touch, but he holds her steady against the line of his body.
“Want to get a room?” He asks with a glint in his eyes.
She merely nods.
If the guests notice him dragging her off to the privacy of the ladies rest room, they don’t really seem surprised. The alcohol is free, since he sprung for an open bar, and he’s yet to field a complaint.
It’s not every day you turn fifty.
Her pelvis cracks upon the door of the stall, and they fall back into the space together before he kicks the door shut and flicks the latch behind him. His hands push frantically at the fabric, bunching her gown around her waist and lowering her panties without hesitation.
A lone finger circles her clit before he strokes her sopping folds and sinks his finger in to the knuckle. She gasps, and grips his shoulders.
“Fuck,” She hisses. “Little warning next time, please?”
He smiles at her and adds a second finger, stretching her so that he can add a third. And then he crooks them in a come-hither motion and she tries her damndest not to scream.
He barely stifles her moan with his mouth, his lips brushing hers as he kisses her with fury.
The sound of his belt buckle catches her attention as he fumbles with his free hand, so she pushes him away and rasps the zipper, grazing his dick as she does so.
He swallows thickly, his throat suddenly dry.
“What are you waiting for? Fuck me.”
She doesn’t have to tell him twice.
He turns her so that she’s leaning facing away, angling her hips towards him as he takes himself in hand. He strokes his thumb from base to tip before pushing his hips forward and sinking himself into her heat.
She’s so fucking tight around him.
His hips buck and his dick jerks and he needs to calm himself before he makes a mess. Clearly, it’s been too long between drinks. He screws his eyes shut and counts back from ten before withdrawing slightly and then thrusting again.
She spreads her legs a little more, offering more despite their awkward position. She arches her back and pushes her ass back onto his dick, taking him deeper, willing him to fuck her like he means it.
“You’re so fucking tight. Ten fucking years,” He pants, “And you’re still the same.”
“What can I say, I have a good partner.”
The jealousy hits him like a tonne of bricks, the green eyed monster, green with envy. “I hope you mean me, and not the other asshole?”
“I do, I do. Just shut up and fuck me.”
His hips pound harder, his hand, big fingers, stroking her bare hip while he slaps her from behind.
He pushes his nose further into the arc of her clavicle, pulling the hair from the side of her neck and inhaling her scent.
She contracts around him and he grunts and then he comes. Their strains like music to his ear. He loves to hear her say his name, over, and over, and over again.
“Mariska?” He’s still inside her as he says her name.
“Yeah?”
“You know, I mean, you know that I love you, right? Ten years, well, eleven, but you know that I still love you, don’t you?”
“Haven’t doubted you yet, old man.”
“Good, that’s good. Because I do. Love you, that is.”
“I suppose now would be a really good time to tell you that I can’t really do this without you.”
He knows that she can, she can do anything without him. But right now, he’s not really looking to find out.
“Don’t go all hormonal on me woman.”
“Bastard,” She bites, but he catches her in his arms and pulls her back against his chest.
“I just fucked you in the ladies room, and you want to go all fucking postal on me. Not going to happen. Not tonight.”
She rolls her eyes and sinks into his embrace. “I believe there’s still that little matter of cake.”
He’s wearing that ridiculous fucking tie that she brought him on a whim, thinking that the blue would completely upstage his eyes.
What was she thinking?
He’s still got no dress sense, but his ass looks good in those black pants. His wife probably put the ridiculous ensemble together.
“Having fun?” His thick accent cuts through her musings and she smiles up at him.
“Sure.”
“You want to dance?”
She thumbs the rim of her glass and studies the cut crystal. The bubbles from her champagne slowly rise to the top of the flute and she wonders, idly, where the years have gone.
“I wouldn’t mind a piece of cake.”
“Come on.” He tugs at her hand and he begs because he’s had a little too much to drink, and at this stage in their respective careers, hell, at this stage in their lives, he’s not ashamed to hide anymore.
She rolls her eyes and indulges him. “Just one dance, and only because you’re the birthday boy.”
He leads her like a gentleman, until he trips on his shoe and stumbles across the polished timber flooring beneath their feet. He manages to turn the act into some kind of artesian courtesy.
The base line is heady, but they find their rhythm together, his thick fingers guiding her hips as he sways.
“People are watching us,” She tells him, because they are, people are starting to stare.
“So?”
“Chris.” She breathes into the crook of his neck and he’s sweating, hot from the brilliant strobe lighting above.
His clothed knee shifts the fabric of her party dress and skims her bare thigh. Before she can breathe, his erection is pressed against her body. He’s hard, and he’s letting her know with every bump and grind of his hips.
His wife doesn’t look twice, and she’s silently grateful for the night away from her significant other.
“Come on,” He laughs. “You know people talk.”
“You don’t have to make it so glaringly obvious. I have to work with most of these people. Oh my God, did John Travolta just wink at us? What’s up with that?”
He shrugs, pushing his knee higher, grazing the soft, silken skin with the pads of his fingers.
“I can smell you,” He whispers. “You must be so wet.”
He draws his hand across her swollen mound, not surprised to find that her panties are moist. Her legs very nearly buckle from the tentative touch, but he holds her steady against the line of his body.
“Want to get a room?” He asks with a glint in his eyes.
She merely nods.
If the guests notice him dragging her off to the privacy of the ladies rest room, they don’t really seem surprised. The alcohol is free, since he sprung for an open bar, and he’s yet to field a complaint.
It’s not every day you turn fifty.
Her pelvis cracks upon the door of the stall, and they fall back into the space together before he kicks the door shut and flicks the latch behind him. His hands push frantically at the fabric, bunching her gown around her waist and lowering her panties without hesitation.
A lone finger circles her clit before he strokes her sopping folds and sinks his finger in to the knuckle. She gasps, and grips his shoulders.
“Fuck,” She hisses. “Little warning next time, please?”
He smiles at her and adds a second finger, stretching her so that he can add a third. And then he crooks them in a come-hither motion and she tries her damndest not to scream.
He barely stifles her moan with his mouth, his lips brushing hers as he kisses her with fury.
The sound of his belt buckle catches her attention as he fumbles with his free hand, so she pushes him away and rasps the zipper, grazing his dick as she does so.
He swallows thickly, his throat suddenly dry.
“What are you waiting for? Fuck me.”
She doesn’t have to tell him twice.
He turns her so that she’s leaning facing away, angling her hips towards him as he takes himself in hand. He strokes his thumb from base to tip before pushing his hips forward and sinking himself into her heat.
She’s so fucking tight around him.
His hips buck and his dick jerks and he needs to calm himself before he makes a mess. Clearly, it’s been too long between drinks. He screws his eyes shut and counts back from ten before withdrawing slightly and then thrusting again.
She spreads her legs a little more, offering more despite their awkward position. She arches her back and pushes her ass back onto his dick, taking him deeper, willing him to fuck her like he means it.
“You’re so fucking tight. Ten fucking years,” He pants, “And you’re still the same.”
“What can I say, I have a good partner.”
The jealousy hits him like a tonne of bricks, the green eyed monster, green with envy. “I hope you mean me, and not the other asshole?”
“I do, I do. Just shut up and fuck me.”
His hips pound harder, his hand, big fingers, stroking her bare hip while he slaps her from behind.
He pushes his nose further into the arc of her clavicle, pulling the hair from the side of her neck and inhaling her scent.
She contracts around him and he grunts and then he comes. Their strains like music to his ear. He loves to hear her say his name, over, and over, and over again.
“Mariska?” He’s still inside her as he says her name.
“Yeah?”
“You know, I mean, you know that I love you, right? Ten years, well, eleven, but you know that I still love you, don’t you?”
“Haven’t doubted you yet, old man.”
“Good, that’s good. Because I do. Love you, that is.”
“I suppose now would be a really good time to tell you that I can’t really do this without you.”
He knows that she can, she can do anything without him. But right now, he’s not really looking to find out.
“Don’t go all hormonal on me woman.”
“Bastard,” She bites, but he catches her in his arms and pulls her back against his chest.
“I just fucked you in the ladies room, and you want to go all fucking postal on me. Not going to happen. Not tonight.”
She rolls her eyes and sinks into his embrace. “I believe there’s still that little matter of cake.”