Marilyn-Monroe-Happy-Birthday-Mr-President-JF-Kennedy

7h35: I wake in a cold sweat, my stomach churning. What’s the time?? Oh, just 7h35. I have another 25 minutes to lie in bed, my hands clammy, my muscles tensed, my body stiff as a plank… forget it, I decide to get up and straighten my hair.

9h07: Somehow, I have escaped from the house with minimal fuss, and am now rushing down the street to the metro station, my energy focused on getting to the train in time, and not – absolutely not – what might happen this afternoon. I receive a couple of messages from the Edge which are meant to be reassuring, but merely serve to aggravate me, because I know he can’t possibly have any idea how enormous this is for me – coming, as he does, from a milieu where women routinely lure strange men into their bedrooms for blow-jobs, whereas I can barely manage a telephone conversation…

10h00: On the train, I lean back in my seat and close my eyes. Now I finally allow myself to think of what I am about to do – only the most shocking thing I have ever done! (At least, to my mind!) I had never imagined I would actually go through with it. But, lying on my sickbed two weeks ago, racked with fever, only dimly aware of the babies crawling wretchedly over my supine body, I had been struck by a sudden conviction: what does it matter what people think? When you need them, they’re nowhere to be found. (And rightly so – they have their own lives, upon which they should focus, without meddling too much in anyone else’s.) And who knows how much time one has left before the End Game? Or before one is simply… Over the Hill? Because, God knows, my hill is not that high to begin with…

12h00: I reach the hotel, and dart into the restroom to change into my “disposable” outfit – a tight black miniskirt and a somewhat revealing black lace top. Damn! I must have forgotten my spare set of underwear at home! I hang around at the hotel, hyper-ventilating, as I wait for the Edge to arrive. He sends me a photo of my flat, which he’s just driven past. Something about that familiar, homely sight shocks me. What have I gotten myself into???

12h38: “I’m here,” he says, and I see him walking past me to check-in. I feel at once a surge of relief. This is just like a normal date. So far.

13h00: We sit in the lounge, waiting for the suite to be prepared. I’m trying not to think of what’s about to happen. I just can’t let myself think of anything beyond the next 5 minutes. I just focus on the present. All of a sudden it hits me: what if I hate it? What if I just feel dirty and used? In a bad way, I mean. I might never be able to face him again! Now it’s time to let you in on a little secret, gentle readers. I am not really very experienced! I have never had sex with a stranger. I have never had a one night stand. And – crazy as it sounds – I’ve always been somehow proud of that. So how can I just give myself to a bunch of random men??‎ He asks if I want a drink. “Yes!” I cry. “Something strong.” But the bar isn’t open yet, so he doctors my tonic with a little gin from his bag of tricks. (That’s why I love him. Who else would do that??)

13h05: We’re in the suite – it’s enormous. Is this really happening??? I’m shaking all over. I’m now more certain than ever that this is a bad idea, that I’m going to really hate it, and possibly regret it. At the back of my mind, a little voice reminds me that I could put a stop to this, if I wanted to. But I don’t want to.

13h30: “They are here,” he tells me. I hop on the bed, adjusting my blindfold so I can’t see a thing. Is this really happening???? I sit at the edge of the bed, squirming, blindfolded, with my hands tied behind my back. I hear him greet them, they reply. Oh, they sound pretty fuckable, actually…

13h35: “It’s time for you to meet your guests,” he says. It’s the moment I’ve been dreading, but by now I feel strangely excited. There’s nothing to think about any more – it’s really happening!!!! He leads me out to meet the guests. I say “hello” to them, as though it is completely natural to be standing blindfolded in front of total strangers. The Edge decides that it is time to strip me, and begins to cut off my shirt. I gasp with horror. We had discussed this before, of course – he had told me to bring a set of clothes which I didn’t mind losing. But it still seems like a part of me – something old and familiar, which had been with me for years – is being ripped to shreds and tossed aside. Strange, I hadn’t expected this to affect me so much, even more than my nakedness in front of an audience.

13h40: The Edge forces my legs apart, writing “fuck me” on my stomach in indelible ink. I feel strange hands groping my breasts, pussy, and yes… even more! I am ashamed, and even more ashamed because of my obvious excitement. How can I be such a whore??

13h45: “Get on your knees,” someone says – by this point I don’t even know who, but I’m assuming it is the Edge as he is the one in command. And I am relieved to hear these words. Although these men are strangers, I’ll be able to regain some sense of control once my lips are wrapped around their cocks…

13h50: I begin to suck them, grimacing mometarily at the unfamiliar tastes, and feeling a little degraded. Strange voices goad me on. I am ordered onto the bed. I laugh gleefully – now I am even more in my element. What happens next? Well, you can imagine. It is just like all the porn movies. Except even better, because it is happening to me.

I won’t lie – there were moments when I wished it would end, and everyone else would go home, and leave me alone with the Edge. So that I could feel human again – not just an object to be used and abused. As for the Edge, he had showed surprising restraint during most of the proceedings. But I knew his dick at once when it touched my lips, or when I felt it plunge between my thighs.

I couldn’t tell the other two guys apart, at first, and there were times when it seemed every inch of my body was being molested, and I felt truly out of control. And there were other times, like when I riding one of them, with the other one in my mouth, that I felt like the luckiest girl on the planet. I stole a little peek from under my blindfold then – I couldn’t help it. But most of the time, I was afraid to let the blindfold slip – it was like the one thing separating me from a potentially terrifying reality.

I surprised myself, really. I thought I would be trembling with fear the whole time, possibly crying, gritting my teeth and just trying to endure it. So then why go through with it, you might ask? Good question, to which I’m afraid there’s no good answer. (Curiosity? Pride? Sheer madness??) Anyway, all that’s irrelevent, as, in fact, I was laughing all the way to the final cumshot, which exploded gratifyingly all over my face, dripping down onto my breasts afterwards.‎ They then proceeded to empty all the used condoms into my mouth as well. I realised that I hadn’t even noticed them coming! Just how out of it was I??

Finally, drenched and dripping in ejaculate, I raised the blindfold and shyly eyed the stalwart stallions who had serviced me so selflessly. They were beaming at me proudly from the end of the bed. I managed to resist the idiotic urge to tell them that I loved them forever. Instead I just thanked them profusely for coming (in all senses of the word, yes, yes, I know) and begged them to return some day, perhaps on my next birthday.

“You’ll have to ask the boss about that,” they smirked, deferring to the Edge.

“He’s not the boss of me!” I cried defiantly, as he pushed my legs back and started to fuck me. “Oh no, the Edge – not in front of the guests!”

So did I feel like a whore? Dirty – defiled? Well, I’ll tell you one thing: nobody kissed me even once, the entire time. That did make me feel degraded. And I was a little ashamed to see the mountain of condom wrappers on the bedside table. And then, when the Edge asked me to gather up my shredded clothes from the floor, I felt strangely emotional. It was like some part of me had just been torn up and discarded there. My former self?

19h30: I’m on the Eurostar, on my way back to Paris, with no underwear, a huge ladder in my stockings, the Edge’s come dripping down my legs, the instructions “fuck me” scrawled on my stomach, dried traces of semen all over my face and breasts, and possibly – hopefully – a few bright red stripes on my ass from the thrashing I got for losing my butt-plug last week. Well! It doesn’t get more debauched than this. Or does it…????

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5 thoughts on “Happy Birthday To Me

    1. Well, there were only two other guests, plus the Edge… but why did you have to out me like that?? There could have been half a dozen guys there, for all you know!

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