The Party Favor

by Lubrican

Chapters : 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | Epilogue

Chapter Four

They lay, face to face, her breasts touching his chest, and talked. Occasionally they kissed. Twice he rolled away from her, just so he could look at her breasts. The first time he said "Beautiful." The second he said "So beautiful."

She found herself telling him, somehow, of how lifeless her marriage was, of the disappointment she felt for herself for raising her daughter to be a selfish little bitch. He argued with her, and said she hadn't set that example. She had to agree with him about that, but she had blamed herself for Tiffany's flaws for a long time.

"I don't know why Roger isn't interested in sex," she said. "He was at first, but then it just faded away as he began to work more and more."


"What does that mean?"

"I'm not sure you want to know," he said.

"Of course I want to know," she said.

"I see a lot of women who are like you, in the sense that their sexual urges are still fully functional, but their supply of sex is limited. That's why they come and watch us. They get to fantasize, and then go home and masturbate."

"Why wouldn't I want to hear that? At least I know there are other frustrated women too."

"What you don't want to hear is that men's sex drive doesn't fade away at all. I don't know a single man who has ever gotten tired of sex."

"But that means ..." She frowned. What did that mean?

"That means they only get tired of sex with a particular woman," he said.

"You're saying he's cheating on me."

"I'm saying he hasn't gotten tired of sex."

"You're saying he's having sex with some other woman."

"I'm saying he hasn't gotten tired of sex."

"He's not gay."

"I didn't say he was gay."

"He's not cheating on me."

"How do you know that?" I'm quite sure that wherever he is right now, and whatever he's doing, he'd be quite happy to swear on a stack of Bibles that you're not lying naked with an exotic dancer, talking about why you're frustrated."

"I'm cheating on him," she whispered.

"Would you stop that?" His voice was loud. "Okay. You're cheating a little bit. You've had an orgasm. You're going to have at least three more before you go home. He could be giving you those orgasms, but he's not. Why not? That is the question. Why is it he's lost interest? It's not because you're ugly. No man on earth would call you ugly. It's not because you're a bitch. It's not because you're too wild and crazy for him. The vast majority of men stop having sex with their wives only because they feel so guilty when they do have sex with their wives."

"Because they're cheating on the wife," she whispered.

"I told you you didn't want to know."

She was quiet for a while, just thinking. He let her. She thought about those times she smelled strange perfume on him. She thought about the one time she'd gone to the firm, late at night, to surprise him with Chinese takeout, and found the place locked up. She'd chalked it up to his meeting being a dinner meeting. And Lord knew there were all kinds of up and coming, hard charging women going into law these days.

Hard charging women.

Like Lucinda, the perky little blond who had been working with Roger for months on a real estate deal. They had had to go to Florida twice, to inspect property, trips that took days and required them to stay there several nights. Jennifer hadn't thought a thing about it. The blond had tiny little tits. She looked more like his daughter than his assistant.

Or had. Now, doubts assailed her. Josh's fingers moving on her side reminded her of what he had said about her also not being what her husband would expect.

"You're really lousy at seducing a woman," she said. "You know that?"

"I usually seduce a woman by dancing for her," he said, smiling.

Suddenly she needed kisses, and to be held, and as that happened, her passion flared again. Here was a man who wanted to be with her. He could have let her leave the party. He could have joined the orgy downstairs. But he wanted to be with her. Her hand strayed to his penis, which was again erect. Erect because of her. Erect for her.

"I can't let you fuck me," she moaned into his lips.

And yet, when she began gibbering with her need, which his kisses and strokes only inflamed, and he moved to his knees at her hips, and his fingers tugged at the waistband of her panties ... her hips lifted, to let him remove the garment. The cloth of the gusset stuck to her pussy lips, glued there by her arousal. And when his fingers touched the inside of her knees ... only touched them ... they flew apart, exposing her treasure to him, offering it to him.

Instead of ravishing her, though, he merely lowered his face to her sex and gave her half a dozen orgasms in a row with his lips and tongue.

Again she screamed, but under the circumstances noise wasn't an issue, and she could let the raw emotions leach out of her body through the vibrations of her vocal cords. The intimacy of what he was doing, though ... something Roger had never done - would never do - changed her forever. She wasn't aware of it in the moment, but Josh's willingness to join her more closely than her own husband would, was like an earthquake that shifts massive things with ease, moving them to where they can never be put back.

Finally he rose from her, to his knees, between her thighs, leaving her glistening pussy lips gaping, flushed, and ready for his entry. His strong, youthful penis strained toward her, also ready to complete the ancient dance of mating.

Again, though, he somehow knew what she needed ... and didn't need. Instead of skewering her with his lance, he stroked it, his eyes raking up and down her body.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered.

And then his semen leapt from the tip of his prong to land on her belly, making multiple, criss-crossing stripes on her, as if she had been whipped by some toy flail that left wet, white, harmless scars.

At the very last moment, though, as his hand milked the final drips of his essence from his balls, he fell forward onto his other hand and brought the tip of his penis to stroke between her sexual lips, smearing the last little bit of his offering on those lips. She raised her head, stared, and her hands came to his head to pull him down for more long, sultry kisses.

They talked all night, never sleeping, not even napping.

She learned of his great-great-grandmother, who had been a sex slave in the railroad camps of the developing west, until an itinerant cowboy had seen her, and how she was treated. He was incensed, and thought to remove her from such servitude. There were objections, and gunplay. But he rode away with her, and they made a life together. His great grandmother had married a Chinese man, but their daughter had again diluted their race with a white man.

He learned of her own background and upraising, her volunteer work, and her unfulfilled wish to nurse her daughter.

At that point he had teased a nipple to erection, telling her she could nurse him, and then sucked gently until it was time to give her another orgasm. Again she made love to his penis with her mouth, telling him she needed to keep it as far away from her pussy as she could, because her resolve not to cheat that much was failing.

In the morning, when he opened her car door for her, and leaned over to give her one last kiss, she knew he could have fucked her if he'd tried. In that moment, as his lips brushed across hers in a startlingly casual goodbye kiss, her gratitude toward him made her want to get back out of the car, take him back to bed and let him love her completely.

But she didn't.

Instead, she closed the door and, blinking away her tears, started to drive away. She slammed on the brakes and punched at the window button again. He was there immediately, question and maybe hope plain on his face.

"I don't even know your last name!" she said, rubbing at tears.

"Hamilton," he said. "Josh Hamilton."

She was lucky she didn't get a ticket for inattentive driving on the way home. If she had, she would have probably told the patrolman her name was Josh Hamilton.

The next week was pure torture for Jennifer.

Roger, when he saw her, gave her a peck on the cheek. He didn't ask her where she'd been, or what she'd done. He didn't ask her if she'd had fun, or been successful at whatever she was doing. And as far as she could tell, Tiffany didn't even know she'd been gone.

The memory of Josh's touch drove her to masturbate three times a day. She knew now why no cameras were allowed. There would be pictures of male exotic dancers all over town, to be found by inquisitive maids, or family members, who would ask "Who's this?"

But she would have given a thousand dollars for a picture of Josh nude, that little half smile on his face ... his penis hard ... for her.

It was the next Friday night before she came to the realization that all she had to do was go to Christy's Puppet Palace. She would take her camera. And when he danced ... she'd get her picture.

It was dark, though there were lots of colored lights scattered around the room, on the walls, ceiling and tables. She'd expected it to be smoky, but it wasn't. She remembered the recent city ordinance passed that banned smoking in businesses.

There was a long bar along one wall, with sections of mirrors on the wall behind it. Bottles of all kinds, holding different colors of liquids lined glass shelves in front of the mirrors. A man, his upper torso naked except for what looked a little like a cleric's collar and a black bow tie stood behind the bar, talking to a woman perched on a bar stool. He was flirting with her as she played with the little umbrella in her drink.

The thump of bass rhythms came from speakers flanking a small stage. In front of the stage were scattered ten or so tables that would seat four, if everybody was really friendly. Four or five of the tables had women sitting at them. One had a couple, male and female, their chairs turned toward the stage. Nobody was dancing at the moment.

Jennifer sat down at the table farthest from the stage, where she hoped the relative darkness would cloak her from casual view. She felt like she was sneaking around and might get caught any second. She wondered if any of the other women ever came here to see their party favors plying their normal trade. She hoped not. How would she ever explain to any of her friends why she was there? She almost laughed out loud as she realized how stupid that train of thought was. They'd know exactly why she was there ... and probably approve.

The music changed, and a man dressed like a Toreador came out on stage. It wasn't flamenco music, but he danced flamenco style, swirling his cape and stomping his feet, doing kicks that had nothing to do with bull fighting. A waitress approached and wanted to know what to get her. She ordered a Manhattan, on the rocks, in a lowball glass.

Two hours and four Manhattans later, he finally came on stage. She was tipsy by then, and the thrill of seeing him made her do something she hadn't done in twenty years or more. Putting her two index fingers in her mouth, she produced a piercing whistle. She followed that with a "Yeah!" as he started his routine. She saw him look her way, but only for a second.

He was dressed in a tuxedo, with a cane and top hat. His routine involved dancing like Fred Astaire, while he shed pieces of the costume until he was down to the hat, cane, and a black pouch that cradled his cock and balls, and which had a tiny white bow tie on the front. A group of women at a table close to the stage were cheering, calling out to him, and waving money. He danced over to them and they tucked bills into the string that kept his pouch on. Women at another table called out to him too, and he went there next.

Then he danced toward Jennifer. She looked at him owlishly, and dug in her purse, coming out with a crumpled twenty. His pouch was suddenly right in her face, gyrating, and she grabbed it, to put her money with the rest.

"Ahh, ahh, ahh!" he warned, dancing out of range. "Can't touch the merchandise, honey."

Then he swayed his hips back and forth, in time with the music, bringing his left hip closer and closer to her, until he stopped it right by her hand. She fumbled with the string and it snapped like a rubber band onto the money.

Then he was whirling away, and she was slamming the last of her drink, panting and grinning. A group of women started clapping their hands in time with the music, until the whole house was clapping. Jennifer joined them, stopping only to whistle again.

Then it was over, and a recorded musical interlude took the place of live dancers. She felt hollow ... stupid for having come. She had gotten drunk and acted like a co-ed trying to get laid. The waitress approached again and picked up the empty glass. Jennifer waved her off and got up. She didn't lurch, or weave, but she knew she wasn't as firm on her feet as she should be, and that she had no business driving home. The problem was, she had nowhere else to go.

She was standing beside her car, just leaning against it, trying to get deep lungfuls of air to clear her mind, when he suddenly appeared beside her.

"Hi," he said, leaning against the car beside her.

"Hi," she said, her voice empty.

"Janice said you probably shouldn't be allowed to drive home."


"Your waitress. When I came out from back stage, and you were gone, I talked to her."

"I shouldn't have come."

"You won't get any argument from me," he said.

"Why?" she asked. All she could think of was that he didn't want to see her.

"I have an idea," he said. "I've never driven a Mercedes before. Looks like a nice car. How about I take you somewhere, and we get some coffee in you, so when you get home tonight you don't look and smell like you've been in some dive watching male strippers."

"It wouldn't matter," she said, feeling thoroughly sorry for herself. "Nobody would notice."

"Your choice," he said, pushing off of the car with his butt. "I hope you get home okay." He started walking away.

"Wait!" she complained. "You can't go."

"Why not? I wanted to take a pretty woman to get coffee, not listen to her pout about how hard her life is while she leans against her fifty-thousand dollar car."

"Don't be a prick!" she gasped.

"I'm not. I have a prick, but it's only a small part of me. In fact, most of me is not prick."

She tried to glare at him, but it just wasn't in her. She knew he was right. She was acting like she felt, which was awful.

"Okay. I'm sorry. Coffee would be good."

Again, he didn't make her beg. He simply nodded, took the keys from her after she dug them out of her purse, opened the door for her and then got in himself. They didn't speak as he drove the car to a brightly lit all night diner that was either a refurbished one from the fifties, or had been built and equipped in that retro fashion.

He held her elbow as she eased into one side of a two-person booth and then sat opposite her, with his elbows on the table. They didn't speak until the waitress had filled two coffee cups, taken Josh's order for french fries with cream gravy, and left.

"I know I acted like a fool, but it's all your fault," said Jennifer, her voice low.

"My fault." He smiled.

"The way you treated me," she said.

"The way I treated you turned you into a whining little girl?" His eyebrows rose.

"The way you treated me reminded me of how wonderful it can be!" she said harshly. She leaned back. "Can you blame me for wanting more?"

"I don't do affairs, Jen," he said softly.

"That's not what I'm asking for," she replied.

"Well ... what are you asking for?"

"I didn't intend to ask for anything," she moaned. "I just wanted to see you again ... to know you were real."

"Of course I'm real." He smiled again.

"Look at it from my perspective," she said. "To everybody I know, it looks like I live in a perfect family. Roger is fit and makes a ton of money. I'm beautiful and my daughter is smart and pretty too. We live in a nice house. We live the American Dream. But it's not real. My husband vowed to love me until we die. I don't know what happened, but somewhere along the line the love leached out of him. And my daughter hates me because I treat her like the teenager she is, instead of the twenty-five-year-old she wants to be. To outsiders, we're the perfect family, but it isn't real. It isn't the American Dream. It's the American Nightmare. Don't say anything yet."

She took a sip of coffee, and looked up at him.

"And then at an insane party, where I literally questioned my sanity, I also met you. You were exotic, handsome, interesting and, of all things, polite! Somehow you convinced me to stay there, even though I had no interest whatsoever in what was going on there. I did not intend to kiss you, or anybody else. I certainly did not intend to do anything more intimate than that. And yet, somehow, I found myself floating in what seemed like a pool of liquid ecstasy. And I'm not talking about the drug."

His lips communicated a smile without actually forming one.

"And then, somehow, there I was back home, remembering your touch ... your scent ... the sensations you created in me ... and it was like I'd had some magic interlude ... had lived an odd version of the Cinderella story for a few hours. That dream I had of happiness and completion when I was getting married was suddenly back." She frowned. "Except it was with a different man."

Josh sipped his coffee. "Okay, so you kind of developed a crush on me."

Jennifer's gaze was level and unflinching. "You're starting to look like a penis again."

He laughed. "I'm sorry. I won't trivialize it, even though it seems a bit goofy to me."

"Why would you say that?" she complained.

"I'm a dancer," he said. "Women fawn over me all the time. It's just estrogen ... biology flipping switches in them. As you so eloquently put it ... it isn't real. It's just a temporary imbalance of hormones and libidos trying to get them laid."

"You didn't dance for me," she said.

He blinked several times, staring into her eyes. Then he moved and reached in his back pocket for his wallet. He extracted a twenty and slid it across the table to her.

"That reminds me. I don't take tips from friends," he said.

She didn't pick up the money. "I don't know whether to be flattered or insulted."

He leaned back. "Look. I like you, okay? You're different than most other women I've met. You have a depth that I haven't found in many other women. And I won't lie. When I saw you sitting there, I got ..." He frowned. "I'll just say it, okay? I got hard. I don't mean that like all I think about when I think about you is sex. I mean it like it was exciting to see you again ... to know you had sought me out. But I'm not Prince Charming, Jennifer, and you're not Snow White."

I know that," she said. "I was thinking more along the lines of Sleeping Beauty," she said. "You kissed me and I woke up from the dream I was living."

"You weren't living a dream. You just believed the show people were putting on for you. It's the same thing that happens when women watch me dance. They see what I want them to see, and they think it's real instead of a fantasy."

"But life isn't supposed to be a fantasy," she said.

"What are wedding vows?" he asked. "They're the fantasy of believing that love will triumph over all."

"Love isn't a fantasy!" she insisted.

"Then that means that a lot of people only think they're in love when they make those vows when, in fact, they are not."

"That's possible," she said. "I was absolutely positive I was in love with Bobby Richards, and couldn't possibly live without him. I still remember how strong that feeling was ... how sure I was ... But I was wrong."

"And so you married Ralph instead of him?"

"It's Roger, not Ralph" she said. And I was madly in love with Bobby Richards when I was eight."

Josh laughed.

She didn't. Instead, she gazed at him with those disturbing, green eyes.

"How much of what happened that night was acting?" she asked.

"Why go into that?" he asked, instead of answering her question.

"I'm a big girl," she said. "I can take it. I just want to know what's real and what's not. Like I know Brandi didn't describe me to you like you said. That's no big deal. But you said a lot more things that night, and I'd just like to know what was real, and what wasn't."

"Actually, Brandi described you exactly as I said." He frowned. "Except for the eyes. That was extemporaneous."

"She said beautiful women hate me." Jennifer looked at him askance.

"She did," he said. "She said one of the reasons you had never been invited was because all the women were afraid none of the guys would pay any attention to them if you were in the room. I thought she was just building you up so that I'd take the job, you know, using hyperbole and all that."

"She was," said Jennifer.

"No she wasn't," he said without delay. "Maybe she thought she was, but she was right on the money."

"Is that part real?" she asked.

"You are the most beautiful woman I have ever touched," he said. "And that beauty goes much deeper than the skin."

"Why are you saying that?" she asked.

"Because you asked?"

"Wait!" She put up a hand. She looked flustered. "I want to ask one question, and I need an honest answer."


"Are you trying to seduce me?"

"Absolutely not," he said immediately.

"Then why do you say such beautiful things to me?" she moaned.

"You said you wanted to ask one question," he said. "In the interests of full disclosure and honesty, I have to point out that you just asked me question number two."

"Okay. It turns out I want to ask a hundred questions," she said.

"And I have to answer them all honestly?" He feigned shock and horror.

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