The Birthday Gift

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I lifted my head from where I was nursing my drink: despite everything, I had a tall drink of orange juice in front of me. You would think in the situation I was in that drink should have been something a little more robust, a little more manly, but I had been sober for the past ten years, and I would not want to break that commitment over something like this. I was sitting, perched really, at the kitchen counter, a little nook-and-cranny space I made for him. Him, my husband, my dearest beloved, who looked at me sheepishly from where he was standing, nary a thread on his excellent muscled leanness, from the top of his head to the soles of his foot, naked in the way God intended.

I watched him, long and hard. He was so handsome to me, in that way you could see nothing else in the room except the light of his smile and his twinkling eyes, eyes that had no guile or evil ever in their depths. An All-American jock, and all mine. All mine, including that large contraption in the centre of his being, the cock that I had loved and admired and kissed and made cum many times over the long years we had been together.

Yes, we had a good sex life. A fruitful, bountiful sex life. The younger people would call it with that strange gesture, a chef’s kiss they called it. He was a good top, an excellent lover, the kind that would not be averse to tasting his own cum on my lips after I sucked him off, and never had I been less than satisfied in his arms and in his bed. He was an old-fashioned man, the kind who pull out chairs for his partner even though we were both masculine, the kind that would not let his lover in a bind in any way. I feared to say it but, but there had been times, fleeting moments that somehow sear themselves into my consciousness, that simple fact that he might be too good for me.

I was not born into money like he had. I was that guy who had two or even three scholarships and a few side-jobs just because where he came from, finding money was fucking hard. I was that guy that had the tattered jacket, a hand-me-down from a distant relative, and wore the damn thing every day because it was the only thing that was warm enough and there simply was no money for anything else. But I was a good student, good enough at least that I was made tutor for several other students. That was how I met him, my husband. And that was how I met Billy.

Billy was just like me, born from the wrong side of the tracks. He was a bit slow on the uptake, but once he had a grasp of a concept he would have it until the day he die. We became close, two peas in a pod, commiserating over our background and our circumstances. People even remarked that we looked like twin brothers, except he was a ginger boy and blushed easily with his pale colouring, that and he was a tad taller than me. When he graduated and I stayed on campus as a research assistant, we kept in touch. We stayed in the same city. He was my best man when my husband finally decided to make an honest man out of me.

So why was he the one waiting for my husband on my bed with his thighs open and ass lubed, in heat for my husband?

In retrospect I should have noticed it a long time ago, the secret glances, the furtive smiles, and hidden touches. He had always had a thing for red-haired men. Maybe I did notice, but I did not think much of it at the time: I was working late on multiple projects, and I asked Billy to please, would you accompany my husband on dinners and such so that it would not appear gauche for a partner to have his husband be absent on functions? It was his father’s company, but still appearances matter to these people.

An appointment turned into two, three functions, an end-of-year dinner, even a yacht party. I immersed myself in my work, leaving Billy and my husband together so often people were asking. “Oh, I trust him. And more importantly I trust my husband,” became my mantra. Now tell me how often a mantra came back to bit one in the ass?

I simply, conveniently forgot that Billy, my best friend, my best man, was a huge size queen.

“Fuck, so fucking huge man,” Billy stage-whispered as my husband rode his ass into oblivion. It was a few days after the yacht party. Billy must have had seen my husband in his bathing suits, felt the family jewels and decided to have a taste. “I knew ever since I first see you that you’d have a big cock.”

“Oh yeah, how do you know?”

“It’s the way Calvin always simper around you, like you’re the greatest fuck he ever had,” Billy pulled down my husband for a deep kiss, “And you know what? Right on the money.”

“Yeah, I’m a good fuck am I,” my husband replied. “Now turn around, I wanna ride you doggy.”

I came home early that day because it was my husband’s birthday, and I wanted to surprise him with a big chocolate arrangement from his favourite bakery, knowing I had been neglecting him for a while. I had not realised the celebrations had begun early. I turned away from the bedroom door and sat on my perch at the kitchen, where I sat and listened to Billy cumming and cumming and cumming on my husband’s cock. That was where my husband, naked like the day he was born, hair wet from the shower, found me.

“Babe,” he began his words, his heartfelt mea culpa. I could not face that much, that would simply kill me. Instead, I took a sip of orange juice and smiled at my beloved husband.

“Go enjoy yourself. Happy birthday, honey.”

His face lit up like a thousand lighted brambles. He probably thought I was in on everything, that Billy had fucked him on my instigation and permission. He smiled that dazzling smile that had me falling all over again and blew me a kiss. “Gotta go, got a hot ginger ass to tap and babe, thanks. This is the best birthday ever.”

“I know.” And my heart broke into a thousand pieces again.