Olivia’s dull birthday suddenly gets very… interesting! (Enjoy)..
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Olivia was fed-up, pissed-off, and totally let-down; her 21st birthday ‘celebration’ at The Ministry of Sound had degenerated into fending-off half-smashed creeps who just wanted to get her on the dance floor so they could grope her, try to kiss her, or rub their pathetic little stiffies against her.
Her two best friends had dragged her out to celebrate and take her mind off the fact that her big brother, Ryan was with his ship, in the middle of the Caribbean, chasing down drug-runners in the sapphire tropical waters of the West Indies, while she was stuck in London in November, an almost unutterably grim fate.
If that wasn’t bad enough, they’d then proceeded to get-off with a pair of escapee’s from the creep-zone, real prize-guys, and buggered off and left her sitting there like a gooseberry while they were off on the dance floor getting their tonsils sucked.
Ryan always came home on leave for her special days, her birthday and Christmas, and he made those days for her; he always had a birthday present that was exactly right, like he knew what she was thinking about or coveting most in the world, and he’d have it for her as a surprise for her birthday or as her gift on Christmas morning.
But this year was different; his ship, HMS Scudamore, a Type 23 frigate, was part of a joint initiative with the US Navy and US Coastguard Service, intercepting drug boats operating out of various Caribbean ports and secret coastal creeks and coves on the island groups that made up the Caribbean archipelago, and Ryan, in his new rank as a Lt. Commander, was Second in Command on his first long-term overseas posting.
She sat there daydreaming about him, with some justification, she grinned to herself. There was no escaping the fact; Ryan was gorgeous; all her friends thought so, all her work colleagues thought so, and Olivia thought so too. There was no attraction there, she was sure of that, but the fact that they were related didn’t detract from the fact that, taken objectively, and without the ‘sister’ filter on, he was truly fucking gorgeous!
Ryan was tall, slightly over 6 feet, with just the right amount of muscle to fill out his shirts nicely without being ostentatious about it; the Royal Navy kept you fit; they had no time for, and no patience with, doughy specimens or flabby sailors; the first hint of a beer-belly got you PE until you were back in fighting trim. His hair was a beautiful dark copper, almost auburn, shot with gold threads, like their father, (and so unlike her jet-black tresses) coupled with dark smoky green eyes, brilliantly white, even teeth and his quick, shy smile, and pale skin that tanned easily, making him look wind-burned and nautical and interesting every time he came into port, the gold highlights threading his hair even more obvious after all that sea air and sunshine.
It was no wonder he melted her friend’s hearts and loosened their thigh-muscles every time he walked into the room. Half the girls in their school had thrown themselves repeatedly at him, the other half had been too shy to be so obvious, so made his life miserable by writing him hot little damp-panty notes, which invariably got found, subjecting him to the ordeal of having to stand in class and read them out; when they weren’t writing him embarrassingly explicit notes, they’d call the house, and if he picked-up, they’d gasp and hang up.
Because there was less than two years between them, there had never really been that big brother-little sister vibe between them; they were (usually) best of friends who did everything together, shared everything, and told each other things they’d never have shared with another person alive. When Olivia lost her virginity, the first person she’d told had been Ryan, ditto for him, and they’d compared notes, checked on techniques, and generally laughed about how it had come about, and the embarrassing and squishy aftermath.
When Olivia discovered that he was going into the Navy, like their father before him, and would be gone for four years, she’d erupted in outrage, and the ensuing arguments had soured their relationship right up to the point where he’d come home on his first leave, to find Olivia crying at the dockside, for all the world like one of the wives or girlfriends.
After that, they quickly re-established that bond that was all they had after their father had died in that stupid motorcycle accident, and Olivia never again gave him a hard time over his time away at sea, knowing that he’d always come back for her birthday and Christmas Day, the two most important days for her (she’d tried making a big deal out of his birthday, but Ryan didn’t really like celebrating his birthday, so, after a couple of abortive attempts, she’d given up trying).
Her friends were still just as relentless in their attempts to get him to notice them, though, and Olivia was by turns amused, annoyed, angered, and consumed with jealousy at the attention he was getting from all these girls, her so-called friends; didn’t those brainless tarts know that her big brother was, and always had been, her exclusive property? He seemed to have half the pretty girls in the western hemisphere chucking themselves at him, and all she seemed to be was a loser-magnet with a penchant for getting into relationships with the wrong guy, with a half-life of about 2 months, almost invariably imploding once that magic number was reached.
And yet she couldn’t understand why; she had a great, in fact a superb, arse, two round, firm, tight globes of flesh that caused instant erections whenever she wore a bikini at the beach, firm, and protruding 34 C-cup breasts that shone in your face like lamps from afar, with nipples like a pair of fingertips, almost permanently erect, fat, firm, and ripe for sucking; everyone knew when Olivia was around, her body stood out like a moth on a cinema screen from all the other girls around, her slim waist and trim, rounded hips making her breasts seem larger than they were.
She was darker than Ryan, a legacy from their Welsh mother, with olive skin, dark smoky, green-hazel eyes, generous, up-curving dark coral lips, and wide, high cheekbones, finished-off with masses of raven tresses tumbled down her back like a midnight waterfall, the black almost blue in its intensity. She thought her face was too wide, but every man who’d ever checked her out thought the same thing; she looked sultry, mysterious, exotic and desirable.
So why did she always end-up with dead-beats, losers, idiots, and complete tossers, none of whom could hold a candle to her brother? She sighed as she contemplated the fact that Ryan was probably the perfect man for her, and yet denied to her forever by an accident of birth. Oh well, time to go home, another night at home alone, with a crappy film on TV and a microwave meal, and her plastic boyfriend for company.
She could have taken any man there home with her; they were practically making the dance floor slick with drool just staring at her in her party-girl/Ibiza Club-Slut micro-dress, but the choice of available men there ranged from ‘You have got to be joking!’ through ‘Dream on, Dickhead!’ to ‘Oh ick, no, fuck off!’
If the current crop was anything to go by, it appeared to be glaringly true what the magazines said about straight London men; they were either completely feckless wankers, nice guys but taken, or alone and available for a very good reason…
Her girlfriends didn’t even notice her leaving, their faces were busily being eaten by the two spotty specimens who’d zeroed-in on them and Olivia as they came into the club, and had captured her friends when she’d made it clear that it was never going to happen, with either of them, not even if she were dead.
Olivia arrived home in a foul mood; her birthday had been a complete bust. Without Ryan there it hadn’t felt like her birthday, just another pointless Friday night clubbing, and she was torn between the desire to scream out her frustration, and cry with the loneliness of it, the tedium of her life, the job she hated, with bosses constantly eyeing her up, never quite crossing the line into harassment, but stripping her daily with their eyes, endless muted comments that weren’t quite sexual innuendo, and girls who hated her because they thought she was sleeping with the bosses, bosses who passed her over for promotion because she wouldn’t, and on top of it all, a milestone birthday that had failed to deliver in every single respect.
Olivia stripped-off her club dress, white lace thong and hold-ups, and turned the shower on, as hot as she could bear it, unpinning her hair and removing all her jewellery before stepping into the cubicle, letting the needle jets pummel and massage her as she slowly turned under it, relaxing and de-stressing as she did. Almost without conscious thought, her hands began slowly sliding over her body, the sensation as they glided over her flanks and belly pleasurable and comforting. Without conscious thought, her hands slid up her torso to cup and squeeze her breasts, her nipples standing up painfully as she brushed them, the tingle reaching all the way down inside her to her pussy which began an insistent, low-level throbbing, matching the suddenly amplified beat of her heart in her ears.
Now her hand slipped down lower, lower, until one finger slid and skittered along the crease of her labia, the lips suddenly soft and sensitive as she slid her fingers between the suddenly widening cleft, her pussy tingling as her arousal grew. Olivia closed her eyes as she squeezed and rubbed her nipples, the lover of her mind’s eye making her hot and ready for what she needed most, building her toward that release.