The Gifts — Olivia London

Mona looked at her checkbook balance and started to cry.

“Eight dollars,” she intoned, talking to herself as she did in times of trouble.  “Eight dollars to my name.  How can I possibly buy a gift for my darling Desmond?  Our five year anniversary is tomorrow.”

She was tempted to throw herself down on the sofa and wail like a banshee.  That’s what she would have done in the past but with Desmond around no matter how bleak life seemed, she just couldn’t revisit the familiar locus of self-pity.  One look at her lover’s sweet countenance was enough to send her heart floating on a buoy of hope.

Mona and Des were no strangers to hard times.  Mona once earned money for books by working as a lab rat, as in, she was the rat.  For two solid weeks, the penniless girl stood in queue with other destitute Seattleites to accept a dose of a previously untested medication, a crushed form of a mild stimulant that for many of the recipients, induced bruxism as a side effect.  The rat would have gnawed her way out of there through the walls and under the floorboards even, if she could have thought of any other way to earn fast cash legally.

Des knew the ignominy of standing in line at a food bank, having no way of conveying dented cans of food other than public transportation.  Imagine the young man’s dismay when he discovered all the perishables had already died tragic deaths and the date stamps of the canned soups and beans expired sometime during the Reagan administration.

Life had improved somewhat, but still, the couple struggled, mainly because they were both “creative types” determined to eschew reality at all costs.  The cost was high but for them, it was the only way to live.

There were two things Desmond and Mona held dear, as dear as if these material goods had been born of a sacred vessel and vouchsafed to them for safekeeping.

When Desmond took to the road on his motorcycle he felt he could live forever.  He’d had the bike for as long as he’d known Mona, five years, and in all that time he never once forgot to cover his most prized possession with a tarp.  The machine was a gleaming ode to sex; Desmond’s fondest memories of fellatio involved Mona going down on him while he straddled the cherry-colored chassis.  He even named his bike Maud, after the Irish beauty who spurned W. B. Yeats.  The way Des saw it, he Maud and Mona had a nice threesome going on; lots of men had it worse.

Mona was proud of her camera collection which included a Nikon that had once reputedly belonged to a famous photographer.  Mona had the eye for photography but not the patience.  No matter how dutifully she cleaned her lenses, a stray hair or speck of dust marred every print she pulled from its bath.  She longed to take a photography class but school costs money as does everything else on the planet.  She never touched the Nikon, letting it rest in situ with the dusty box her Aunt Moira had used to coax it across the country for its final home.

 Every Friday night Des and Mona treated themselves to pints and pies at their favorite Irish pub.  Cater-corner to this pub was a trendy men’s clothing store where Des often stopped to admire a black leather motorcycle jacket.  It was from this store Mona emerged the day before their cherished anniversary with a plastic garment bag hooked over her arm.  She smiled with complete and total happiness, not feeling a scintilla of remorse for what she had done.  She could certainly live without a camera collection if it meant holding on tighter to Des as he commandeered the roads with greater verve wearing his sexy new jacket.

On a rainy Saturday in November, Des and Mona would celebrate their fifth anniversary.  Mona was so excited she failed to notice the empty parking space near their apartment building, the one typically occupied by Maud.  She waited by the window for the familiar revving of engines and was surprised when her lover walked in, quiet as a cloistered nun.

She immediately fell into Desmond’s embrace, running her fingers through his black hair.

“Des, darling!  Look what I bought for you.”  Mona handed Des the box with the jacket.

“Ah,” was all he said, after tearing off the wrapping and soberly examining his gift.

“You don’t like it?”

“No, love.  I do.  It’s a grand jacket.  But wait and see what I have for you.”

Des handed an envelope to his girlfriend.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“A tuition voucher for a year of photography classes.  With that special Nikon, you’re sure to be more famous than what’s her name.”

And now Mona did wail like a banshee for a thought occurred to her that she could not bat away; she instantly guessed how Des afforded such an extravagant gift.

“Oh, Des.  What happened to Maud?  I didn’t see her parked outside.”

Seattle’s sexiest Irishman smiled and took a seat on the sofa to deliver the inevitable news.

“A bike is just a bike, love.  You have a gift that needs nurturing.  Selling a motorcycle doesn’t seem like a big sacrifice when you truly love someone.”

Mona sat next to her boyfriend, taking his hand in hers.  “Des, I sold my camera collection to buy you that cool leather jacket.”

Des smiled.  Then he laughed.  Mona laughed, too.  Then she unzipped the fly of Desmond’s jeans and told her sweetheart to lean back and get comfortable.

“You’re the greatest gift in the world to me,” Mona murmured near her lover’s ear after kissing his neck and face.  “Every moment with you is a blessing.”

Desmond used his elegant fingers to comb through Mona’s long, blond hair as she licked the tip of his penis with tender devotion.  She imagined her lips pouring sugar over his erection, turning the crest into a sweetmeat she could have sucked on all day and all night.

She squirmed in her torqued position, the crotch of her panties already scrunched into a wet filigree she could feel taunting her labia.  Nothing turned her on more than going down on Des.

Releasing the tip with a small plosion, she let her lips glide down to caress and kiss the cobs, taking care to cover Des’s entire priapic package with love.

The timbre of her lover’s voice reverberated with approval and that was all the encouragement she needed to settle in for serious deep throat.  She sucked the length of him entire while all troubles floated away and she allowed herself to savor this precious gift.  She would maroon herself on this phallic island, an isthmus of pleasure that had been hers for the coddling for the past five wonderful years.

Des anointed Mona with his warm semen then they took a long shower together.  Later they would make love but first they’d go off to the pubs to enjoy a few pints. 

It was their anniversary, after all.  They had a lot to be grateful for.

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Read Olivia’s other sexy stories published on Every Night Erotica, here.

Olivia London is the author of the story collection San Francisco Lovin’ published by Renaissance E Books.  Titles available frome Xcite Books include Lesbian Love 3, Healthy Addictions and the erotic paranormal story Soul Bumping.  Ms. London lives in Seattle.  The author may be reached at olivialondonstories@gmail.com