He stood on the balcony, the cold air swirling lazily about him. Cars honked faintly from the street far below, lights twinkling in the distance as if winking at him in invitation on this most festive of nights. He sipped slowly. Bubbles tickled his nose, and he almost sneezed. Remembering....
"Achoo!" she sneezed. "Dammit, I don't think I'm ever going to like champagne very much."
He smiled, sipping slowly from his own wineglass. "That's all right, it's only a once-a-year thing for us anyway."
She grinned back, and very deliberately poured her glass all over her chest; her dress, already clinging like a second skin, went transparent immediately and outlined her pointy nipples and the curves of her breasts quite nicely. His breath caught at the sight.
"Very true," she purred. "But I still don't like champagne. Maybe you'll drink up what I seem to have spilled here." She reached for him hungrily.
He shook his head, emerging from reverie. Wind skirled around the corner of the building and bit hard at his face, blowing around his legs next and making his wool overcoat flap. He pulled it more tightly around him, then frowned. Remembering....
"For you, my dearest," she said, holding out a largish box. He frowned in surprise, and his brow furrowed as he opened the box to reveal a gorgeous charcoal-grey wool overcoat.
".....the hell?" he queried, clearly puzzled. "Since when do we give gifts on New Year's Eve?"
"Not for New Year's, you insensitive clod," she scolded, the sweet smile on her face taking any sting from her words. "Our anniversary. Remember?"
"Oh, that's right," he mused. "God, it's been a year already since we first met?"
"Are you saying you haven't enjoyed it?" she smirked, coming closer and tilting her head up.
"Now I'd be a fool indeed, to say something like that," he breathed, and bent to kiss her. She tasted like strawberries and cream, and her intoxicating scent, indefinable as always, filled his head till it spun round like a top. How sweet, he thought hazily as she growled happily into his mouth and pressed ardently against him. How sweet she is....
Again he shook his head, harder this time, bringing himself forward once more to the present. A lick of cold startled him: a snowflake, landing on his nose. He looked up and saw it was beginning to fall in earnest, creeping up stealthily amidst the silence that surrounded him. No tunes or party from the dark and empty apartment at his back. No voices cutting through the stillness. No sound of breathing from his side. No warmth of presence from a delicate hand held tightly in his.
Such a contrast. He drifted again, remembering the chaos and noise from that one year. Remembering.....
"How many of these people did you say you know?" he shouted into her ear. "I thought you said this was going to be a small party!"
She speared another small bite of the cake on the plate she was holding and chomped delicately. "As far as Rick's concerned, this is a small party, hon," she rejoined after a moment's chewing. A bit of white frosting clung to the corner of her mouth; she wiped it off quickly and licked it off her fingers, as unselfconscious as a dog. "What's the matter? Too much light and chaos? C'mon, let's find somewhere more quiet."
She took him by the hand and led him up the stairs, the crowd reluctantly parting for them, then closing thickly in their wake, like Jello. The din was considerably lessened when she led him into the guest bedroom and cut off entirely when she drew him into the bathroom beyond that, closing the door behind them.
"Hon, what.....?" he started, but was silenced by her finger on his lips. She locked the door, put her cake down on the counter, and then began unbuttoning his slacks, darting a swift hand inside and sliding it deliciously up and down, creating lovely heat and friction against his very surprised, but very pleased dick. As was usual for her, she had him hard and throbbing in a twinkling.
Her first task accomplished with dispatch, she grinned at him and drew his cock free from his briefs. Her eyes locked with his and she sank slowly, oh so slowly, to her knees. Keeping her eyes on him, she opened her mouth and began licking him from tip to base. He moaned as her tongue decorated him, swirling about, wrapping about his shaft as if it had a life of its own, wet slurping sounds echoing off the tile, saliva glistening in the fluorescent light.
She pulled back for a quarter second and grinned that devil-may-care grin at him once more, then took his cock in both her tiny hands and began to pump him slowly. He was already breathing hard but seconds of this delicious torture soon had him panting like he'd just run a marathon, sagging against the sink, hands clutching helplessly at the air. God, she was such a minx. And if he knew her at all, this wouldn't be enough for her, she'd have to....yes, there she went, engulfing him with her eagerly sucking mouth, lips and tongue working, moaning in her throat, blowing him so deliriously and sloppily that strings of ropy spit were streaming from his dripping cock, breaking free to pool on the tile below. Lightning danced in his brain and he groaned her name, the only thing he could get out past the pleasure already crowding him to overfilling.
Suddenly she stopped completely, his cock still buried down her throat, and locked eyes with him. Sounds were coming from the bedroom behind her and abruptly there was a knock on the door. "Anybody in there?" came a slurred voice. "My back teeth are floatin'."
She slid his cock free with a slow and deliberate "pop" that had to have been audible through the door. "Occupied," she said sweetly. "Come back in ten minutes, please."
"Fuckin' Rick," they heard the bathroom-seeker muttering as he left in search of a less-busy haven. She looked at him and grinned. "Where were we? Oh yes....I believe you were about to fuck me until I screamed."
And she stood up, pulled up her dress -- no panties beneath, he realized, stunned anew. Minx, he thought again, gazing at the wetness already dripping down her thighs -- how long had she been hot and ready? Had she been planning this, or was it just her usual constant slow burn? God, she's incredible. How the fuck did I get so lucky? She shrugged the dress's straps off her shoulders and then did a slow bump-and-grind. Her tits spilled out immediately, her nipples -- hard and crinkled -- standing out like bright red rosy buds, begging to be sucked. He reached for her, but she forestalled that, wheeling around and bending over the counter. She tossed her head, her blonde mane slipping to one side, and gazed back at him sidelong.
She waggled her ass at him, reaching back one-handed to finger her sopping pussy and spread it wide for his delighted gaze. "Take what's yours, loverboy," she whispered.
Wetness on his cheeks, freezing to cold diamonds in his beard. He tried angrily to brush them away -- more unwanted detritus -- but they clung stubbornly. A shuddering sob tried to tear itself free and he choked it back. He reached convulsively for the railing and clutched it hard, steadying himself, its rigid edges biting into his hand. Memories. Only memories now, as intangible and substanceless as air. All lost; all gone; all ruined; remained only dust and ashes in the hearth that once banked the flame of their love.
There on the deserted balcony, clad in the gossamer film of broken dreams, snow drifting around him in silent invitation, ghosts of New Years' past crowding close, he raised his champagne flute on high in fingers made cold and stiff by the biting wind. "Happy New Year," he said softly.
(This was not originally how I intended to end the year, but this balcony scene just wouldn't leave me alone. I hope you enjoy this one despite of -- or perhaps because of -- the ending, and that your New Year's Eve is much happier than his. May all your dreams come true in this upcoming year. Thanks for reading!)