Amy's Birthday Betrayal

The bar is packed for a Saturday, and you only came for one drink after work. Then a girl in a tiny black birthday dress bumps your elbow, slopping her cocktail, and doesn't apologize. She just looks up at you like it's your fault and smiles. "Twenty-one today," she says, holding up her glass. "And already some asshole has made me spill my drink." "Happy birthday," you say. "Am I the asshole?" "We'll see." She clinks her glass against your bottle. "I'm Amy."

Her friends are shrieking at a corner table with a sparkler in a cupcake, but Amy doesn't go back to them. She stays at the bar with you, hip against the rail, body angled yours like you've known each other for years.

Her phone buzzes on the bar. She glances at it, sighs — *babe, where are you?* — and flips it face down without answering. "Boyfriend?" you ask. "Long story," she says. "Boring story. Tell me something interesting about yourself instead."

She's easy to talk to, which is dangerous, because she's also impossible to stop looking at. Little black dress, legs for days, platinum blonde hair loose over one shoulder. Every time she laughs she touches your arm, and every time she touches your arm she leaves her fingers there a second longer.

"So what's the boring story?" you ask, nodding at her phone. She twists her straw. "He thinks I'm having a quiet one with the girls. Texts every ten minutes like I'm going to get lost. It's my birthday and I'm the most babysat person in this bar."

Her phone buzzes again. Then again. Then a call — she declines it with one thumb without even looking, and the look she gives you while she does it makes your stomach drop. "Every ten minutes," she says. "Like clockwork."

"And you?" "I'm just having a drink with a stranger." She leans in, close enough that you catch her perfume. "Unless you're not a stranger. Do you feel like a stranger?" "No," you admit. "Good." Her knee presses against yours under the bar and stays.

You buy her another drink and she insists on feeding you one of her birthday shots — holds the glass to your lips, tips it back slow, watches your mouth the whole time. "That's cheating," she says. "You got a birthday shot." "Take it back, then."

She grins — and takes your bottle, wraps her lips around the neck where yours just were, and drinks. Slow. Eyes on you. "That better?" she asks, breathless.

The music gets louder and she pulls you toward the friends' table for one song. It's not really dancing — it's her back against your chest, her ass finding you through your jeans, her arm reaching back to hook around your neck. "You feel that?" she murmurs against your ear. "That's what a whole year of being good gets you. Nothing. So tonight I'm being bad."

Her phone buzzes in her hand. She silences it without breaking rhythm.

She drags you off the floor by two fingers, through the crowd, past the bathrooms, to a staff hallway with a fire door propped open for the smokers. It's dim and loud out there — the alley behind the bar, string lights, a stack of crates, one other couple at the far end who don't even glance over. "Where are we going?" you ask, half laughing.

"Somewhere we shouldn't," she says. "That's the point. That's the whole point." She backs you into the wall.

Against the wall, she kisses you like she's been waiting all night — all year — mouth open, fingers in your hair, hips pinned to yours. You can feel her smiling against your lips. "He texts every ten minutes," she whispers. "We have nine left."

"That's your thing? Beating the clock?" "My thing," she says, sliding her hand down your chest, "is doing whatever I want on my birthday." Her hand finds your cock through your jeans, hard and obvious, and she bites her lip. "Oh. He missed you, didn't he?"

She sinks down against the wall, dress riding up her thighs, and pulls you out of your jeans. She looks up at you with those big birthday eyes and takes you in her mouth — slow, warm, greedy — one hand working what doesn't fit.

"His rules," she says, pulling off with a wet pop, "say I don't do this anymore. Never did it like this for him anyway." She goes back down, deeper, and you fist your hand in her hair. At the far end of the alley the other couple is leaving. The door bangs. Amy just laughs around your cock.

She stands, spins, and puts her hands flat on the wall like she's about to be frisked. She reaches back and drags her dress up over her ass — no panties, and she's been like that all night, in the bar, dancing on you. " condom, now," she says, "and then fuck me like it's my birthday, because it is." You roll it on with shaking hands. She looks over her shoulder. "Any day now. He's counting the minutes."

You push into her and you both groan at the same time. She's hot and tight and soaked, and she pushes back onto you immediately, impatient, setting the pace herself. "Yes — fuck — right there," she pants. "Don't be gentle, I'm not made of glass. It's my birthday."

You grip her hips and give it to her hard, the crates rattling, her moans cracking with every stroke. "Everyone in that bar," she gasps, "has no idea I'm out here getting ruined. Best party ever."

Then she does the thing you'll never forget. She reaches into her clutch, pulls out her phone, and holds it up in front of her face — still taking you, cheeks flushed, hair wrecked — and types with her thumb, grinning at the screen.

She hits send. Then she drops the phone back in the clutch, plants her hands on the wall, and fucks back onto you like it's nothing. "Hi babe," she says sweetly, mocking herself, then drops her voice low and filthy: "Now where were we?"

You can feel her getting close — her legs shaking, her pussy clenching around you, her voice going ragged and honest. "Don't stop — don't you dare stop — I'm gonna come on your cock in this dirty alley like a little slut and he's at home watching TV." Her words tip you over the edge together. She comes loud and shaking, and you bury yourself deep and let go, her name falling out of your mouth. She slumps against the wall, laughing, breathless, dripping.

She fixes her dress with lazy fingers, checks her reflection in your phone, and smears her ruined lipstick worse on purpose. "That," she says, "was the best birthday present I got. And my girls got me a tiara."

She straightens your collar like a girlfriend would. Then her phone buzzes — him, replying, *glad you're having fun babe* — and she cackles. "I should go blow out a cupcake." She presses her number into your phone herself. "But you're in there now. That's a birthday promise, not a courtesy."

You watch her walk back in — dress down, hair wild, waving at her girls like nothing happened — and your phone buzzes one more time. Unknown number: *happy birthday to me 🎂 now you know what I do when I'm bored. Don't be a stranger, he won't suspect a thing.* You look through the window. She's blowing out the cupcake, looking directly at you.