Top
    


Gilmore Girls: Oh, Paris! (ff)
by Kieyra

It's the weird buzzing sound that wakes you up; but first you dream that
Martha Stewart is chasing you, offering to shave your legs with an Epilady.
Not wanting any part of that, your subconscious mind is more than happy to
release you into wakefulness.

Awake, it occurs to you that the buzzing sound hasn't stopped. You lie
perfectly still in your twin bed, waiting for your eyes to adjust and
focus. Because, you reason, if you have to run from someone with an
electric depilatory device, it's best to be able to see where you're
going.

A moment more and you're fully awake; you realize that the threat of forceful
hair removal is unlikely, here in your cozy dorm room. And you realize that
the buzzing is oddly muffled. And that it's coming from somewhere off to your
right. Like, maybe, from Paris' bed.

Your brain, trying to piece together the available data, returns a likely
hypothesis of, 'Uh?'

You turn your head, and you can just make out the familiar Paris-shaped lump
in the next bed, and the profile of her upturned face. Your eyes travel
downwards, trying to trace the source of the noise, and there seems to be
some strange motion going on in the region of...

"Paris? What are you doing?" You say it before you've really put all the
pieces together. Unfortunately, the last piece clicks into place as the last
syllable leaves your tongue, and you wish desperately you'd just pretended to
be asleep.

Night. Bed. Buzzing sound. Duh.

The buzzing stops abruptly; you hear Paris swallow, exhale, then: "Me?
Nothing."

You're fine, totally fine with that answer. "Oh. Okay. I must have just had a
weird dream." You flip over quickly on your other side, away from her and
whatever the heck she was doing under the covers.

Yeah. Like you don't know. It's just that you wait until Paris is out, or
you do it in the shower, and you don't rely on... toys. Not that you have
anything against them; they're just, well... you don't need that kind of
thing. And anyway you'd die if you actually had to go into a store and buy
something like the "Crystal Jelly Deluxe" or the "Hitachi Magic Wand", or
the "Pocket Rocket" or the "Cyberskin Special". And you only know those
things even exist because Louise and Madeline had spent an instructive hour
making you look at a website called Good Vibrations back in senior year.
Yeah, ok, ordering online would technically avoid the embarrassment of going
into that kind of store, but what if someone else in the dorm opened the
package first? Or what if, horror of horrors, the package was accidentally
shipped to your Mom's house?

These things are swirling in your head, and you're simultaneously fall asleep
and feeling that little ache between your legs -- wonder what that Cyberskin
feels like? -- when a voice snaps you back awake.

"All right. Fine. I'm trying to have an orgasm."

Paris, sounding both plaintive and defiant.

Your eyes fly open, and for a second you imagine what you must look like:
Your face a rictus of terror, like a hapless victim from some George Romero
zombie flick.

But it's just Paris, after all, and you know she's essentially harmless. You
also know she's not going to let you go back to sleep until she gets this off
her chest. So to speak.

You slowly roll over to lie on your back. "Um. Excuse me?"

Oh, good job. Like you really want to make her repeat herself.

"I'm trying to have an orgasm," she repeats. "I've never had one, so I went
online and bought a vibrator. Happy?"

"You've never--"

"Never. Actually, fifteen to twenty percent of adult American women have
never had an orgasm, and I'm really not enjoying being a part of this
particular minority."

Okay, so Paris has never had an orgasm. You get it. And really, it explains
a lot.

"Oh -- okay." It's difficult to think of something encouraging to say in
these circumstances. You go, girl?

"Yeah, you sound real sympathetic," she snaps, and you can practically hear
her sneer. "I'm sure you don't have any problems in that regard, I'm sure
you've been multiorgasmic since puberty."

"Paris!" This time you sit up in bed. "Jeez!"

"Well? Tell me you're in the same situation I am, that you can relate to my
problem."

"Well, no, not exactly--"

"This is hardly the time to equivocate."

"Yes, Paris, fine, I have experienced orgasm before!"

"Oh, well, of course! That just figures!"

"Well, it's not like I did it to spite you!"

"Fine!"

"Fine!"

Silence. This is becoming surreal; you've been awakened in the middle of the
night and made to feel guilty for....

"God," you mutter to yourself and lie back down.

Moments pass, then: "Rory?" Paris' voice is quieter now, plaintive again.
"Will you show me how?"

"Will I--what?"

"Show me how. To have an orgasm. I mean, there must be some replicable
process involved."

"You want me to demonstrate?"

"No, of course not. Just... explain."

"You've got to be joking."

Her voice is softer now, almost a whisper: "Please? Rory?"

You know Paris. This is the girl who approached the loss of her virginity
like it was a political campaign; the girl who is even more driven and
organized than you are; the girl who faces every aspect of life like it's
an enormous brick wall in need of scaling.

She needs an orgasm.

But still: "I don't know, Paris. I've never even used a vibrator."

"Well, neither have I. It just seemed more... efficient."

Of course.

"To be honest," she continues, I think it's a little too intense. Maybe I
shouldn't have bought one that takes so many batteries..."

"Well, have you tried using your fingers?" You feel your cheeks beginning to
glow pink, and you're grateful for the darkness.

"Sort of. A little."

"And you understand the, er, anatomy? The little man in the canoe and all
that?" And suddenly you're kind of picturing Paris' anatomy, you can't help
it. You try to banish the thought, but it's oddly provocative; you wonder
what kind of panties she wears, if the hair down there is blond and soft
like the hair on her head, and...

"Yes, of course," she replies. "Hello, pre-med? I mean, I rub and everything,
but nothing really happens. I mean, it feels good, but nothing you'd really
call climactic."

"Hmm."

You've got to think about this for a minute, and in the ensuing silence a
sort of transformation takes place in the room, like you both become aware
that this is what the non-scholastic side of college is supposed to be
about; experience and experimentation. Finding things out about yourself.
Doing things that, later, won't count all that much. It suddenly becomes
possible that in this room, in the dark, tonight, things could happen that
you never imagined, either of you, and you could get away with it cold. You
could go to class tomorrow, and none of those people would know, but you'd
know, and the knowing would allow you to join a special, nameless club:
you'd be a person who, ten years down the road, could say 'Well, I've
settled down now, but when I was in college, hoo boy, I did some crazy
stuff.'

And you'd smile knowingly.

Knowingly: because this is, you suddenly realize, about knowledge; and if
you've ever been convinced of anything, all your life, it's that knowledge
is pure.

You wish you could tell Paris all this, this one big thought that just
dropped into your head and changed everything, but you have a feeling she
already gets it.

"I guess I could try to explain it," you say slowly, finally, "but it might
be easier to just show you."

Paris is actually silent for a moment, and you wonder if you've spooked her,
gone too far. "Sh-show me?"

"Well, not as such, but..." You slide out of your bed and into hers before
you have a chance to think about it; she moves over and lets you under the
covers with her. You have to sort of squeeze together, the two of you, in
the tiny bed, and Paris is much softer and more girly up close than you
would have thought.

It's nice. Strangely so. She smells good, and her sheets smell like Downy or
whatever the housekeeper back at the Gellar estate uses when Paris ships her
laundry home.

A little more rearrangement, and her arm is under your neck because that's
the only way you both fit, and you both giggle a little, tense embarrassment.
But you take a deep breath and reach down to peel off your pajama bottoms and
panties. Because, like Paris said, this is no time to equivocate.

This is for educational purposes only, you tell yourself.

Then why is your heart suddenly racing, and your skin suddenly so hot?

Another deep breath, and you take Paris' free hand and guide it down with
your own; you let her hand sort of rest atop yours as you show her your
usual routine: a couple of fingertips, lightly, more of a side-to-side
thing than up-and-down. And hear her sharp intake of breath as you put her
fingers there, just for a moment, just so she understands the geography
involved. Then you get back to it, because this is supposed to be a lesson
in self-pleasuring, right?

Paris starts to speak, but it comes out hoarse; she swallows, tries again:
"So, that's it? Repeat as necessary, until... something?" She's trying to
sound detached, clinical, but her voice is still tight. "And you're doing
it so... soft."

"Well," you say, on a downbeat in your breathing, "Sometimes that's all
it takes." And this is one of those times. "Doing it too hard, or with a
vibrator that's too powerful seems like it would be..." another deep
breath, another round of strokes, "counterproductive."

It's starting to feel pretty good despite your faint embarrassment, and
Paris' hand is just resting lightly on your inner thigh now; her breathing
is increasing along with yours, and on your next exhalation you moan, just
a little, and you feel her fingers twitch lightly on your thigh in response.
She swallows again, and rests her forehead against your neck. She lies there
quietly as you work away with your fingers, like she doesn't want to disturb
you.

Until: "What are you doing now?" she asks suddenly. "Why are you tensing up
like that?"

It's hard to explain, especially in your current state. You exhale hugely.
"You sort of--have to," you pant. "Tense up your stomach muscles and stuff.
And thighs. It's like you sort of have to try to have an orgasm. And," you
gasp, "Holding your breath helps, when you're first figuring it out."

"How odd," she says softly, almost into your ear. Her breath tickles
thrillingly, sends chills down your already-sensitized skin.

She seems to realize when you're getting close; no more words, just the sound
of both of you breathing heavily and the gentle shaking of the bed. Paris is
even more still now, like any interference on her part will ruin the whole
thing, and you kind of want to tell her she doesn't have to worry, that she
can touch you, that you want her to; but you're not exactly sure that falls
within the bounds of your unspoken agreement.

You push that out of your mind, and focus down hard, all your muscles tense,
your fingers flying in a familiar rhythm, until, finally --

You cry out a little as you begin to come, and the strangest thing happens:
You feel Paris' fingertips along your jawline, and she pulls your face
towards hers and kisses you. Her lips are shockingly soft -- the last person
you kissed was sad, scruffy Dean -- and her palm is back downwards now, on
your belly this time, fingertips observing the unfamiliar muscle contractions
as you come and come. You moan into her as she kisses you, and it's a good
thing because you'd be awfully noisy otherwise.

Your orgasm finally winds down, and you both return to stillness and
quietness; except her lips are still on hers and you find you don't really
have any objection to that. The point is clear: the agreement has been
renegotiated. Anything goes, talking not necessary.

The soft, tiny kisses gradually become larger and hotter and wetter, and
Paris is shaking a little, nerves you guess, and you decide that if this is
going to work you need to help her relax a little. So you reach a hand up
under her tank top and she gasps in shock when your fingers find her left
nipple. You kiss away her gasps, though, and then bring forth new ones when
you strip off her tank top and move your mouth in to do the work instead.

You feel her whole body stiffen, her spine arch, and you think, Wow. I did
that to her.

What else can I do?

You never really got it before, what with Dean and Jess always trying to
grope their way into whatever they could get, that giving could be just as
much fun as receiving.

Maybe more.

Paris hasn't spoken a single word in many minutes, and you think that this
must be some sort of record as you guide her hand down between her own legs.
"Here," you whisper into her ear. "You try it."

"Okay," she whispers back, and she sits up undresses the rest of the way,
and you don't have a chance to think of the fact that you're both naked
because her body is so nice -- soft and womanly and curvy, in a way that
she is expert at hiding with clothes. But you only get a glimpse; you both
lie back down, under the covers, and this time it's your arm under her
neck, you're the observer.

You just wait a moment, not wanting to distract her as she touches herself.

"Like this?" she whispers, and you can still she's still too nervous or
self-conscious, her movements stilted and uncertain.

"Just relax," you murmur in her ear, and you kiss her some more, because she
definitely seems to respond to that.

So you kiss each other while your free hand cups her breasts lightly, circles
her nipples, and she tries --

Suddenly she exhales in frustration. "This isn't working," she says. "Maybe
I'm defective or something. Maybe we should just forget it."

She's tensed up again, only this time not in a good way, and you can tell
she's winding herself up for a long rant about Kinsey reports and statistics
and how sex is clearly overrated and she needs to stop reading the Cosmo
magazines that everyone leaves lying around and --

"Shhhh," you say. "Don't be silly. Here, maybe I..."

You let the sentence trail off as you sit up a little, propped on one elbow
so you can reach better; under the covers, scared and excited and determined
now. And the hair is soft down there, soft and downy, and your fingers
discover that Paris is shaped a little differently from you, not that
different, but everything is more hidden somehow, the tiny bud at the top
even smaller.

And she gasps a little when you find it, and you rub juse fie fingertip in a
tiny circle, X marks the spot, and Paris takes a deep, deep breath.

"That -- that feels nice," she whispers, and you can almost feel the heat of
her burning face, radiating in nervousness and arousal.

You explore some more, and it's all interesting. Very.

But... on a sudden impulse, you know what would help; you withdraw your hand
and shove your two fingers into your mouth. You glance at Paris; in the
semi-darkness you can see that her eyes are screwed tightly shut, and she
lies waiting for you and whatever you're going to do, like the only way this
will work for her now is if she surrenders herself to it completely.

You sit up a little again, freeing both your hands. Paris doesn't move, still
waiting. You reach down with one hand, use your fingers to gently spread her
open a little, to gain better access to the hidden. The fingers of the other
hand, now well-lubed, find their target again.

Small, quick circles, two fingertips now, not bothering with any other
exploration, just working the tiny nub that you know is the only thing that
matters right now. And Paris definitely begins to react, her breathing
becomes much faster and heavier, and she begins to instinctively tense up
those all-important lower body muscles. She arches up her hips against you,
urging your fingers to push harder.

"Yeah," you murmur to her. "Like that...

"It feels good," she gasps on a ragged breath, "I think I can feel...
something... building up."

"That's it," you say, and you realize you're breathing almost as heavily as
she is as you tease her body into full responsiveness, those unrelenting tiny
circles, not too hard -- just a constant, steady rhythm. "Just try to follow
that feeling... up."

She takes another huge breath and holds it this time, and you know she's
getting it now, muscles all contracted; exhalation, another breath, holding,
while your forearm starts to ache a little, but you know this would be the
worst possible time to stop.

Yet another breath, sherembrembling from the effort and you're both a little
sweaty, and then, finally she makes a small, almost incredulous sound...

"Nnnnn... oh god," she gasps, and then she bites her own wrist to muffle the
cries as her orgasm takes her. She grabs your arm with her other hand, and
you stop the motion, you figure it'll probably be too much. But you leave
your fingers there, gentle pressure, and she shudders against you in
rhythmic, explosive surges. It goes on a long, long time, and you wonder just
how much pent-up sexual energy Paris has been concealing.

The surges finally stop; she releases her grip on your forearm, and all her
muscles finally slacken and rest.

You lie back down alongside her, and just sort of hold on to her arm lightly
as she calms down; you don't want to smother her right now. She twitches with
tiny aftershocks that make the bed shake. Another moment, and she reaches
over to intertwine her fingers with yours.

You both just lie there quietly a while longer. It's late, very late, the
kind of late where everything seems more real and more unreal at the same
time, and the thoughts drift in your head like clouds, but mostly you keep
replaying scenes from tonight.

But replaying them causes you to realize you'vuiltuilt up a certain level of
frustration of your own, and it's not just going away by itself.

You wonder if Paris is game for more experimentation tonight.

You shift a little to look at her face, and you have your answer: Her long,
shallow breaths and the slackness of her mouth tell you she's fallen asleep.

Well.

You decide it's nice, at last, to see her truly relaxed.

You climb quietly back into your own bed, and take care of matters on your
own, again, the fingers of one hand in much more familiar territory, so
practiced that you're almost coming before you start. You picture Paris as
you come, and wish faintly that she was still awake, because your own hand,
efficient as it is, is suddenly somehow unsatisfying.

It's all right, though. There's always tomorrow night.

END

    

Back 1 page


Submit stories to: [email protected](dot)com
with the title heading "TSSA Story Submission"



Bottom