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How come that he’s better at writing a book about New-York when he’s in Toronto, he wonders. Maybe being with her gives him the inspiration he doesn’t have when he’s alone in his big apartment. He finishes the last sentence of the chapter as he hears her keys opening the door. It’s been a week and they already have a functional routine. She gets up before him to go on set. He writes all day, and they punctually exchange a few texts when she has a break. When night falls, he asks her if she’s tired or not. If not, he takes her out for dinner. If she’s tired, he orders a pizza and they cuddle on the couch watching a movie. There’s no beach, no surf board, even not a pool, but he can’t dream about best vacations.
A few minutes ago, when he sent her his usual text message, she said she had a surprise for him.
“David?” she calls him from the hallway as she enters the apartment.
“Over here!”
“Happy birthday, David!” she says, walking through the living room to meet him in the little office.
“It’s not my…” he stops when she pushes the door to reveal herself. “Oh god!” His cock twitches when he realizes she’s dressed up as the hottest Marilyn Monroe he’s ever seen. She has a platinum blond wig on, her red lipstick matches with her nail polish, and her white dress stops mid-thighs and gives him a generous glimpse of her cleavage.
“Happy birthday, to you,” she sings, almost whispering, slowly walking towards him, swinging her hips one side to another. “Happy birthday to you,” she leans on his knees and rubs his thighs over his jeans. Her breasts jingle just under his nose and he gasps when her hands stop at the juncture between his thighs and waist. “Happy birthday to you,” she pauses to slowly lick her upper lip one inch away from his mouth. “Mister Duchovny,” she continues, straddling him and finally sitting on his lap. “Happy birthday, to you.”
“That’s a good present for a non-birthday,” he jokes, staring at her hands. She caresses his torso from his shoulders to the bottom of his shirt before pulling it over his head. “But I’m not sure you’re being faithful to the History, here.” he jokes as she unbuttons his jeans and reaches for his dick. “Oh god! Okay, forget about History. I’m not Kennedy anyway.”
She smiles as he watches her red nails polished go up and down along his shaft. Her fist tight around him, applying the right pressure as he feels himself hardening in her hand. She shifts on his lap, rubbing her center on his thigh and his hands cup her breasts.
“I’ve always had a fetish for Marilyn’s tits,” he says, his eyes lost in the swell of her cleavage.
“Me too,” she smiles and stokes him harder.
He gasps as he feels her fidgeting with her panties to push them aside, and she positions his cock at her entrance.
“Like that?” he asks, finally watching her in the eyes.
“You wanted to stay true to the History. No one cared about foreplay at that time.” She rubs the tip of his dick on her folds, leaning on his shoulder with her fingers running through his hair.
“Wait,” he says, putting his hand between their crotches. “Some like it hot. And wet.” He easily pushes his thumb inside her, suddenly realizing how soaked she already is. “God, Gillian!” he whispers, amazed.
“I’ve been thinking about that since I put the dress on.” She removes his finger from her, and quickly replaces it with his cock, sitting down on him in one slow move. “Oh fuck, you feel fucking good!”
“Did Marilyn ever say fuck once in her life?” he teases, putting his hands back on her breasts as she moves up and down on him.
“Did Kennedy have such a big dick?”
He chuckles, but she transforms his smile into a silent moan as she speeds up. Up and down, up and down, clenching her inner muscles around him on her way up to squeeze his head. It’s driving him crazy, her breasts bounce in his hands with every move, her head is tossed back, her eyes closed and there’s something incredibly hot to be fucked by a fake-Marilyn Monroe, fully dressed. She wasn’t lying when she said she’d waited for this all day. He can feel that she’d been aroused for hours, waiting for the release he would give her at night, and it’s not going to take long for her to come. Good for him, he won’t last long either. She pulled his face between her breasts as he starts to thrust back. Her moans are loud and continuous and the grip on his hair tightens, becoming almost painful as he feels her muscles swell around him.
“God, Gillian!” he screams as he comes, emptying himself inside her, and she cries out with one more thrust, sitting still on his lap as her orgasm milk his cock.
“Which pop-icon will you be playing around my real birthday?” he teases, as she’s still sitting on him, his cock slowly softening insider her.
She pauses and smirks. “Scully.”