DISCLAIMER: As much as I would love to say that I own Paris, I sadly do not. She and Rory belong to Amy Sherman Palladino.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
A Little Satisfaction
I rub at my temples, trying to strike the thoughts of last night's dream from my mind. The thoughts are burned there, however, and I groan in frustration. I'm getting nothing completed and it's all because of Paris. Just as I close my eyes and grudgingly allow my mind to recount the events of my dream, said woman walks into our room.
She drops her book bag at the side of her desk and falls onto her bed, one arm casually resting atop her abdomen, just below the swell of her breasts.
"I'm exhausted," she explains.
"I figured as much. You barely slept at all last night."
"I didn't keep you awake, did I?"
"No; actually, I haven't been sleeping well myself. I woke up a few times and noticed you were awake."
She sits up to untie the laces of her boots and slides them off of her feet, each time emitting a sigh of relief. I swallow as she leans further forward to rub her aching feet and I catch a glimpse of her cleavage. My breath catches in my throat and I wonder why. It's not like I've never seen her cleavage before. I've seen her more scantily clad than this, but still, the effect is intense. I find myself wondering what color her bra is. Is it the lacy tan one that she frequently wears, or the clasp-in-front white one?
I shake myself from my reverie to find Paris has stopped her massaging and is staring at me. "I'm sorry, what?"
"I was just asking what was keeping you awake. You must be tired, I haven't seen you this spacey since the last all-nighter you pulled, and that was at least a month ago."
I wasn't about to admit to her what exactly had kept me awake, so I settled for a lie instead. "Just can't seem to shut my mind down sometimes."
"I know what you mean." A pause. "I'm thinking about breaking up with him."
That came out of nowhere. Their relationship had seemed to work well; they complimented each other. I did, however, hold my breath a little while I begged her to explain.
She had gotten up from the bed by this point and was shrugging off her tan corduroy jacket. "He's starting to bore me."
She hangs up her jacket and begins to unbutton the maroon top she's wearing. Looks like I'll get to see what color bra she's wearing after all.
"Okay, fine, you caught me. There's more, only you can't tell anyone. Not even Lorelei."
"I'm serious, Gilmore," she says, advancing on me in that way to prove she will use force to keep me from telling her secret. "It can't leave this room." I could care less what her secret is now; she fully unbuttoned the shirt before trying to use her intimidation tactics on me, and I catch a peek at a sheer black bra and full breasts swelling dangerously at the edges. I gulp. When did she buy that one? I've never seen it before. I find myself having a battle in my mind; I desperately want her to move in some way so that the fabric of the shirt falls open a little more, so that I may glimpse at what the sheer bra provides. At the same time, I'm worried about what I will do if I do happen to see what lies beneath.
"I promise, Paris. This isn't Chilton anymore; you're my best friend at Yale and I'm not about to jeopardize that."
"Thank you, Rory. I'm sorry I got all intense on you there. Anyway, things are just not satisfying with Doyle." Paris heads back to her closet now, her back to me, as she slips off the shirt. I have at my view her smooth back and the straps of her bra. I lick my lips and realize she's been silent, meaning she is leading me into questioning her. She's baiting me, much as she did when she wanted to find out my PSAT scores, and I am curious at her choice of the word 'satisfying.'
"I'll bite. In what way?"
"Sexually, Rory." She grabs her bathrobe from the hook on the wall and puts it on to shield my eyes from viewing her as she takes off her pants. She ties the robe and, after hanging up her pants, comes to sit on my bed where I am, notebook in my lap. "There's just something so dry about him, Ror. I know I don't have the best track record when it comes to sex and boyfriends, but I don't need to be a sexpert to know that I'm just not getting what I need from him."
"What's that?" I feel warmth spread throughout my body, waiting for her answer.
"An orgasm! I am on my last thread here. You know I don't like to leave things unfinished and that's all that keeps happening and I end up walking around like some hormonal harlot, my inner perv just waiting to be released!" She's getting really riled up, and I can see that in the process of telling me her frustrations, she has not only got me into a frustrated state myself, she has also unintentionally loosened her robe and I once again have a glimpse at her swollen breasts.
"I understand how that goes, but you know that. But sex isn't the only thing that makes up a relationship, Paris. There's so much more than that."
"I know, I know. But right now, not even the most intelligent conversationalist could be interesting enough to keep me from wanting to get off! I'm going to have to do it, Ror; I can't just have someone use me until they get off and leave me stranded! I mean, what happened to foreplay? What happened to kissing and teasing and sucking and licking? I can't take having to do it myself anymore."
With that lovely statement, my mind goes into overdrive. Thoughts of Paris lying in a bed just a few feet from mine, pleasuring herself has me practically sliding off the bed. Not to mention the thoughts of Paris doing each of those things makes me wonder if I couldn't perhaps mollify her situation.
She must have noticed my eyes widen slightly at her declaration, because she places her hand on my knee and says, "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I got a little carried away. I'll try not to spare the unfortunate gory details next time."
I smile and playfully add, "Hopefully there won't be a next time."
She laughs as she gets up. "I know. I should have all future date possibilities give me a complete sexual history with references before I commit myself. Too bad Madeline and Louise aren't here; I could just go to them."
I laugh again. "Would we ever be interested in the same type as them?"
She raises an eyebrow at me, as if I should know better. "Tristan doesn't count. I mean it, would we ever want to date someone that would date someone like Madeline or Louise?"
She smirks and raises an eyebrow again. "Logan doesn't count. Okay, maybe he does. But I'm working on him."
Paris's laugh takes me aback. "Oh come on, Ror. I know Logan isn't cutting it for you. He may be the perfect boy toy to bring home to the grandparents, but he's still not doing it for you, is he?"
I blush a little, not sure how far I want to go with this. My pause brings her to my bedside again.
As she reaches up to take her hair down from her ponytail, she says, "Come on, Rory, I just spilled all to you. It's your turn."
"Fine. Logan's a bit cocky. And I don't mean to make bad puns, but he is. He has no idea how to use it!"
She raises an eyebrow. "From what I've heard, he does know, and he uses it frequently."
"Maybe it's me then maybe his package just doesn't do it for me."
"It happens, Ror. Maybe that's the case with me too. I'm sure Doyle'll make someone else very happy some day, but right now my libido is speaking loud and clear and I have no choice but to listen. You should listen a little more closely to yours; you deserve better. I think you're getting sick of taking multiple showers a day as well."
With that, she gets up, grabs her towel and her lounge clothes, and heads for the bathroom. It's not until the door has been shut and locked that I realize she took a shower this morning and more than likely just came from Doyle's.
I feel as though someone has turned up the thermostat and tug at the collar of my sweater. Paris is behind that door, using the cover of the water to ease the ache between her legs. I try to shut out the thoughts of the water hitting her body, cascading down all of those sensual curves. Her confessing that she masturbates in the shower does not make me feel any better if that's what she was aiming for; yes, it is nice of her to not touch herself while I am in the room, and I try not to do that as well. But now no matter what I do, I have the image of her pleasuring herself everywhere. Her bed. My bed. The shower. The couch. The kitchen.
It's at this point that I realize my hand has worked it way underneath my sweatpants and is tracing the outline of my slit through my soaked panties. I quickly remove my hand, and sigh. It's no use. I want Paris. Bad.
The subtle flirting over the years has made its mark. My dreams at night are filled with images of her, last night being the most intense of all.
Yes, I've had sex dreams about Paris before. It's always romantic in some way, or following the course of some movie that I've seen with my mom a thousand times, and more often than not the exceptionally graphic things are somehow blurry. But last night, something snapped inside of me. Instead of the soft, scripted lovemaking, it was quick and rough and completely unexpected.
In my dream I had been studying in Yale's beautiful library. Not exactly the environment I would want to have sex in; I have too much respect for the classical texts embedded within each shelf to reveal any wantonness. But suddenly, Dream Paris arrives, and Dream Rory can't keep her eyes off of her. Dream Paris asks me to take a walk with her, and before I know it, she has me pressed against a shelf. I notice across from me the classical Greek texts and close my eyes as she devours my mouth, neck, and any other exposed skin she can find. She gets onto her knees and Dream Rory just so happens to be wearing a skirt, which she dives under. Underwear becomes a figment of my imagination as her tongue eagerly works at me and brings me to the fastest orgasm I've ever had in a dream.
I swear, if I hadn't noticed Paris sitting at her desk when I awoke from this dream, I would have gone against my unspoken promise not to masturbate while she was in the room.
I hear the shower being turned off, and wonder how Paris brings about an orgasm. Does she tease her clit like I do to myself? Does she slip one, two, three fingers inside of herself and use the heel of her hand to grind against her clit? I clench my thighs together and grab onto my pen and my notebook for the purpose of not letting Paris see she was getting to me and to occupy my eager fingers.
The bathroom door opens, and Paris emerges through a cloud of steam. Her baggy long sleeve shirt clings to her still slightly damp breasts and her cotton pants stick to her shapely thighs. She puts away her things and sits cross-legged on her bed while she brushes her hair. I can't help but watch her, especially as she pivots her head this way and that so that she can work out all of the tangles.
I have a question poised right on the tip of my tongue, but I debate whether or not to ask. I don't want Paris to suddenly turn back to ice queen, but I desperately want to know whether or not she got herself off. Before I can ask, she is on her feet, grabbing a textbook and a notebook and heads for the door. Once she's there, she turns to me and says with a smile, "Thank God for detachable shower heads," and exits.
So far so good. It's been a few hours since Paris's confessions and it seems as though both of us have cooled down significantly. We're sitting in the shared living area of our dorm, Paris to my left and Tanna sitting in a chair to my right. Paris has put down her books and we are all relaxing after a long day. Tanna's flipping through the channels and Paris is curling up beside me. I shudder as her toes brush against my thigh as she brings her feet onto the sofa, but she soon brings her legs closer to her body so as to not disturb me. Please, Paris, disturb away. I don't mind at all.
Tanna settles for a movie on tv, one I've never seen but one she and her best friend from high school used to love. It's about an all girls boarding school with that girl from Coyote Ugly and that one from The O.C.
And as I watch two attractive women begin to make love on the screen, my pulse rate quickens and I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Paris in the same boat. She brushes her fingers against her flushed neck and I see that she presses her arm into her chest. It appears her shower didn't quite assuage her.
She quickly gets up and ventures into the kitchen, grabbing some of her soy ice cream and handing me a spoon. "Want some?" she asks. I nod and she scoots closer to me, our hips and thighs brushed firmly against each other as we eat from the container.
Paris makes no sound as her eyes remain fixated on the screen, watching the lustful dance between schoolmates. I see that a bit of ice cream has fallen onto her chin, and I point it out to her, watching closely as she thanks me and proceeds to catch the offending drop with her finger. She brings said finger to her lips and sucks it clean and I nearly swoon.
Did I, Rory Gilmore, just say that I swooned over Paris Gellar? If anyone I knew could tap into my thoughts right now, they'd certainly waste no time calling in an old priest and a young priest and the men with the white jackets.
But alas, there I am, fantasizing about Paris sucking on certain parts of my body
And then, at this moment, came the only thing that could possibly make our situations worse.
It was no wonder why Tanna was with us; she had been exiled from her bedroom by Janet and her flavor of the week. And clearly, Janet was having no sexual problems with this guy; load moans and groans and cries of "yes" and "oh God" shattered through the walls and gave goosebumps to my goosebumps.
Tanna attempts to drown them out by turning up the volume of the television, but that does no good. It only brings my attention to the breasts and sensual bodies on the screen. My libido is seriously running amok; I imagine Paris doing these things to me and making me moan like Janet. I find myself sucking on my spoon, stroking my tongue against the metal.
I fidget with it, wanting to look at Paris to see her reaction but altogether nervous about what I will find. I risk it and find myself looking at her exquisitely flushed face, her white knuckles enclosed around the spoon, and, Oh God, her hard nipple pressing through her shirt. Her nostrils flare in that way that signals her getting angry, and I wait for it.
"That damn girl needs a gag! Why the hell do we have to be apart of her intercourse?" Paris puts the lid back on her soy ice cream and heaves her spoon at Janet's door. It strikes the wood with a loud clang and falls to the ground, more than likely unheard by the lovers.
Paris storms into the kitchen, carelessly throws the carton into the freezer, and stalks into our room and slams the door.
Tanna looks at me. "Is she okay?"
"Just a little frustrated."
I shrug and she turns back to the tv. I remain in the living room for only a few more minutes before retreating to my room. I don't know what would be worse; watching the lesbian relationship progress on the screen, or going into the sexually charged atmosphere of the room I share with Paris.
When I open the door, I see that the lights are off and Paris is lying in her bed, staring at the ceiling. I say nothing, thinking she may want to be alone in her bad mood. I remove from a drawer a tank top and contemplate whether or not I should go into the bathroom to change my shirt. I decide against it; it's not like Paris has never seen me change. Not that Paris would be looking anyway. I pull off the t-shirt I'm wearing and turn around so that my back is facing her and unhook my bra. I quickly tug on the tank top and, feeling immediately cooler, slip quietly into bed. I find my comfortable spot in the bed and feel like I could easily fall asleep if my brain would only slow down and return to it's usual PG-13 rating.
"How is it that no matter who Janet brings here, she always manages to get off?"
I open my eyes and groan inwardly. She was not going to drop this orgasm thing. It was making me crazy. And hornier than ever.
"I don't know, Par. Maybe she's just easy."
She snorts. "We know that for sure. But really, is it so wrong to ask that she keep her moans to herself?"
"It's not wrong. Just awkward."
"And so is the knowledge that her bedroom romps are more stimulating than fucking my boyfriend!"
Paris swearing always makes me feel warm all over. I get tingles when she uses words like "fuck"; that naughty side of her does occasionally come out to play. I feel it now, that teasing tingling sensation between my legs, and I desperately want to reach down there and touch myself. No. That is so wrong. This needs to stop.
"Par, maybe you should try to get some sleep. You're exhausted; you barely slept at all and you won't feel any better about Doyle tonight. Sleep and hopefully you'll be able to get a new perspective on things tomorrow."
"I guess you're right. Thanks for listening to my complaining, Rory."
"No problem, Paris. Sleep well."
"Thanks. You too."
I roll over so that my back is to her, and it takes quite a bit of coaxing of my mind to give up the thoughts of my roommate. I think about Logan, about my grandparents, about Jess and Dean; sleep comes quickly.
Only, here I am. Back in dream world. Only now I'm at Chilton and I'm wearing a bra and underwear in that blue plaid of my uniform. And there's Paris, also wearing the matching bra and panties. And we're kissing in the Franklin office. Her hands are on my waist, my breasts, my ass I push her against a desk and spread her legs and she wraps them around my waist. I run my hands over her incredibly smooth legs and grab her ass so that I can slide her closer to me. I then cup her breasts and begin to kiss my way down her body. I bury my face in her cleavage and after kissing and sucking on all exposed skin I can find, I kneel on the ground and prepare to make Paris come so hard she'll forget all of her woes.
And then I wake up. And my hand is buried between my legs. And my fingers are soaked. And my tank top is pushed up and is just barely covering my breasts.
I blush furiously and pray that I haven't made any indication that would clue Paris into what I was doing. I pull my comforter up higher with my free hand and look over at my roommate.
I can't tell if she's asleep or not. She's an active sleeper, and there is definitely some motion going on over in that bed of hers. I wonder if she's having a nightmare. Or perhaps a sex dream
I stroke myself a little more. I'm amazed at how wet I am. I graze against my clit and gasp aloud. I'm hypersensitive, and I immediately still.
The movement in Paris's bed has stopped. I hold my breath and pray that she hasn't heard me.
Her voice cuts through the heavily-tensioned air. I pretend to sleep, but she knows I'm awake.
"Rory," she repeats. "Come here."
What? Me come there? She's got to be talking in her sleep again; she would never beckon me to her bed. Or would she?
"I heard you, Rory. And you heard me. Now get in my bed."
Somehow I get the feeling that if I don't get up now and go to her, she will come to me. I lick my lips and slowly take my hand from my pants, feeling my fingers drag the wetness along my abdomen. I pull down my shirt and throw the covers off of my body.
I take baby steps towards her bed. I can't believe this is happening. I pinch myself, but my still slick fingers slip on my skin and I know it has to be real. Paris hasn't moved at all. She's still lying on her back, her body covered by her comforter. I reach her bed and stand there like an idiot, waiting for her to tell me what to do.
All righty. I don't need to be told twice now; I don't want Paris to get pissed at my hesitation and throw me out of her bed. But then again, it's making me incredibly hot to hear her boss me around like this. I get into the bed and feel my body shake as I feel her warm body beside me.
She says nothing, but takes my right hand in hers. She feels my wet fingers and lets out a soft moan.
It happens so quickly that I don't expect it. One minute we're lying beside each other, taking deep, ragged breaths, and the next her lips are on mine and her tongue is stroking against mine and her hand is under my top, cupping my breast.
I hear her moan as our kiss grows needier and more intense. Her kisses are making me light-headed, more so than any other time I've ever been kissed. I tangle my fingers in her hair, feeling the silkiness against my drying fingertips. She is on fire and her flames are consuming me. Her leg comes up between mine, her thigh pressing fully and roughly against my center. I can almost feel her skin making contact with my bare self despite the three layers of clothing separating us.
I break apart to catch a breath, only its lost again as I look at Paris. Her face is flushed and coated in a thin layer of sweat. Her hair is mussed and her lips are swollen from our kiss and her eyes are filled with lust.
I begin an assault of her neck, kissing and licking and nipping at her skin, and she moans my name in such a way that I feel a gush of wetness surge between my thighs. My nails dig into her backside before sliding up under her shirt. Light-headedness resumes once I make contact with her breasts, and I give up her neck so that my mouth may begin an exploration of her breasts. Somehow, between the two of us, the shirt manages to make its way to the floor and my mouth around one of her deliciously hard nipples. She shrieks and roughly grinds against me with her leg, and I find myself thrusting down onto her thigh. Her breasts, so soft and heavy, react to every touch and I find myself cursing all of the men I've been with for not having them. What a waste of their chest space; breasts are so much more stimulating.
"Oh God. I need you, Rory. Don't stop, please!" The desperation in her voice matches the desperation I feel between my legs, and I want so badly to be the one that satisfies her. I rip off her pants and panties and throw them carelessly across the room. I glance over her naked body, trying to soak in this incredible image, but know I can't keep her waiting. I collapse on top of her, claiming her lips as my fingers deftly work their way between her legs. I feel how wet she is before I'm even there, and we both gasp as my fingers brush against her aching clit. She cries out and urges me not to stop.
As if I would.
I suck on her lip as I massage her clit and I know it won't take long before she falls apart. I increase the pace of my fingers and stroke a little harder, and she's thrashing against me, so close.
I tear away from the kiss so that I can watch her face when she comes. Her eyes are clenched tight and she bites her lip between incoherent whisperings. With one more flick of my finger, she unhinges. She cries out as her orgasm sweeps over her body, her muscles contracting so fast that it seems as if she's never had an orgasm before. I clench my thighs together, my clit throbbing and aching for attention, but I ignore it and watch as Paris slowly comes down from the high I just help to bring her to.
She slowly opens her eyes and the look she gives expresses how thankful she is that I just managed to do this to her. I expect her to launch into a verbal thank you, but she instead begins to kiss me again, this time slower and deeper than before.
She pushes me onto my back and quickly straddles me. Her wet core is pressed against my abdomen. She pulls off my shirt and palms each of my breasts. It's so thrilling to see Paris Gellar being so un-academic and uninhibited. I writhe beneath her, wanting to be brought to a shattering climax so badly that I may just come from the sheer want of it.
Paris pulls down my pants and my soaked underwear but gets distracted now that I am completely bared before her. I use my feet to kick the offending clothes off quickly and cry out as she cups me. She whispers my name as she slowly caresses me. She finds my clit and as she grazes it, I clench my muscles in surprise. Of everyone who I've been sexually intimate with, no one but Paris has really given a damn about that magical little button there. It resents my choices in bed partners because of its neglect, but tonight it is getting special attention. Paris teases it as she gets in a more comfortable position, straddling one of my legs. She looks at me through heavy lidded eyes and a strand of her blonde hair falls across her face. She tosses her head so that she can clear her view and that action has to be the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
As I feel myself getting close, she thrusts two of her manicured fingers deep within me and I moan loudly. She strokes quickly while using her free hand to resume the teasing of my clit. I am so close, so blissfully close and she curls her fingers and I crash. My orgasm hits me hard. I cry out her name as my body convulses around her fingers. I can feel her eyes on me and I bite my lip as I ride her fingers to gain every possible sensation.
As my body relaxes into a position of deep comfort and satisfaction, Paris lays down beside me and kisses me slowly and softly. When she pulls away and settles her head on the pillow beside mine, we look into each other's eyes and without words, know that we don't need to discuss what will happen from here. Doyle and Logan are gone.
And I think it's safe to say that neither of us will have to worry about being unsatisfied again.
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