Presents From Emma

Dec 17, 2014

"Happy birthday!"

Pretty much everyone was required to say those words to me today. Even strangers who heard what today was. Including this one.

Technically, it should mean more when family and loved ones say it. But hearing it from this stranger, in this context, was still the highlight of my birthday and a top highlight of my recent life -- at least it seemed to be at the time.

Before then, it had been enough to get tickets for "Cabaret" on Broadway on the date of my 30'th birthday. It was mainly a big thing because Emma Stone -- the celebrity I'd idolized and written about the most over the last few years -- was starring in it.

But as much as I looked forward to seeing her sing live about 100 feet away from me for over two hours, I mainly dreamed of seeing her about two feet in front of me for about 10 seconds. That would happen after the show, when I would get a good spot behind the barricade in back of the theater -- before she came out to sign Playbills for fans like me.

None of those fans were like me, though. Maybe one or two of them had a birthday today too, but I doubted they wrote extensively about her. Or if they did, it wasn't in smutty stories that were consistently among my highest rated.

That should have made me feel very awkward and creepy, in truth. Being that close to someone I lusted and loved, and wrote about in so many dirty but steamy and sexy scenarios. It should have made me feel a different kind of nerves and a different kind of star struck than normal.

But that had nothing to do with this -- at least I prayed it wouldn't. There was only one thing I'd have time to say to her when she signed my Playbill, and only one thing I wanted to say to her.

I practiced my lines to myself for days before getting to New York. I practiced it in my head one more time while waiting outside after the show. And when Emma came out of the building, with her red hair up in a bun despite how it was already shorter than usual, and with a light trench coat on after prancing around in black dresses, frilly pink robes and....thought provoking stockings on stage, my own personal curtain came up.

I said my lines right on cue after she reached me and took my Playbill. "Today's my 30'th birthday. Coming here and seeing you was my present, so thank you."

And as I hoped, she responded with a "Happy birthday!" with genuine warmth in her amazing voice -- even after using it to sing and speak in theatrical accents for the last two hours. Between that and getting her signature, my birthday wish was complete.

Yet in the one split second I had left, I got greedier. Despite how she had other fans waiting for autographs next to me, I still asked for a picture. And still she accepted.

I had to put my camera away when Emma came out, so I quickly took it out and gave it to the person next to me. I promised everyone else we'd be quick, as I put my back to the barricade and Emma leaned closer to me behind it, getting into frame.

I had to make myself stare at the camera and not at Emma. Once I printed out the picture and framed it, I'd have proof forever that Emma stood next to me and smiled with me. But seeing it on a frame wasn't the same as the real deal.

I had to avoid getting distracted anyway, and I did. I figured that would be that -- until Emma said that she had one more song left in her.

After getting my name, she then used it in the third verse of the Birthday Song. So did everyone else she told to sing along with her.

When the serenade was finished, my temporary cameraman took another picture of me and Emma -- right when she kissed my cheek. I snapped out of my daze just as the applause ended and she had to go over to the next very patient fan.

I snapped out of it in time to say, "Thank you! Good luck with the show and Oscar season!" It wasn't as rehearsed or planned as my first line, obviously. But she thanked me anyway, giving me one more smile and happy glint from her piercing green eyes.

My eyes finally broke from Emma, if only to take my camera back. It then came to me to ask if anyone had actually recorded the song on their phone. When the second person I asked said yes, I got her to e-mail the file to my phone.

I relieved the song and kiss on my brand new phone just as Emma made her way to her car on the curb. She briefly talked with someone before looking back at us -- and I could have sworn it was right at me. Regardless, she smiled and thanked everyone again before getting in and closing the door.

I figured that was that, so I left the crowd to start walking back to my hotel. That is, until the man who talked to Emma came right over me. He gave me an address and told me to take a cab there, and I had no response to that before he left.

Eventually, I did decide to do what he said and hail a cab to the address. I greatly resisted the urge to get on my phone and look up where it actually was, telling myself I wanted to be surprised. Maybe it was because if this wasn't a case of Emma inviting me to....somewhere private, I didn't want to rule it out sooner than I had to.

But it was popped anyway when we arrived. It was some of kind restaurant/club, not a hotel or anywhere else people could have secret sex in. Then again....

I shook it up, paid my fare and got in before my imagination ran away again. I could have been excused for thinking it did anyway, when I actually saw Emma come up to greet me. She mentioned I must have gotten her message, but her black dress, heels and her being Emma Stone nearly blocked that out.

I did manage to hear clearly that her and her cast mates were here for a cast party. And with Andrew Garfield either away in London or on a shoot -- that part I blanked on -- she figured there was an extra invitation I could fill.

It really started to sound absurd at this point. I almost said it was something right out of my smutty stories, but I fortunately caught myself.

Instead, I just commented on how she did all this for someone she didn't know. But she figured I had time to give her more to go on before the others arrive. Indeed, I got the essentials out there, and seemed to entertain her with them, before the rest of the cast showed up.

The next hour or two was a real blur. I remember snippets of specific conversations with people who weren't Emma, and snippets of talks with her too. The overall dizzying feeling of being here, with these people thanks to Emma -- who I was also with -- overwhelmed my specific memory, though. It all blurred together in one big, non alcoholic high.

I shouldn't have thought about anything other than Emma and all this. Technically, what I thought of did have something to do with Emma, though. Mainly, the new story I wrote about her just before I left, and which went up today -- or as of five minutes ago, yesterday.

At that point, I was so giddy I figured I could get away with it. With everything that went right tonight, I figured I could go to an empty booth, go on my new phone, log onto the site with my story and check to see how it was doing. If I got it out of the way now, it wouldn't distract me for the rest of my time with her -- or so I talked myself into believing.

So I logged onto the site and did my checking up. But as always when I'm on the Internet, on any device, I got tunnel vision. One planned second on there turned into a few minutes and blocked out everything else.

Everything like Emma coming up behind me, seeing me log onto the site, and seeing what particular site I'd logged in on. And seeing what my screen name was on it.

At the time, I didn't notice her behind me. She was gone by the time I logged off and got up, yet I thought nothing of it when I came back to the cast and she wasn't there. I figured maybe she left or had something come up to distract her.

That something was her borrowing a Kindle and looking up my stories -- and who starred in many of them.

I only figured that out when she came back over and asked me to follow her. In truth, I actually only figured it out when she led me into a closet, held up the Kindle she borrowed and showed me my latest story of her on it.

I froze up, although I think one "fuck" came out of my mouth. It was the most fitting and most idiotic choice of word.

Emma put down the Kindle and just looked at me, with anger and....something else in her eyes. I didn't have time to decrypt it before she slapped me, though.

She did look shocked and sorry a second later, but then reverted back to anger. Why should she feel sorry for someone who she sang for and went above and beyond for, before he turned out to be a massive pervert? A massive pervert with massively disgusting thoughts and words about her, for all the Internet to see.

Then that something else came back into her eyes. Then another something else. Her eyes and face were always so expressive and full of life, but there were too many conflicting expressions for me to handle. Then again, my discomfort likely had nothing on hers when she read what I had her do.

I could have defended myself, my right to free speech and the fact that it was all clearly fiction -- if I had any actual time to think. Since none was coming, I could only wait for Emma to slap me again, yell at me or do both at once.

And then she went and kissed me instead.

She pulled me right up against her and virtually shoved her lips against mine. It didn't really hit me until about three seconds after she broke off. By then, she was panting and back to staring at me with all those conflicting looks.

I should have asked what the hell that was, what the hell she was thinking, what the hell she wanted, an obligatory question about her boyfriend, etc. But words still escaped me.

Once it all hit me, however, it was clear words would only ruin....whatever was happening.

When I took a chance and slightly leaned in closer, Emma grabbed me and pushed our lips together again. This time, she backed us up until she was pressed against the nearest wall. This time, I was able to press my body and lips back.

I was just starting to actually savor it, until Emma broke off and put a hand on my pants at the same time. She then took my other hand and put it on the bottom of her dress. Once the hand on my pants touched my zipper, my orders were clear.

I rolled up the bottom of Emma's dress, reaching her crotch and her panties just as she got her hand into my open fly. I desperately tried to reach the top of her panties and pull them down, but she succeeded in getting my cock out first.

With strength I'd never understand, I managed to get her panties down and brush my finger against her pussy, even while she quickly jacked me off. Somehow, I focused enough to put my finger into her as well, pumping her with about 70 percent the intensity that she used on me.

I briefly looked down at her hand stroking my cock, and at her dress covering my hand as it finger-fucked her. Of course, I had to look up soon enough to maintain some self-control. However, looking at Emma's face as it panted, nearly turned as red as her hair and helped her eyes cloud over with lust wasn't any more helpful.

Listening to her was even worse. She obviously had to keep it down, since this technically was a public place. As such, her groans and pants were low, husky, quietly passionate and perhaps the sexiest thing I'd ever heard. Exactly as I'd written it so many times -- only it exposed just how inadequate a writer I really was.

At this rate, I'd prove quite inadequate as a man in just a few seconds. So with that last reserve of strength, I shoved my finger completely in her pussy and fucked her harder, brushing my thumb over her as well. Hoping against hope she'd come close to cumming before I exploded.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Emma barely kept low enough, while tightening around my finger, riding it and squeezing my cock. With that, any pretense at self control was gone.

I groaned and laid my head down on her shoulder, watching my hidden hand and her exposed hand pump faster. I still heard Emma pant, however, eventually making out the word "Cum" over and over.

"Yes!" I heard myself answer her, before virtually blacking out.

I saw Emma push my cock down, pointing it to the ground right as I started shooting off. All my cum landed below us, away from her dress and skin.

"Oh fuck...." I heard her react, as her hips went up and down on my finger -- and then coated it with her own release.

On that, my eyes closed as I groaned into Emma's shoulder, barely keeping upright. Eventually, my hand was released from between Emma's legs, with my finger pretty much dripping cum and juices onto my own cum on the ground.

The two of us stayed together, catching our breath with both our heads down. But we'd have to lift them up eventually -- and face each other after what we had done. What she had started despite being so mad at me. If that was really it.

I looked up and locked eyes with Emma once more, this time seeing exhaust, a slight glow in her eyes and face -- and an increasing look of shock. I was surprised it took this long for her to come to her senses, I supposed.

But again, she defied my worst fears. Instead of panicking out loud, getting mad or getting upset with me or herself, she just stayed quiet and made her way out of the closet. No words, no explanations, no apologies or thanks, no warning to keep this quiet -- nothing.

She did come back a few seconds later -- but only to get that borrowed Kindle back. If either of us had cum on it, then we'd be screwed.

She thought ahead to get it back, so I figured I'd have to think ahead and clean up all that....DNA evidence. I got out a hankie and tried to wipe all the cum and fluids from the ground, seeming to do just good enough. I then left the closet -- late enough after Emma to avoid suspicion, I hoped -- and threw it away.

I supposed if no one else saw me after Emma dragged me away, it might look bad. Therefore, I went back to see the others, and saw Emma back there as well -- apparently saying good night to them.

I put myself on autopilot then and there, so I wouldn't do anything at all. When she came to me and said happy birthday one more time -- without as much genuine joy this time -- I nodded and thanked her instead of asking her anything at all. When she gave me a brief hug, I lightly patter her back instead of holding her, whispering anything or thinking about anything at all.

When she walked away, I did my best not to linger at her, think about what happened, think about how I'd never see her or clear anything up again -- or think about anything at all, really. And when she was gone, I made sure to stay for about 10 more minutes before leaving myself.

I stayed on autopilot during the cab ride back, during my futile attempts to sleep at the hotel, and during the trip back home to Philadelphia. In fact, I was pretty sure I made myself stay blank for the next week, burying myself in work, Christmas stuff and only the briefest talks in person and online about my trip. In additional fact, I didn't even visit my smut sites or work on my end of the year stories.

By Christmas Day, I figured I was just numb enough to start being functional again. I still left the TV on while in bed so I wouldn't have any quiet time to think, and I tried my best to masturbate to my other top crushes. I figured I'd convince myself it was all some crazy hallucination by New Years.

Then came Christmas morning and a knock on my front door.

Then came the moment when I knew I'd gone crazy. Crazy enough to see a redhead with sunglasses, a long brown coat, black boots and a big brown bag at my doorstep. I sighed and went with it, if only to get it out of the way.

I realized I wasn't crazy, and that it really was Emma Stone, at about the same time she sat on my couch. A split second later, I realized my sanity was the least of my concerns now.

"You had your tickets delivered here. It didn't take me long to track you down," Emma explained. "But I had to wait till Christmas for a free day. Imagine that."

"My imagination...." I said without thinking. I didn't need to finish saying it was the problem for her to know it.

"Your....imagination is your imagination. When I saw what it was, I reacted to the....sketchy part of it first. Hence the...." She finished by slapping the air. "I....reacted to the other parts of it after that."

"And I'm still the only one who knows about it. I always will be," I assured, before the yelling still surely to come. "I'm not that kind of pig."

"I know. I read the proof," Emma said. That seemed encouraging enough for me to sit down near her.

"What you do isn't the most exploitive or sexist way to treat people like me. It's not on a naked photo hacking level, anyway," she stated. "It's really offensive on a few levels, though. I'm sure you know that." I nodded instantly, gearing up for my lecture.

"But there are....more offensive ways to do this than others. I'm sure you know that too," she said instead.

"I've read more than a few examples," I confirmed.

"I did too. It's not what I read that night, though," Emma continued. "It's not what I read again and again over the last week while I sorted this out. What I read...." she gathered herself to finish, "I'm hot!"

"Well...." it really went without saying.

"No, I mean I'm hot!" she laughed. "And I'm goofy, funny, level headed for the most part....I mean, I'm not some horny skank! Your guys have to work for me! And you don't make me miserable so I'll pity fuck you! You don't make those other girls a wreck either! Except the ones that already are!"

"Some of that can't be avoided," I mutter.

"Right! But you do with me! You....put some thought into it! Okay, maybe you're not the only one, maybe! But I got one of the good ones! If you weren't....so much would have been different," she concluded. "In a lot of ways."

I couldn't begin to juggle all the ways. Yet Emma tried anyway. "You could have acted like a real sick jackass. You could have checked me out in much less subtle ways. You could have started that incident, even if I didn't want you to! It's really fucking awful there are such low standards for this stuff, but there it is!"

I could only nod and agree for a while. Then I added, "I guess I shouldn't get credit just for being normal. For treating you like a normal woman. I mean, my kind of people....most of us are normal too. Not all, but most. Kind of like actresses. You're one of the good stable ones, and I try to be too."

"That's what gets the fingers typing for you? The good stable ones?" Emma asked. "You seem to write about them more than the crazy ones. Even the ones who keep their crazy secret. Or they think they do," she actually chuckled.

"I guess I have no right to ask for names," I admitted. "But yeah. I mean, some of them I just want to write about fucking. Nothing else. The ones I keep writing about? There's more to go on for me."

"Like their voice? Or hair? Legs? Ass? Those seem to come up a lot," Emma noted.

"With good reason," I was ready to admit to her. "But when those are attached to people who aren't brainless or talentless....who clearly have more to offer than just looks and star power....who can look and sound so sexy and still be goofy and silly....and who you can sense would be sweet enough to sing birthday songs to strangers and let them meet their friends, even before they do it....it's more inspiring."

"Yeah. That comes across," Emma admitted.

"I mean, you can love imagining doing dirty, sexy things with them. With them, not just to them. And....it might really, really live up to it," I let myself confess. "You also imagine taking your time with them, too. Really savoring and enjoying every beautiful part, sound, touch, taste....doing it fast and slow, sweet and hard core, with lust and actual care....all of that mixed in with the right....subject would be mind blowing. So that's what I try to make these things feel like."