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Oh, Paris	By : kieyra Category: G through L > Gilmore Girls Views: 14289 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Gilmore Girls, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Oh, Paris
- 1
Title:
Oh, Paris

Author: kieyra

Dedication: For Kerennie.

___

    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 fal asl 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 semidarkness 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...r>
r>

    "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
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Oh, Paris