I raise my eyebrows.
My lover waves toward my armpits. “You stink.”
I glare.
“Darling?” She bats her eyelashes in a way that looks totally ridiculous and insincere.
“What about you? When was the last time you bathed?”
“Oh, it’s been… a while.” Her brushing has returned to a steady rhythm. “I’ll join you, if you like.”
“You just want to get me wet and soapy and have your way with me,” I accuse, hopefully.
“Okay,” she grins, jiggling the red plastic brush in her mouth. A thin foam of toothpaste dribbles onto her chin and splatters onto the floor. I can see the moisture evaporating as I watch, the foam drying, sticking to the floor, where it will soon resemble a cum stain. Con never mops the floors. They’re perpetually gritty. That dried, papery blotch of toothpaste drool will probably stay there forever. I’m fascinated by it. It crinkles around the edges, becomes delicate, like flower petals.
Connie takes off her clothing, steps into the stall, turns on the water. Steam rises. She motions to my shower chair. “Milady, your chariot awaits.” I take a moment to adore her body, the layers of soft flesh over hard muscle, her right breast a little fuller, more pendulous than her left. Her eyes. It’s me. “Are you coming?” Connie stands naked, streaming, soap in hand, beckoning from the stall. I rise, releasing my hair from its clip. I always come when you call.
THE ELEVATOR MAN
Lea DeLaria
I am a hardnosed butch. The kind of butch you don’t see much of these days. We have gone out of fashion, like landlines and cassette tapes. Occasionally we pop up when your deck needs building or your Pride Parade marshalling. We have faded into a landscape riddled with assimilation and transitioning, forcing us into hiding or worse, extinction. It is a blessing that my business allows me to dress as I please, in tailored suits and crisp white shirts with French cuffs. I am starched and groomed and mannish. I am the last butch in New York City.
I live in a building not unlike myself. Well kept. Somewhat old-fashioned. You walk past at least four doormen to get to the elevator, where there is a uniformed man waiting to press the button that you are either too bored or too rich to push yourself. I have a lovely view of the park.
I never want for female companionship, nor do I need to be involved. I am a confirmed bachelor. Many a young femme have tried in vain to rearrange the pattern of my life. I will always let them try, because for me the chase is everything. Of course by “chase,” I mean I chase you. Yes, Virginia, there is a butch top, and I am (s)he.
This femme is a pragmatic girl. The sort of girl who wants what she wants. She will tell you what she wants, no matter what it is, no matter where. I know this because I have been watching her since she moved in. I am Interested. Interested not so much in her, but in who she is beneath that confidence. I can sense a girl who might not be as she appears. I can smell it on her. She is a girl who needs to be taken.
The pragmatic one and I live on the same floor and ride the elevator together sometimes. When we do, I stand behind her so I can take her in. She feels my eyes on her. This makes her nervous.
Today begins like any other day. I wake. I have coffee. I shower and shave. I dress. I leave my apartment. I smile inside when I see her there waiting for the elevator. Again I stand behind her, just that little bit too close. I am conscious of her tension. This jumpiness of hers makes me smirk. It also makes me hard. The elevator comes. We step inside: me to the rear, her in the fore. She takes her place directly in front of me. There is no one else in the car.
“No elevator man,” she says. I reply only with my eyes on her. Silence. We are fourteen floors up and the car is moving slowly. I step forward so that I am now fixed behind her, my breath on her neck. Stillness. She reaches out, I don’t see where, and suddenly we stop. An alarm goes off. She is frozen. My eyes are on her. We are statues. Motionless. The phone rings. I answer.
“Yes, we’re fine,” I say. “It just stopped.” Pause. “Two.” Pause. “Can you do anything about the alarm?” Pause. “Thank you, we’re fine.” I hang up. All this time she has not moved. She says nothing.
“The system is down,” I tell her. The alarm goes quiet. “No cameras.” Long pause. “They have no idea how long it will take to fix.” I say this so that she can feel me, behind her, on her neck and as I do, I reach around and start to fondle her breast through her blouse. I hear her sharp intake of air, but nothing voiced. She does not stop me. She does not say, “No.” I inch up on her and bring my other hand to her large tit. I can feel the nipples harden as I squeeze them between my finger and thumb. Now she makes a sound, a moan. I know this moan. I have heard it before. She wants more from me. So I pull harder. She backs up against me. I kiss her neck and softly lap her ear with my tongue. She becomes aroused, so I bite her. Again she moans. Again she wants more.
“Fuck me,” she demands. I pull her tightly to me. “Patient girls get what they want,” I whisper.
I run one hand down her side while pinching her nipple with the other hand. Her breathing becomes static. I reach up her skirt and slide into her panties, forcing her legs apart. She is soaked. “That’s what I thought,” I muse as I begin to stroke her clit.
“Fuck me,” she demands again.
“Maybe later,” I tease, then cram my fingers inside her. She whimpers. I pull out as quickly as I enter.
“Fuck!” she sobs from frustration. I continue to caress her pussy.
“Do you want me to fuck you little girl?” I ask, my fingers slipping easily around her clit, then in her cunt and around again.
“Yes.” She can barely speak.
“Then say, ‘please,’ like a good little girl.” I smile, knowing this will happen. She is too far gone to turn back now.
“Fuck me. BOY, please… FUCK ME.” The “BOY” is all I need to hear. I bend her over, hike up her skirt and jerk down her thong. I enter her like that from behind, thrusting inside her. She pushes back hard on me. I hear her talking: “Fuck me harder, Boy. Get it. Get it. Make me cum.” I reach around to finger her clit as I drive deeper and deeper and faster and faster into her. Her cunt tightens around my three fingers then explosively she cums. I continue to fuck her as she keeps on cumming, rolling over orgasm after orgasm. I will not stop. I will not stop, because I want it all. I want all of her cum, all of it. Then, and only when she finally begs me to, I quit. We are again motionless. I hear her pant.
I help her become herself once more. It only takes a moment. Wordlessly she stands, facing me now, the pragmatic girl, the girl who wants what she wants. I pull off her thong and put it in my pocket. You see I want what I want too. I smooth her blouse and adjust her skirt. I kiss her then, for the first time on her mouth. She turns around. I stand behind her a bit too close. The elevator jumps back on.
NECK MAGIC
Nancy Irwin
I have developed a fascination with your neck. I put my hands around it and you immediately drop, like magic, into a submissive space. The look in your eyes says that you’ve become consciously captive and are waiting for my command. There’s something that you want, or is that need?
I used to like to watch you bring yourself down and get ready for play. But most of that time I was busy getting the space set up, organizing bondage equipment, getting lube, gloves, chucks and cum cloths ready. I would catch a glimpse of you in the bathroom, or in the bedroom. I have an image of you, a muscular butch wearing a black long-sleeve dress shirt, open and with the cuffs rolled up—and wearing boots, as I requested. You stood in my bedroom door, looking down the hall toward the dungeon. I spotted you and you looked down. The next time I saw you I had entered the bedroom. You were standing at the foot of the bed with your back exposed and your head down. I meant to enter slowly but I was so turned on by the sight of you that I pounced against your back and wrapped my arms around you. Your submission turns me on.