After Midnight (22 page)

After I worked her moisture over the cock, I slid it in inch by inch until it was buried inside her hot hole. I paused for her to get used to the penetration. When she bucked against me, I knew it was time to give her what she craved. I worked it in and
out at a steady beat as she squirmed and latched onto the headboard and mattress corner with her hands.

“I need more. Deeper.”

Hearing those words, an animalistic desire overcame me. I raised her thighs between us, reached over her head for the headboard, and pumped my hips the fastest I'd ever ridden. I felt the headboard squish my fingers against the wall, but I ignored it as she bucked against me. The more she screamed the faster and harder I wanted to give it to her.

“Whose feet?” she panted, looking around. “Oh, who gives a shit? Keep going.” She yelled a string of words I didn't understand, which I took as encouragement.

Finally, sweat dripped and pooled between us as I rode my butch.

“Come on, baby. Give it to me.” I encouraged her through pants and moans.

“Oh, shit.” She stretched those two words out for a few seconds before she collapsed.

I fell on top of Melissa, breathing heavily.

“Oh, shit.” She slowly withdrew her hands from the spots they'd been holding on to. “Oh, shit.”

“Is that all you can say?” I lifted my head off her chest and glanced up at her. “You, okay?”

She nodded and licked her lips. We lay there for half an hour or more before she spoke again. “Whose feet were those?”

“What? What are you talking about?”

She lifted her hand slowly and held it within inches of her face. “The feet that were right here. Whose were they?”

I giggled. “I think they were yours.” A blush rose to my face as I thought about it.

“Oh, shit, honey.” She pulled me to her. “Honey? I don't think big girls are supposed to fold in half like that.” She
chuckled and kissed the top of my head. “Not that I'm complaining or anything.”

Melissa and I cuddled and dozed off and on. During one of our alert moments, I asked, “So is it a one-time thing? Or can we do it again sometime?”

“Definitely again. You ain't getting off that easy.” She tickled me. “I'm keeping score of your talents and making a schedule of future demonstrations.”

I giggled and tickled her back. “How about being my bad boy sometime?”

She furrowed her eyebrows and said, “What does that mean?” She thought for a minute and smiled. “So is that why you like to watch those anal videos?”

“Yeah.” I glanced at her for a reaction, embarrassed she'd figured it out so easily.

“We'll see, darling. Oh, boy will we see.” She paused and stared at the ceiling. “Bad boy? Is that what you want to call it?” She nodded. “If you're a good girl, I'll be your bad boy.”

 

 

 

 

 

I
always want to kiss Cleo. Every single time I'm near her. She makes me feel sensual and erotic by her very presence. Cleo sees the world as a poet does, lyrically. She brings me to views I haven't yet seen, elegant words in an often-skewed perspective. She finds divine details to decorate her life. We met in the days of dancing, drink, and unabashed lust. It was a time when I surrounded myself with passionate people.

In those days, my heart belonged to my dearest friend, Liz, and she was irreplaceable. Small, muscular, and dark, she had an exotic quality that drew people to her. Her father was an excommunicated priest, her mother the Bolivian beauty that seduced him from the Lord. I had met Liz on the porch of a house shared by our friends. She swung in the hammock and invited me to work out with her. I said yes just to be near her. It was the beginning of an understanding. We would know all about each other. We do to this day.

Liz and I would often find ourselves in rich restaurants or pounding clubs, yet we never found ourselves in bed together. We loved each other as sisters, with a strange bent, and were extraordinarily protective of each other. We each looked after the other's heart, while at the same time we led each other into delicious destruction whenever we could.

We would take great pains to prepare ourselves for our long nights of carnal delights. In the slope-ceilinged attic apartment of a downtown house, we'd begin drinking wine and occasional tequila that would continue throughout the night, and fussed for perfection. We flung ourselves around to cheap audiocassettes of dance mixes that had been given to us by DJs at our favorite haunts. We finalized with a brazen application of the deepest red lipstick and escaped into what I always remember as cold nights. Close together in Liz's small white car with her inadequate heater.

It was in the dark, smoky club NYC—a deteriorating store-front building with great glass windows and one large room serving as a bar—that we danced like heathens. The decadent were funneled into a much smaller room in the back to dance. Sweat, deafening music; pulsing, throbbing bodies in a claustrophobic's nightmare.

Beautiful gay men and divine women of variable sexualities forced themselves into the small room. On a platform, someone would be dancing in nothing but jockeys or a gladiator harness, sometimes getting fondled by another dancer. I'd enter the room as if pushing through a wall. That moment removed me from the reality I knew and brought me into the dream I kept. I'd shut my eyes and fall into the music. Sometimes alone, usually terrifyingly close to someone else. When all I wanted to do was dance without the constriction of another, Liz and I would create our own space of gruff attitudes to seal ourselves from intrusion. Liz
smelled of patchouli, alcohol, cigarettes, and the lingering scents of other women. I'd drop into the rhythm, take in her scent, and simply exist in the bursting lights and fervor of the music.

We danced in the days of techno, deep house, and trance, a tirade of heavy beats fleshed out with electronic creations. DJ Jonathan fed us from his perch high in the corner booth. The music oozed sexual innuendo, rhythmic fucking, and driving ecstasy. There was a base feeling to the sound that implied so much more than dancing.

We'd take drugs and fill ourselves with wine. Liz and I would dance with Dawn, Peggy, and Angelita in the haze. Barb would press Liz against the support beam in the center of the room, while half-naked Angelita attempted to seduce me. Mandy, soft with white skin and clad as a Goth girl, would become emotional at any attention. There were so many of the eclectic tribe. We lived a life of excess: these extraordinary women, Liz, and I. Extraordinary women like Cleo.

I would come to find that Cleo had always been bold. It was through her boldness that I came to know her.

 

Late on a Saturday night, in the depths of NYC, I was shaken out of my trance by the sudden appearance of the woman. I watched as the tall redhead lost herself to the music. Cleo moved with a piercing energy. Her arms were raised into the cloud of man-made smoke, her swath of red hair swinging to cover her shoulders and eyes. I stared. It had always been one of my bad habits, and most often I didn't care who noticed. When she caught me, though, I felt suddenly weak. All of my personal power, my high self-opinion, drained from me into this woman.

Cleo crossed the small room, passing through the throng of the hypnotized. I can't say whether her full mouth smiled when she reached me or if she just took hold of me. I felt her long
fingers move around my waist to the small of my back. We slipped into the music. She was so direct in her gaze, until she shut her eyes, leaning her forehead into mine.

Our hips and breasts came together as Cleo pressed closer. Her body was firm and athletic in contrast to my softer, rounder form. She was taller than me, her shoulders broader than my own. Her hand lay firmly on the curve of my waist. Her scent was rich with expensive perfume and sweat. Our movements became fluid, and my arm wrapped around her shoulders, my hand was in her hair. I pulled it to my face, rubbing it against my cheek and up into my own hair. She must have sprinkled the perfume through her hair. Years later that scent would still stir my senses.

I couldn't tell you how long we danced that way, fused. The music moved through me, through her, and created a concoction of energy. It wrapped around us and pulled us closer. I silently turned away any of my previous dance partners with a brash gaze or a sharp hand to stay with Cleo. In the middle of the morning, the music stopped and the lights came up. Liz came to fetch me, possessively wrapped her arms around my shoulders, and pulled me away. Cleo stepped back, lightly kissed me on the mouth, turned, and left.

I could never imagine wanting to pull away from Liz, until the night I almost chased Cleo.

 

The following week I went back to NYC and scoured the crowd for any sign of Cleo. I sought friends, acquaintances, anyone who could tell me about the woman. She was married, but no one ever saw her and her husband together. She was an artist, and several people wore the jewelry she made. She came to the club to dance every weekend, was rarely seen anywhere else.

I sat at a small table in the main open room. I watched
through the large, plate-glass store windows, waiting for Cleo to arrive. I wandered to the bathrooms and talked with a queen who thought I had “tremendous breasts.” I told her she had beautiful eyes, took my turn, and returned to my table. I saw Liz dancing in the adjacent room. Between mixes, she'd shoot a look of concern in my direction. But she was too busy with—oh, I don't remember the girl's name, although I met her later. Liz would always tell me she knew I was lost. She loved me and knew I was happiest when I was lost.

It was past two in the morning when Cleo arrived. Laughing and open, she moved through the crowd. She belonged in this environment of extravagance. I finished my wine and summoned the lust that would carry my limping courage. NYC wasn't the type of place where you asked to dance with someone—you merely stepped up and began.

I slid in behind Cleo and wrapped my arm around her waist. She turned in my grasp with a sliding fluidity that would give her a moment to decide if she wished to dance with her intruder. She smiled at me in recognition and firmly kissed me on the lips. I braced her head with my hand and prolonged her greeting. Cleo's tongue danced over the edges of my mouth and I took her lower lip into mine for a punctuated suck. “Apotheosis” chanted in the small room. We surrendered to the rocking, jabbing sounds. The kiss had given me confidence, and I rocked my hips into the firm smoothness of Cleo's body. Our energy increased as we came together in the heat and the smoke and the driving rhythm.

We were willing to go as far as the music and the room took us. Willing to dance as pagans under the throbbing lights and become as nocturnal as the music called us to be. I rushed my hand into the long locks of the red hair that had first found my attention and pulled her into a violent kiss. Cleo, not in the
slightest disarmed, chewed my lips until I'm sure they should have bled. I spread my fingers and ran them over her collarbone and down to one of her breasts, firm and delicious. I felt Cleo's long fingers unsnap the front of my suede vest, exposing my encased breasts. I took off my lace bra and hooked it through my belt. At NYC a spontaneous undressing was barely noticed.

The hypnotized crowd danced around us in physical concoctions. The deep beat of the music drove me closer to Cleo. Her long fingers manhandled the tops of my breasts. She lowered her head to my exposed nipple. “Injected with a Poison” blared throughout the room. Grasping Cleo's deft mouth to my breast, I groaned into the music, and her vicious, gnawing sucking.

I grabbed her shoulders and forced her from me, back into the concrete block wall behind her. Pressed against her mouth, her body, I forced my hand into the waist of her trim pants. Cleo squirmed to allow me access. My fingers met the willing wetness of Cleo deep within the heat of her snug trousers. I found her proud clit and grasped it between two fingers. She arched into me, digging long fingers into my flesh. We both would be bruised from the assault.

Cleo grabbed my wrist and wrestled it from her pants. I felt an urgent need to touch her again. She pulled me through the delirious crowd toward the bathroom. We escaped behind the purple door, and Cleo locked it tight. Her grip on my wrist was a painful pleasure. Up against the door, we slammed our bodies together. Hands and mouths moved in a frenzy.

Violent kisses coupled with strong hands on pliable flesh. Music rushed through us. We'd found a like rhythm with our desperate hands. The realization that anything could happen in this club, in the middle of this city, struck Cleo and me at the same instant. I dropped to my knees in the swill of the spilled
drinks and questionable liquids that covered the bathroom floor, soaking my jeans.

I tore at the button and zipper of her trousers, at the filmy material of her panties. Discretion was lost to the pounding music, the stroking, the possible climax. I pulled Cleo's pants down over her hips and buried my face in the limited exposure. I felt her full lower lips, full with the blood of excitement. I pressed my hand through the folds of her to her core, forcing myself inside with the latest blast of music. I tilted her hips toward me, pulling with my fingers inside her. I stretched my tongue beyond its limits to find the first taste of her, raw and earthy, and I clasped onto her clit.

Cleo planted her hand in my hair, begging, exciting, demanding more. I forced my fingers, two, then three into her, curved toward the ideal spot. Her hips convulsed as I sucked deeply on her clit. I thought I could hear her gasps above the music, her moans over the rhythm, yet I'm sure now the sounds were mine.

Covered in liquor, awash in the music, I knelt in service. Cleo's smooth interior muscles clenched my fingers. I heard her breathing slow, regaining her elegant demeanor. I came up to press the taste of her onto her own lips. Cleo, in her infinite poise, managed to slow my desperate kisses. She ran her hand across my face, forced me to look her in the eye. She petted me to a stop. I twitched with the desire to grab her, to maul her. She stroked my arms, the swell of my breasts. She calmed me as one would a child or an injured animal. And then she kissed me. With such delicacy. I wanted to please her, to prove I was capable of the unlabored dignity she desired. I had to breathe, slowly and with definite purpose. Cleo once again kissed my lips, my cheeks, my eyelids. She pulled her pants around her hips as she soothed me. She then began to talk to me.