She could have head-butted the bastard, although in her experience that usually wound up hurting the butt-er as much as the butt-ee. She could have squirmed away from the bear’s tantalizing paws. But she was addicted to the pleasure as surely as a crack addict wanted his pipe. She found she was tilting her hips, following the bear around when Ian would withdraw it. She heard a pathetic female whining and whimpering, and she realized it was her.
“Ian! Don’t stop! Come back! Harder! No, softer!”
Oh dear Lord! Is that me? I sound like one of my mewling, sobbing subs in Stockholm.
Bring it on!
Now Victor gripped a handful of Ian’s hair, yanking his torso erect so he could bite the side of Ian’s throat. Felicity bucked and snorted, tied to her chair. She was so frustrated it wouldn’t have surprised her if steam came from her nostrils. And Victor’s nasty talk wasn’t helping any.
“You like this, don’t you, Ian? You like being fucked up the ass like this by another man.”
Ian seemed reluctant to admit it. He squeezed his eyes closed and gripped her knee with talons of steel.
Felicity wasn’t reluctant to admit anything. “Fuck him harder, Victor. He loves it, I can tell. See how he’s gyrating his hips? Oh! Ian! Harder!” It was her turn to grit her teeth and fling her head back as Ian tormented her with the bear’s paws.
Meanwhile, Victor stroked Ian’s penis with just the right touch so he wouldn’t come. Victor kept him hovering there, too, just as Ian was doing to her. His thumb encircled the bursting glans, more sensitive than the glans of uncut men. He frigged his friend with just the right finesse, and if Felicity was experiencing the same torture, she felt sympathy for Ian.
“I know you love it,” Victor murmured into the crook of Ian’s neck. “You wanted your idol Rowan to fuck you for years and you were too timid to ask for it. This is what happens to submissive timid bottoms.”
Ian finally exhaled a stream of words. “They get nice and well fucked.”
A laugh escaped Felicity, but the next second Ian hit her clit just right with the pink bear and she heard herself screaming for release. She railed against her bonds, raging and gnashing her teeth. “Go, Ian! Go! Don’t stop! Don’t stop! Don’t stop!” The big question was, who would come first and completely drop the ball?
As it was, Ian soon splattered Felicity so explosively the arc of semen hit her square on the chin. The next jet hit her eye, burning. The third made it to her mouth, and she opened her jaw greedily to eat it up. It had been years since she had tasted a man’s salty jism. She knew the flavor varied according to what a man ate. Ian must have been drinking champagne.
The clutching of Ian’s rectum around Victor’s throbbing prick would bring Victor off next. She was right. He soon froze in the ecstasy of one teetering on that very brink of bliss, and then he collapsed on top of Ian, shuddering mightily like a giant bear, choking on his own breaths.
Felicity vigorously shimmied her shoulders back and forth. She was supporting the weight of two convulsing, trembling men. She could barely breathe herself. Ian at last got the picture, blinking his eyes and trying to kneel upright.
“Oh,” he said, as though now remembering she was there. He smiled lazily and reapplied the pink bear. It was like a buzz saw, and Felicity screamed.
She had witnessed many men screaming at the moment of orgasm. She had always thought it was a bit affected or put on, just drama to increase the moment.
No. It wasn’t.
If her arms were free she would be digging her nails so deeply into Ian’s shoulders she’d be drawing blood!
But sure enough, he slowly inched her back up the cliff. She clung to that orgasmic wall, her screaming the sound of nails. When the doorbell rang somewhere on the fringes of her consciousness she wanted to kick, punch, and pummel something or someone! The frustration of being barely able to move made her feel her head was about to splatter.
“Good God, Ian! Please will you—”
Ian did.
The powerful orgasm seized all of Felicity’s innards. She was being squeezed like a sponge, and juice trickled down her ass crack. She arched like a gymnast, as though she were trying to kiss the ceiling with her pussy. Ian stayed right with her, massaging the center of her shattering bliss. Now he seemed to barely notice the gasping, trembling man who shoved himself off his back. Victor stood, but staggered. Felicity spasmed, hiccupped, and held her breath for what seemed like five eternal minutes. I didn’t know it was possible to come this long.
“Stop!” That was the first time in her life she’d shrieked that command.
Ian did as he was told, thumbing the bear into the “off” position and sitting back on his heels, grinning. He didn’t seem to care that his cock hung down like a purple hose, nearly touching the floor. Or that his pants were down to his knees because he’d just been fucked royally by another man. Ian seemed perfectly content to be in the moment with a plastic bear between his fingers.
“I did good,” he assumed.
“Yes!” Felicity roared. “Uncuff my wrists!”
Ian looked mildly up to where Victor was stepping into his pants. “Doctor? I believe this young miss would like to be uncuffed.”
Victor walked in a zigzag pattern as he zipped his camo pants and tried to fish in the pocket for his keychain. “Who’s at the door?”
Felicity narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t know. Why don’t you check after unlocking my handcuffs?”
But her steely heart melted when Victor unlocked her cuffs and massaged her arm. Ian massaged the other one. Now she knew how a sub must feel. She had always allowed them to come down from their endorphin high slowly, allowing them to sleep if needed, and she always kept a stash of Belgian chocolates on hand.
The men untied her ankles and massaged her calves as well, but when Ian dipped his head to lick at her protruding clit, she applied the sole of her foot to his chest and shoved him on his ass. She laughed, and that’s when she noticed someone was still ringing the doorbell.
“Who is it?” she bellowed, brassy and ballsy.
“Miss McQueen, is that you? Someone told me you might be in here.”
Felicity laughed. She told her men, “A queen is looking for Miss McQueen.” She identified the voice as Harry Loomis, the female impersonator who had loaned her the Marilyn dress. Todd Beard obviously was well-acquainted enough with Mr. Loomis to know that he owned that pearl necklace Beard had identified when she’d worn it to his house. So Felicity had since then asked Mr. Loomis to keep an eye out for Beard.
She remembered that now, and jumped to her feet. It was too soon after her massive orgasm to be standing up so quickly, and she felt for the wall to guide her along. “Mr. Loomis? I’m coming.”
“Yes.” She heard Harry giggle. “I believe you are.”
Making a “who is it?” face, Victor took his Glock from the holster draped over a chair. Felicity waved casually at her boyfriend.
“It’s all right,” she told Victor. “It’s a friend from the lodge.” Her gestures told Victor to replace his pistol in the holster.
Harry was all done up in his Marilyn costume. The white dress from The Seven Year Itch didn’t drape or fall as lusciously as it did on Marilyn. But Harry could sure give the other Marilyns at the convention a run for their money with a white rabbit fur stole clutched about his shoulders. Felicity took his forearm to pull him into the warm cabin. “What is it, Harry? Something about Todd Beard?”
Harry’s glance flickered over Felicity’s form. “I see you got your costume from Europe.” Now his gaze was fixed on Ian. Harry seemed to like the look of the angelic and shirtless Ian Lawson. He was not one of those straight men who merely liked women’s clothing. No, Harry put his all into his performances, and his choices in men seemed to be equally as cultured. Ian grinned back at Harry, who was done up in full makeup, including Marilyn’s beauty mark.
“Yes, it came in very handy. Only my dear boyfriends here tied me up.” Felicity dared to say
“boyfriends” aloud. It made her heart pound faster with anxiety, but the word did seem apropos. “So what is it, Harry? Todd Beard?”
Harry shook his head as though to rid it of visions of Ian. “Yes! That ridiculous Mr. Beard had the nerve to show up in the ballroom dressed as Madonna. Can you imagine? He didn’t even shave off his ugly facial hair.” Harry batted his lashes at Victor. “No offense, Tony Stark.”
“None taken,” said Victor, good-natured. But he quickly leaped for his duty belt and wrapped it around his waist. “How long ago did he show up, Mr. Loomis?”
“He’s Miss Loomis today,” Felicity pointed out.
Harry said, “About half an hour ago in the middle of the contest preview social. Everyone was preening and showing off, but asshole Mr. Beard had to go and make a truly grand entrance.”
Uh-oh. “What’d he do?” Felicity prodded.
Harry put a hand on his hip. “That bitch must’ve paid off the sound man, and the lighting man as well. He came tiptoeing down the catwalk in this white bustier and white opera-length gloves. The disco ball was spinning like crazy and this terribly important and foreboding music played, like ‘look at me, everyone.’ No one else got to walk the catwalk or play any music. The contest doesn’t even start until eight, but this gives him an edge. The judges will remember him in his hundreds of necklaces and bracelets. All of the other Madonnas are pissed as hell.”
Victor already had his hand on the doorknob. “Ian, come. Felicity, stay.”
Felicity wasn’t about to stay. If nothing else, she wanted to witness the sight of her boyfriend arresting Madonna. But Victor was already out the door by the time she had yanked off her spiked boots.
And Ian was at the door, shrugging into a parka. “We mean it, Felicity. Stay.” Now he was gone, too.
Harry still batted his lashes at the closed front door. “Your two men are delectable, Mistress.”
Felicity pulled on her Ugg boots. “Didn’t I tell you they were worth it? Listen, how did Todd Beard seem to you? He doesn’t sound like he’s afraid of being arrested.”
“Not at all, dear. In fact, he was much too manic to be a decent Madonna. He didn’t have the moves down right at all. He was making violent, uncontrollable slashes with his arms, like some kind of slam dancer, not like Madonna. But you mark my words, Mistress. He’ll win the contest all the same.”
Felicity buttoned up her long down coat. There was no time to change out of her fetish outfit. “Come on, Harry. I’ve got to see this with my own eyes.”
Chapter Fifteen
“I wonder what drives a man to want to dress as a woman?”
Victor hadn’t often had a reason to wonder this. In his forty-five years he had probably only vaguely wondered it twice, as a teen often wonders odd things that occur to him.
Now, he was wondering it several times per minute as he and Ian wended their way through the jam-packed Triple Play ballroom. He was being jostled by Lizas and Carol Channings from every side. Oddly, they all seemed to wear his father’s cologne, some Old Spice variant that made his stomach clench. But many were extremely meticulous in their costumes. One Cher—during her Native American phase—wore a gown he could have sworn was a genuine Bob Mackie. A Joan Rivers brandished a white feather boa. “I went to Roseanne’s wedding and caught the garter,” Joan told an appreciative crowd of rivals.
“It is odd,” agreed Ian, “because the same drive doesn’t seem to exist in women. You don’t see too many women striving to look like, ah, Brad Pitt.”
Victor reflected. “Maybe because men don’t look very individual. We all basically dress the same. Famous men aren’t famous for the way they dress, their style, like women are.”
“Yes. And men’s clothing isn’t taboo for women. Maybe part of the attraction to being a female impersonator is the taboo aura. Hey, have you seen Madonna?” Ian asked a passing queen.
She paused and raised her heavily penciled eyebrows at Ian. “Darling. Which Madonna?”
“Like a virgin,” Victor clarified.
“Which virgin? I’ve seen three of them.”
Victor had an idea. “The one flailing around uncontrollably.” Felicity had caught up with them in the lobby and told them what Harry had reported. It gave Victor the idea that perhaps Beard was sick. Either he had gotten some bad drugs—they still didn’t have a report back on what was in the bottle Felicity had swiped from Beard—or perhaps he had contracted a disease from one of his prohibited animals. And if he had something contagious, it would be for the best of the public if he was taken off the streets anyway.
“Oh, the skag drag Madonna?”
Victor had never heard the term, but caught the meaning. “Yes, the bearded lady. Have you seen him—her—since the catwalk?”
The queen sniffed derisively. “I did see her talking to a couple of Judys over there. But that was ten minutes ago. If you wait for the contest, I believe she’s number four on the program.” And the queen sashayed off, singing “Do You Know the Way to San Jose.”
Ian chuckled at the departing Dionne Warwick, but Victor was dead serious. “Let’s find the backstage area or wherever they hang out before going onstage. Cass!” Victor waylaid the director of the front office, who was striding by clutching a tablet and looking important.
Her harried expression vanished when she beheld the two men. “Oh, hi, doctor,” she said flirtatiously. She seemed to regard Ian less hungrily. “And Ian, who is supposed to be escorting Felicity McQueen.”
Ian explained, “We’re hot on the trail of someone, Cass. A perp. Have you seen a Madonna with a beard?”
“Oh, does this have to do with that exotic smuggler you’re after?”
Both men closed in on her, shushing her and gripping her arms. “Yes,” hissed Victor. “We think he’s participating in the drag contest—”
“Number four on the program,” added Ian.
“—so he’s probably waiting in the backstage area. Can you take us there?”
“Oh, without a doubt.” The men followed Cass toward a door at one side of the catwalk. “Madonna with a beard, eh? Well, you see something new every day. Sol is getting all over my case because I keep booking conventions like this. He thinks we’re going to be known as the California of Utah. That doesn’t make any sense. How can an area be known as a state? I’m trying to tell him we want to be known as the Hell’s Kitchen of Utah. That makes more sense. We’re becoming trendy, chic, and gentrified. If people can’t stand the heat, they can get out of the kitchen, that’s my new motto!”
Ian was saying, “So you’d rather position yourself as a hip place to go rather than a traditional spot for families to gather?”
“Exactly. I want to be the new Robert Redford, showing cutting edge films and holding tranny and erotic romance conventions.”
“You want to start a film competition to rival Sundance?”
“Sure, why not? We could get all sorts of Hollywood types out here. Xandra’s in agreement with me about our mission statement. Shit, Sasha was telling me that Tony Danza spent a week here last year. One day Tony Danza—tomorrow Ryan Gosling! Okay, here we are. I think I see a couple of Madonna hairdos.”
Indeed there were at least two of the tousled, permed and frosted Madonna ’dos in the sea of powdered and lacquered wigs. Victor clutched Ian’s forearm and gave him a grim, foreboding look. “You stay back. We don’t know if he’s armed. Cass, keep this guy back here. And if you see Felicity milling around, especially keep her back here.”
“You got the warrant?” Ian asked needlessly.
“I do.” Victor had to push aside many sequined and tassled shoulders to reach the first Madonna, who turned out to be a nicely-waxed fellow who sort of did resemble Madonna. Okay, next one then. Dionne Warwick told us there were what? Three Madonnas? Then Victor smiled to himself. Could I have predicted I’d be asking Dionne Warwick for advice about Madonna? Things had certainly livened up since arriving at the Triple Play Lodge.
He had to pull aside
the veil of the next one, a corpulent fellow with giant wooden crosses for earrings. He smiled lustfully at Victor, prompting Victor to apologize. “Sorry. Looking for someone else.”
“A new bride, perhaps?” trilled this Madonna.
“Todd Beard isn’t terribly trim either,” said Ian. He had disobeyed Victor, and was at his elbow now.
“Get back, I tell you!”
“You’ll need me, Victor. What if you need help cuffing him?”
“You’re not even experienced with handcuffs. Stay put, or I’m going to get—”
“There he is!”
Apparently Beard saw them the same moment they saw him. Coils of his beribboned, curled, and frosted hair shivered with fear as Beard froze, staring at them wide-eyed.
Victor dashed through the crowd, parting it into two halves of beads, bangles, and furry sparkles. Beard must’ve ducked down to dart away hunched over, because suddenly Victor couldn’t see Madonna’s squiggly head anymore. He had no choice but to keep shouldering his way ahead in the direction Beard probably travelled—toward a door marked EXIT.
However, he reached the door and it hadn’t opened yet. Ian was once again at his side, and he gave up on trying to convince the financial officer to stay out of it. Ian lusted for the excitement that operatives in his company experienced all the time, Victor knew. If anything happened to Ian, Victor could at least say that he had tried to keep the accountant away.
“What’s going on?” Victor whispered. “Did he just slither away like a snake?”
“He definitely went this way,” Ian agreed.
“There’s only one other door. I guess we work our way back.”
They threaded their way back to the door Cass had let them in. Not one clue assisted them to figure out where Todd Beard’s virgin had gone. Cass was deep in urgent conversation with a Cher of her Half-Breed phase. Once they finished their important chat, Victor planned to tell Cass that he would hide so the skag drag Madonna would start to take the stage. Then he’d pop out and arrest him.
Two Sirs, with Love [McQueen Was My Valley 4] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Page 14
