We’re stirred awake by the sound of a telephone ringing. I reach over Leila and grab the receiver.
“Hi again, it’s Lori!” the annoying voice sings.
“Hey, Lori,” I blink in disbelief. Does this woman ever stop?
“I forgot to ask you what time we should meet for dinner. It’s five o’ clock right now, do you want to meet at six in the restaurant downstairs?”
“Sure,” I say. “Oh, Lori, I hope you don’t mind, but another colleague of mine would like to join us for dinner. I’m not sure if you know her. Her name is Leila Rousseau.”
“No,” her voice sounds pensive, almost hesitant, then finally she says, “That’ll be fine, Giselle. I’ll meet you both in an hour.”
“Will she ever leave us alone?” Leila yawns, resting her head under my chin and snuggling into me.
“It doesn’t appear that she will, does it? I wonder why she’s being such a pest.”
I kiss Leila gently, lingering on her soft lips, and then feel her grind her body against mine.
“Hey, now. I’ll have none of that, you insatiable vixen! We have to meet her in an hour. Off you go, let’s shower.”
We arrive at the outdoor patio and spot Lori. She’s sitting at a table by a fire pit. It looks cozy and away from the crowd. I’m pleased with her choice.
I note that she sits primly with her legs crossed and is dressed in typical librarian garb: a neutral-colored skirt, conservative blouse, scarf, and a cat pin. What is it with librarians and cat pins? She’s a pretty enough lady though and could definitely pull it off if she wore something sexier. At least she’s got great taste in shoes; gorgeous designer four-inch-heeled ones at that. Hmm…not bad; not bad at all, nice legs too. I wave to her when she sees us.
Once we get ourselves seated, I introduce Leila to Lori. We order our meals and after a few drinks, we’ve all loosened up a bit. Before I know it, we’re all laughing and joking around like old friends.
I’m relieved because I had thought this was going to be an extremely long night.
While they talk, I quietly observe them both. I’d seen Lori at conferences before but never spent this much time with her. She seems nice enough.
I’m starting to get buzzed from the wine that we’ve been drinking and decide to smoke a cigarette. As I reach down to collect my purse from under the table, I look Lori’s way and à la Sharon Stone, she uncrosses her legs and exposes a beautifully trimmed slice of heaven. My jaw drops.
I compose myself once I sit up and light the cigarette. Lori looks directly at me and smiles seductively. Leila notices this and shoots a questioning glance my way. I look at the both of them and then I’m not quite sure what to do. I look away and blow the smoke into the night air while trying to make sense of things.
I’m buzzed but I know what she did and what I saw. What the hell? Confused and thinking that maybe I’ve had too much to drink, I silently signal to Leila that we should go.
Not letting us abandon her, Lori asks to join us on our walk back to our rooms.
“I think you two lushes are in need of an escort and since I’m the only half-sober one of the bunch, I guess that makes me the one in charge.”
They’re both obviously drunk and laugh raucously while I’m still stuck in my head on why Lori behaved that way at the table.
I get between them and put my arms around both of their shoulders, attempting to guide them in the right direction, when Lori trips on some loose carpeting. She nearly falls but I quickly reach out and catch her by the waist and pull her safely into my body.
“Are you okay, Lori?” I ask, genuinely concerned.
“Yes, Mistress,” she gasps breathlessly, unnerved.
For a stunning moment of silence, we three look at each other and say nothing.
Lori looks pale, obviously embarrassed, and I can tell she has no idea what to do or say.
I’m the first to speak.
“Lori, join us for a nightcap.” It’s not a question but more of a command.
“Yes, Ma’am,” she quietly replies, releasing the scarf around her neck and revealing a jewel-studded collar.
I look at Leila, then Lori, and grin wickedly. And people think librarians are boring. Little do they know there’s more tied up than those buns on their heads!
“Library conferences,” I chuckle, “they’re just getting more and more interesting every year.”
I gather them both by the arm.
“Okay, ladies, let’s go.”
The two commence to giggling like schoolgirls. With a glint in my eye, I smile at my good fortune.
THE PLACEMENT OF MODIFIERS
Jean Roberta
I’m standing behind three dykes in leather jackets, two well-groomed young men in matching burnt-orange sweaters, and a queen whose big hair must be seven feet above her platform soles. “Doctor Chalkdust,” chirps Alison the bartender. “What will you have?”
“These customers were here before me, Alison,” I tell her. “You should serve them first.” Catching sight of my reflection in the chrome coffeemaker, I see that I have not grown any taller than my usual five feet and three inches. I am still a woman in middle age, with large brown eyes, luminously pale skin, a girlish nose, and full coral lips. My simple black T-shirt shows a hint of cleavage and the two points of my nipples. I am braless in Gaza, so to speak, because my breasts still stand as proudly as they did in my youth (if somewhat lower), and they still like to breathe freely.
It seems that I not only have tenure in the university where I’ve taught English for fifteen years. None of the regulars in this bar ever touches me without my permission.
One of the dykes, who must be uncomfortably warm in her black leather jacket, turns to look at me. She is clearly older than the other two, and a certain bitterness shows in the set of her jaw. “Hey, we were here first.” She speaks in a classic bar-dyke monotone.
“As I said,” I say calmly.
One of her companions digs her in the ribs, and that seems to make her more determined to grab and hold my attention. I am always amused to notice how much the behavior of an apparent opponent resembles that of a graceless admirer.
“You want to take it outside, Susie Sunshine?” snarls Ms. Willing-to-Die-in-Leather. She undoubtedly cherishes an image of herself as a maverick because she has worn out her welcome in several other watering holes.
“No,” I answer. “I see no need for that. I think we should get our drinks, then take them to a table where we can talk without creating a disturbance.” I glance at the two younger dykes who look like sidekicks or apprentices. “I’ll pay for this round,” I tell them. They look at the floor.
“Bernie,” mutters one of the sidekicks to their leader. “We don’t want any trouble.”
Bernie has to choose between ordering a drink or losing face and losing her place in line. She orders a pitcher of draft beer, then jerks her head toward a dark corner. The two sidekicks push their way through the crowd to claim a table and four chairs.
Bernie and her retinue watch me order a gin-and-tonic and make my way to their table. As I pass under a black light, my drink glows as eerily as a witch’s potion. I know that the light must be picking up the silver streaks in my long chestnut hair, held back by a tortoiseshell clip.
The heat of Bernie’s stare is such that several bystanders follow the line of her gaze. “Doctor Chalkdust, it’s good to see you here,” says a slim young man with a very expressive face. He is an actor who fell in love with Shakespeare in my class, and he still seems to think of me as the Dark Lady of the Sonnets. He looks at Bernie. “Let me know if you need my help with anything.”
“I’ll do that, Reginald.”
Bernie wastes no time on pleasantries. “You think you can buy anything or anyone, don’t you, Miz Professor?” She doesn’t wait for a response. “You don’t own this fuckin’ bar.”
“Not completely,” I agree. “I only own shares worth a quarter-interest.”
The look of distress on
the face of one of the sidekicks seems strangely familiar, and then I remember her from one of my first-year classes of last year. She looks from Bernie to me and back again as though trying to decide which of us makes a better role model. I hope she will make a sensible choice.
I break the silence. “Would you like to dance with me, Bernie?”
She stands up without answering. I am pleased to watch her removing her leather jacket. For a moment, I see a look of pained longing on her face, like that of an unwanted child in a large, poor family in an obscure country who has just been told that most Western children are given toys for Christmas.
We walk to the dance floor together and encounter a new dilemma: one song just ended and the next one is slow, requiring physical contact. Neither of us wants to give up and leave the public arena.
Bernie is at least four inches taller than I and solidly built, but she moves with surprising grace. She gently holds me by the waist and shoulder, and we begin moving together. She has such a sense of rhythm and a courtly manner that I let her lead.
The bra under her shirt feels like armor, and my nipples harden like bullets from the constant contact. I can smell Bernie’s tangy sweat mixing with some cologne which is marketed to young men who want to score with chicks. I note the subtle heat that comes from the crotch of her jeans, and her refusal to simply push herself into me. Our movements are slow enough to allow for conversation.
“You feel good,” she snickers into my hair. “I know your type, honey. You like to go slumming with dykes because we’re the only ones who can get you off. Then you go back to your safe middle-class neighborhood and pretend you don’t know us if you see us on the street.”
She doesn’t miss a beat, and neither do I. “Bernie,” I coo back. “You still don’t even know my first name. And you won’t unless you learn a few other things first.” The song ends, and I pull her by the hand to a relatively private corner.
“Were you planning to invite me to go somewhere with you?” I am still grinning.
“My truck’s in the parking lot, babe,” she grins back. “It’s really comfortable. Some of the whores who work the truck stops don’t mind going with women like me, and they like what I do for them. I bet you wouldn’t give them the time of day, but a bitch in heat is a bitch in heat.” She pinches one of my nipples, running her other hand down my back.
I laugh and step out of her reach. “Ah. No one could dispute it. But there’s a question of trust here, Bernie. I’m sure your paid companions never exaggerate your value to them because they need your money. And I do enjoy your company, although you really don’t seem to know why. Unfortunately, I’m not tempted by your hospitality. Your rudeness is neither sexy nor admirable, and it makes you seem untrustworthy, not a quality you want to flaunt if you’re trying to pick up a bitch like me.”
I sigh. “I’m not going to leave this building with you. But there is a room upstairs where we can be alone. After we take our leave of your friends and mine, of course. Would you like me to give you a tour of the place?”
Bernie tries so hard to affect boredom that she is amusing to watch. “Sure, why not? It’s a bar, babe, not the fuckin’ museum, but if you want me to go upstairs with you, let’s go.”
I slide an arm around her waist to guide her back to the table where her two dykes-in-training have been joined by Reginald and the director to whom he is currently loyal. All are watching us with interest.
“Bernie agreed to let me give her a private tour of the premises. She hasn’t seen the upper floor yet, and she’s something of a bar connoisseur.” I imagine her literally seeing the floor from a prone position. “I hope you won’t feel bereft if I take her away from you for some time. We’ll return in due course.”
Bernie’s two sidekicks look confused for a moment, then one gallantly pipes up. “Oh, we’re okay, Doctor Chalkdust. Take as much time as you need. We’ll keep each other company.” Reginald seems to be smiling from ear to ear, and his date or patron archly raises one eyebrow at me. I wonder how long it took him to perfect this expression in front of a mirror.
The whole bar feels as drenched in lust as the worn carpet is drenched in beer and the ashes of cigarettes which are now excitingly illegal if smoked indoors. For the sake of her self-image as a gift for bitches in heat, Bernie seems determined to regain some control of the situation. She probably imagines my cunt as a lonely pit of yearning for her psychic dick or something more tangible. I am almost moved to compassion when I think about the surprises in store for her.
We are at the foot of the creaky wooden stairs that lead to the dimly lit second floor, the setting of many titillating rumors. “Go ahead, honey,” Bernie tells me, seizing both my lower cheeks and giving them a slight push.
“Of course,” I tell her over my shoulder. “I have surer footing on these stairs.” I exaggerate the sway of my hips as I climb the steps ahead of her, giving her the show she obviously wants.
I unlock the door of a large room with soundproofed walls. I have abandoned the pretense that I am going to show her every corner of this venerable building, which is allegedly haunted by an older generation of deceased gay men and a few legendary dykes who were the founding parents of the organized queer community in this town. I’m sure that Bernie’s vibes would offend some of the spirits here.
Peace, I tell the ancestors in my mind, suspecting that they can hear my thoughts. Respect can be learned.
The room is only lit by the lights from outside. Bernie grabs me in a crude bear hug, reaching for my mouth with hers, while I struggle to squirm out of her grip so that I can turn on the lights. “Light,” I tell her, hoping that a one-word command will penetrate the mental static of her rising hunger.
“We don’t need it, honey.” She holds me to her armored chest. She tries to grab one of my asscheeks with one hand while holding me with the other, and this weakens her hold on me enough to enable me to raise one foot, clad in a narrow-heeled shoe, and stomp her toes through her thread-bare running shoe.
“Aw, shit!” she gasps. “That hurt, bitch. You really wanta play rough?”
I turn on the wall-lights, a stately set of Victorian sconces holding yellow lightbulbs. “Bernie, would you like me to fetch the bouncer up here? If I do, our little tryst will be over.”
“Well, don’t step on me with your stupid heels anymore.”
I decide to grant her that; after all, my heels have a steel core which can punch holes in hardwood when I’m not minding my step. And there are so many other simple but effective devices that I can use to make an impression on her.
“I’ll show you something, Bernie. Before we do anything else, I want you to see the view from the window. There’s something out there that you can only see from close up.”
In front of the window is a large oak desk. The chair that matches it has been pushed to the side. She walks uncertainly up to the desk, apparently not noticing the padded cuffs that are permanently attached to the back of it. Or else she assumes they are not meant for her.
“You can lean right over the desk,” I encourage her, “then look down.” I am cheered by her obedience as I enjoy the sight of her fleshy butt in tight denim, projecting toward me as she almost lies on the desk, peering into the darkness. I quickly grab her right wrist and fasten a cuff around it before she can pull it away.
“Oh, ha-ha,” she sneers. “You want to tie me down and make me yours?”
“Yes.” I am pleased by her understanding. “I’ll release you if you want, but in that case, we’ll be returning downstairs and you won’t get any relief. Unless you get it from someone else.”
Bernie tugs at the cuff and seems shaken when it doesn’t budge. In her current position, she can’t get a firm foothold on the floor. I can see her awareness of her vulnerability gradually spreading through her mind like the light of dawn chasing away the darkness. To be safe, I stand well away from her feet.
“Uh, you’re not really into this bondage stuff are you, Professor?” She r
acks her brain for a way to persuade me to let her go. “This is kinda stupid when you think about it. What do you think I can do for ya if I’m stuck here?”
“Quite a bit, my dear. I’m waiting for your answer. Are you willing to take what I’m more than willing to give you, or would you like to call it off?”
“Jesus fuck,” she grunts, squirming against the edge of the desk in a way that clearly heats up the center seam of her jeans. “I hope you didn’t think I was treating you like a—I mean, I don’t mean any harm, Doctor Chalkdust.”
“You were unforgivably rude,” I explain. “The strength of a butch can be a fine quality, but your crude imitation wouldn’t attract a woman who has been stranded on a desert island for twenty years. I’d like to give you some polishing if you’ll let me.”
And then Bernie moans in a way I have come to recognize. The sound seems to come from deep in her cunt as she shamelessly rubs her sweaty, restricted breasts and her itchy crotch against the desk, realizing that she has nothing left to lose. “Oh, honey,” she begs. “I mean Mistress, whatever you want me to call you. I guess I’ve been asking for it, but I don’t have much experience as a slave or whatever. No experience, really. I hope—um, are you planning to hurt me?”
I stand close to her and run a leisurely hand down her back, feeling her shiver. Then I reach under her to unbutton her shirt as she respectfully cooperates by raising herself as much as possible. “That depends on how you define ‘hurt.’”
She is subtly trembling all over under my hands, and the feeling is delicious. I wordlessly coax her to pull her free arm out of its sleeve, and I gather up her shirt near her cuffed wrist. I unhook her sports bra, tug it off her full, hanging breasts, and push her down so that they are mashed against the cool, grainy surface of shellacked oak. I see sweat shimmering on her back.
“Give me your left wrist, baby.” She does, although she knows what I’m planning to do. I secure it with a cuff, and now she is evenly pulled over the desk, her eyes facing the night sky and the lights from the apartment building adjoining the bar. “You can be seen from Elmview Terrace,” I tell her, working my fingers under the low waist of her jeans. I reach the crack of her ass. “Some of the inhabitants are very interested in this place. I’ve seen them watching this window with binoculars.”
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