Elevator Shaft

by Alana James © 2010

In the morning I rode the elevator down, in the evening I took it up. It was routine by now, halfway into my summer stay in Manhattan, but it remained a novelty. I was a Brit, used to having to push my own buttons but here in the states, in the plush apartment block my firm had put me up in, there was a man to do this for me. Maybe I wouldn’t have been so thrilled by this if I wasn’t so damn lonely in the Big Apple.
 
I went for dinner and drinks with my colleagues at the close of play each day, but I was yearning for some more... feminine company. I didn’t know how to play the dating game over here, felt like a fish thrown out of water. My cock had seen so little action I was becoming a walking erection. It didn’t help that most nights in the elevator there was a new, unbelievably hot girl riding all the way to the penthouse. These bunny girls, as I thought of them, came in all colours—peroxide blonde, bottle red, gothic black—and I wanted them all.
 
The elevator guy would ask that night’s girl, her figure hugged by some tight, expensive but teeny-tiny number, “What floor?” and they would always giggle back, “The penthouse suite.” Eventually I cracked one morning and asked the man in the lift who lived up there on the top floor.  

“That’s Mr Rod Holland, Sir.”
 
“Rod Holland? Why does that name sound familiar?”
 
“Mr Holland is quite renowned as a man of... talent. You might have seen some of his movies.” The man grinned at me, even winked, and I thought I caught his meaning.
 
When I made it into the office I couldn’t resist looking Mr Holland up online. I knew that employees weren’t allowed to look up that kind of material on the net, but I figured they were paying me too much to kick me out over something small. Sure enough Mr Holland was a movie star of the adult variety. I was pretty sure I’d seen one of his later hits: Kelly’s Rock Hard Heroes. He had broken into the game back when the men had moustaches and the girls had pubic hair. I wondered how he got those girls to visit every night, he must have been getting old by now. Did he still show them a good time? What it came down to I supposed was that he was somebody; a rich, famous and very well-endowed somebody.
 
My evenings became monotonous: dinner, drinks, lusting after the latest girl in the elevator then going into my fancy apartment to jerk off thinking about them riding my shaft. A man needed more.
 
One Friday I came back later than usual, having been hustled round some of the New York bars by the guys at work. No score though. This time the lift was teeming with bunny girls. I thought I might come simply from having to squeeze my way in. More piled in after me, and I nearly choked on the perfume in the air.
 
The elevator man took us straight up to the penthouse to offload the girls, then we made our way back down to my floor. When the girls had gotten off in a gaggle me and the guy in the elevator looked at each other and shook our heads.
 
“What’s going on tonight?” I asked, trying to hide my desperate frustration.
 
“One of Mr Holland’s parties.”
 
“Oh.” And there was me going back to a night of hand-cream and pay-per-view. I sighed.
 
“You know, Sir,” the man continued, “Mr Holland invites so many people to these events that he never knows exactly who’s there. Someone could easily slip in unnoticed...” his voice trailed off meaningfully.
 
I got off at my floor as usual but back in the empty apartment I gave what he said some thought. Fuck it, I decided, a man only lives once. I jumped in the shower, doused myself in Armani aftershave and threw on my smart-casual suit, no tie. I got back in the elevator. There were yet more girls, and a couple of guys who looked much like me, going up to the penthouse. As we all left the lift, my buddy at the buttons smiled at me, as if to say good luck.
 
Inside the penthouse was a scene I’d only ever seen in movies. I honestly didn’t think this shit happened in real life. Gorgeous, scantily clad women lounged here, there and everywhere, being chatted up by suited guys like myself. There wasn’t just a drinks table, there was an actual cocktail bar and waiters with silver trays. Not very well hidden in a corner I spied a couple doing some very heavy petting. This was the life.
 
I took a martini with an olive, my drink of choice in New York, and joined the edges of some conversations. At first I didn’t say much, just laughed at the right moments. A lot of the other guys were in the porn industry, directors, producers, actors, and they told insider tales to make themselves sound impressive. The rest were city guys like me, who had been working with big money so long the numbers had ceased to mean anything. The girls were either in the porno trade or trying to break in.
 
After awhile the constant stream of martinis loosened me up. I started talking to a group of girls sat on one of the pure white sofas (and tried not to imagine the cleaning bills Mr Holland faced for these). Crystal, Mandi and Chantelle, I presumed these were their porn not Christian names, seemed to love my limey accent. They begged me to repeat words like ‘bath’ and ‘tomato’ and Hugh Grant lines from regular films. I ramped the accent up a bit, becoming very foppish, but they seemed to buy into it. I became a parody of myself but I was having more luck than I’d had all summer.
 
I took a deep breath and asked the nearest girl, Crystal (or was it Chantelle?), to give me a tour of Rod’s pad seeing how she’d been there multiple times. She took my thick arm in her slight one, and my cock jolted just from the touch of a woman. I wished I’d beat one out in my apartment before coming up, it was hard to focus on Crystal’s (or maybe it was Mandi’s) words as she showed me around. My apartment could have fit inside this place four times easy. There was even a roof terrace with a Jacuzzi bubbling away. Sitting inside the tub, arms around a couple of girls, cigar in mouth, was Rod. I bottled it for a moment, expecting him to expose me as an imposter and kick me out. All he did was raise his eyebrows at Crystal and smirk at me, man á man. I was in.
 
My bunny girl led me back inside, her body shimmering in a sparkly green dress, blonde hair bouncing, and began showing me around the bedrooms. I wasn’t sure if she was having the same idea as me and my constantly erect cock, but when we found a bedroom that wasn’t occupied the tour stopped. It was unreal; we hadn’t even kissed up to now but this beautiful girl seemed to be willing to be alone in a bedroom with me. I hoped she didn’t expect me to pay her. What the hell was the etiquette at this kind of party? Then I told myself to stop being so British and fell on the bed with Crystal (Chantelle, Mandi?).
 
“It’s so great to meet a really different guy at one of these parties,” she lilted with a slight Southern tang, “British is like, so cool.” I had a feeling some of her apparent superficiality was faked, a facade she threw on.
 
“And it’s so good to finally meet a real American woman I can connect with,” I mustered in my newly posh British accent. These words were the pretence we were making to ourselves that what was about to happen would mean something. As though these pleasantries were the magic words that gave us access to forbidden fruit.
 
There was a brief moment of awkwardness as we each waited for the other to make the first move. I manned up, leaning over her on the bed and planting my lips on hers. She was soft, and I felt her lipstick smearing over me, as I inhaled her fruity scent. I sucked on her bottom lip, chewing on it enough to make her moan. My hands roamed down her body, as my tongue trailed a line along her neck. I delicately teased down the thin straps of her dress, releasing the naked globes of her breasts. For the first time in my life I wondered if the breasts I was being allowed access to were real or fake; they were large but not too large, with deep brown nipples pointing upwards invitingly. Only one way to find out; I took the weight of them in my hands and squeezed, feeling their perkiness. She pushed my head into them and I stopped caring what they were made of. I nuzzled into them, turning my head to lick one firm nipple then the other.
 
Crystal, or whoever, started moaning again and moved her hand down my chest to find my cock. I lifted her arm and wrapped it around my neck, whispering, “Not yet, let me touch you first.” What I didn’t say was that I was sure that when she did touch my cock it wouldn’t be long before I came.
 
“Wow you Brits really are gentlemen,” she laughed in a throaty Southern way. I responded by tugging her dress, peeling it off her skin, past her pierced navel, over her hips and off. I couldn’t resist holding the cute gold ring in her belly-button in my fingers, playfully pulling it as I wriggled down the bed. My bunny girl was wearing a lime green thong that matched her dress. I could see the fat lips of her cunt bulging out the edges. I bent my head and licked the exposed flesh, slowly, along one juicy lip then the other. I could smell her cunt juices just a little; she wasn’t that wet yet. That was going to change.
 
I decided against pulling her thong off, instead pulling it up with one hand so that it pressed tight against that sweet smelling cunt. Now I could see a landing strip of pubic hair peeking out at me; collars and cuffs did not match. I pressed my face against that sliver of material and started tonguing Crystal/Mandi/Chantelle right through it. I waited until her thong was sodden and she was writhing underneath me, then drew the slimy string to one side. I rubbed my upper lip against that dark strip of hair and licked her cunt slow, fast, slow, fast. Her erect little clit was like my stiff cock still bobbing away.
 
Suddenly the door to the room opened and another couple started heading in. I froze but Crystal just giggled and they got the message. I heaved myself up, lay back on the bed, and started laughing too. I had to stop being so uptight. The bunny on the bed decided it was time for my release. She straddled my clothed body with her nearly naked one, the ring at her navel glinting. Mandi undid my belt and flies with practised hands, then yanked my trousers and boxers down to my thighs. Chantelle’s delicate hand eased out my sweaty cock, the gentle touch enough to send ripples of pleasure through me. Crystal’s hand grasped my shaft and slithered up and down, making me gasp uncontrollably. It felt so damn good after all the barren weeks. I saw her preparing to go down on me, but I shook my head. Didn’t want to buck before the ride.
 
Crystal/Mandi/Chantelle rode me bareback instead. Pulling her thong to one side, lowering her wet cunt onto me. She wasn’t as tight as I would have liked, her time in the industry had slackened her hole, but it was exquisite all the same. Her fleshy breasts bounced up and down magnificently. I drank in the sight, knowing I’d want to store it up for later use. She had her eyes screwed shut as she ground herself up and down, rubbing her clit against me. I gripped the bedcover, gritted my teeth and held on until I felt the bunny on top of me start to shudder. She screamed out, “Oh God, oh yes, yes, yes!” and I let myself go at last. Let my spunk shoot out into her hole. I hoped to God she was on some kind of birth control, though really it was too late for that. I wanted to cry with the relief but I kept it to a grunt as she collapsed next to me on the borrowed bed.
 
She let me keep her thong as a souvenir, imagining it was some quirky British thing. I didn’t stay at the party much longer. I gave her a kiss on the way out but we didn’t exchange numbers.
 
It wasn’t ‘til the following Monday morning that I saw the usual elevator man to give him my thanks. At the office that day I was a legend, the man who’d made it into one of Rod Holland’s parties. The problem was, now that I had got some action, my cock seemed to itch for more.
 
That evening in the elevator one of the bunny girls appeared as usual. I thought I recognised her from the party and half-smiled but she was too absorbed in a phone call.
 
“I’m telling you, it’s fucking herpes. All of us have it!” she cried a bit too loudly and my ears pricked up.
 
“Me, Brittany, Chantelle,” Chantelle? “I’m on my way to tell Rod now.”
 
That was one souvenir from the states I hadn’t wanted.

_______
© 2010 Alana James. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Alana is from the UK, where she runs a local erotic book-club. She has had work published by e-Xcite and Scarlet magazine. Her mother has described her erotic writing to her grandmother, “It’s porn, Nana, porn!”

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