• Queer Fiction
• Kinky Erotica
• The Softer Side
By Cherry Black
Never Leave Me Alone
By JT Langdon
By Jean Roberta
My Indentured ...
Sword And ...
A Stiff Neck
By Robert Buckley
The Magic Lesbian
By Teresa Lamai
By William Dean
Note to Self
by Geneva King
Girls' Night Out
by Giulia Cosentino
by J.T. Benjamin
by J.Z. Sharpe
by Nicholas M.
by Remittance Girl
The Problem of Leather
by Roxy Katt
Taste of Jessica
by TD Fallon
My Dark and Empty Sky
by Teresa Wymore
by Tulsa Brown
By Mike Kimera
By Nikki Isaak
Cruising The Precipices
By Remittance Girl
By Tulsa Brown
A Teaspoon Of...
by Alice Gray
The Adventure of...
by Angela Caperton
by C.C. Williams
The Honey Bee
by Helen E. H. Madden
Luis and the Boy Toy
by Helena Settimana
Put Them On
by Jay Lygon
The Cowboy Way
by L.A. Smith
by Lilie Berlin
The Gay Picture Show
by M.K. Bowes
Maid for a Queen
by Elliot DeLocke
Daisy Chain on ...
by William Dean
The Problem Of Leather
This story is about leather.
Now the simple fact of the matter is, I seldom wear leather myself. I have one old leather coat, a pair of leather shoes and a pair of leather boots, and of course a leather purse or two, but on the whole I don't think it looks that good on me, and I find it uncomfortable to wear.
But I like women in leather. In fact, nearly any female in cowskin drives me crazy, makes me weak in the knees.
You see, some people seem to think that only guys get these intense fetishes which cause them to lose perspective, objectify their mate, or phantasize about things they would be in reality ashamed to do. It's not true. I also am a perv. You see, the thing is, when I see a woman in leather, I have overpowering desires. Not what you might call the correct ones. Not the desire simply to peel off her leather and make love to her like a normal person. No, I have an overpowering desire to humiliate her. I don't dislike her, I just want to humiliate almost any woman in leather. I can't help it. I mean, I can choke the desire down and not do anything, but I can't help having the desire itself.
That's just the way I am.
But since I am, more or less, a normal person, and a responsible one, leather is therefore my Achilles' heel, my Waterloo, my kryptonite.
Take Phoebe, for example, my room-mate some years ago.
Anyone who's ever spent a lot of their lives living with room-mates eventually collects a lot of stories about them: the best room-mates, the worst, the room-mate from hell, etcetera. I could tell you all sorts of stories, for as one who has spent much of her life as a student, I have seen or heard about them all. The thing is, even the best of room-mates can put you in an awkward position, which is what Phoebe did.
Phoebe and I had been room-mates for about a year in a comfortable old upstairs Victorian flat in Toronto. We were both graduate students (she in psychology and I in European history) both thirtyish, and both well used to each other as friends.
In temperament and appearance we were quite different. I am small and dark-haired, some have said rather "French" looking, taciturn and a little uptight, while Phoebe is strong and tall, almost a gangly woman, good-natured, intellectually brilliant, and with what I have always called to myself a "country-girl" face: I don't mean a "big hair" type of woman—Phoebe's hair was long and blond, but thin and straight—nor do I mean some kind of plastiform "Elly May Clampett" prettiness. Phoebe's country girl face was the sort of face you might have found in an earlier generation at Woodstock. It was a large freckled face with great blue eyes (over which she wore a pair of John Lennon type spectacles) and the largest mouth I have ever seen—a mouth full of huge, perfect teeth.
She wore little if any makeup, and in keeping with the country-girl face tended to wear large baggy overalls or loose-fitting peasant dresses and, invariably, sandals. Despite her unquestionable intelligence (in the time it took me to scan a book she could digest it thoroughly), decidedly it was only her mouth at first, with its slight overbite, its full, complacent lips, which attracted my attention.
If it doesn't sound like she was everybody's type, it's because she wasn't. Not mine, anyway. On the very rare occasions she would do something with her hair, or try a new dress or whatever, I could see that she had the ability to be very attractive (if she cared to use it) but not to me. When we first moved into the flat shortly after becoming friends, Phoebe brought up the issue of my lesbianism—with a little embarrassment—in a jokey but serious way: "so, I know this might be kind of an awkward question, and I don't want to sound vain or anything, but I assume that your living in such proximity to my unutterable feminine charm," (and here she swept a long strand of stringy hair from her face in mock vanity) "isn't going to drive you nuts or anything."
I laughed. "Don't worry, dear, you're not my type." And we went and had some tea. Now it shouldn't be thought that Phoebe had meant some kind of genuine self-deprecation in her remark about her "feminine charm." Phoebe was always a very confident person in pretty well every way, as far as I could see, and her lack of relationships with men in the last year or two had been primarily the result of the hectic pace of grad student life. Sure there were lots of guys on campus, but who had the time? She was devoted primarily to her studies, and excelled.
In this way things carried on for quite a while. We each had our own little routines that were coordinated with each other perfectly. Neither of us much liked loud music, so there was no problem there, and the parties we had in the flat were few and far between. I have had some bad room-mates in my time, as I said, so I could appreciate Phoebe fully in this respect. She had her little hangups, of course, but who doesn't?
She had, for example, a tendency to go through "stages" or "periods." She once went through a "Van Gogh period," where she had to get every poster of Van Gogh's art she could find. They were all over our little two bedroom apartment for a while, and while I would have preferred a little more room for my own tastes in art, it was not really a problem. In a few weeks the "Van Gogh period" had diminished to manageable proportions.
Then there was the "candle-making period" where every extra nook and cranny in our already crowded flat was stuffed with candle-making paraphernalia. This also was no real problem for me, for it was hardly a noisy pursuit, and the "candle period" also faded away after a few weeks.
But one afternoon, I was sitting in the kitchen/living room (it was a very pleasant flat, but also rather small) when I heard the key in the lock of the door downstairs. It was just about time for Phoebe to come home, so I got up to put more water in the kettle for her. But instead of the light "snap snap" of her sandals on the stairs that lead straight up to our flat I heard a great "clump clump" as of heavier footwear. Turning from the stove to where the stairs came up, I saw a strange, leatherclad young woman step into the flat in tall black platform boots. That explains the noise, I thought, but who the hell is this?
Some people live for years with a "look" that seems natural to them. Then they alter it: maybe for reasons even they don't understand, and everything changes.
She stood there with her hands on her hips looking at me, chewing gum and popping it. She had a mop of black strawy hair that stuck out in a punk fashion, a short black leather jacket that was open to reveal a tight black tube top underneath, and pair of supertight black leather pants. There was about an acre of bloodred lipstick on her big lips, which suddenly spread in an enormous, unmistakable smile.
"What the . . . Phoebe?!"
Her gum popped like a gun going off. "The very same."
"But . .."
"That's right, Marie, I just discovered leather."
What was this latter day hippy doing in leather? And I don't even mean down-home honest country and western hay-bailing cowgirl leather, I mean punk bitch fuck-me-if-you-can urban leather.
It was a side to her I had never seen before.
I wanted to see more of it.
This was to be, indeed, Phoebe's "leather period." Before long she had several leather skirts of different shapes and styles, a leather dress or two, another pair of leather pants, and even the odd leather accessory. It certainly was quite a transformation, including as it did a very sudden and bold use of makeup, not to mention the wild black wig. What may have been a byproduct of this sudden upsurge of leather was the fact that she soon acquired a boyfriend, or, as I jokingly referred to him, a "gentleman caller"—for Phoebe was careful about committing herself in this regard and she and Steven, as she informed me, had not yet advanced beyond "courting" in the most innocent and uncopulative sense of the word.
Other than this, things went on pretty much as they did before. Phoebe and I would have breakfast together in the morning, whereupon she would dash off to the university and I would stay at home a little while longer, preferring to do as much of my work as possible at home. The "leather" period seemed to be no inconvenience at all, for unlike the "Van Gogh" and the "candle-making" periods, it did not involve the taking up of valuable flat space.
No inconvenience that is, except for one thing: my leather obsession. The fact was, I had never seen fit somehow to mention it to Phoebe in all the time of our friendship, despite our woman to woman intimacy.
If only I had somehow mentioned that before! Probably Phoebe, out of respect for my frustrations, and fear of tempting me to see a dear friend as a sex object, would have nipped the leather period in the bud. But Phoebe and I had seldom found occasion to talk about sex. Probably the only times we talked of sex at length was when she got onto one of her rare but (I found) amusing little tirades about anal intercourse. There was no element of homophobia here, for she had no problem with anyone other than herself doing it, but the whole idea, for some reason, of anyone wanting to put something up her bum verily repulsed her, and the mere suggestion of it from a boyfriend had been the demise of more than one of her relationships.
Methought the lady did protest too much.
But to get back to my new quandary. Of course, I could not tell Phoebe about my fondness for leather now. What could I say to my friend? "Phoebe? Could you please stop wearing leather? It's driving me crazy." Besides, to admit now that Phoebe did after all have the capacity to sexually arouse me would make it seem I had been dishonest before when I had sworn she was not attractive to me. I had not thought to fantasize about a friend of mine in leather, and leather had seemed just about the last thing in the world the country girl with the hippy aesthetic would have thought of wearing. There was no recourse but to suffer in silence, and to make sure I had plenty of batteries for the vibrator.
The leather phase went on for a week—then two weeks. Phoebe did not wear leather all the time, but she did so often, and I found myself trying to keep tabs on when she would and would not be home so I could arrange to work in the library or somewhere, whenever she might be at home lounging around in what I came to think of secretly as "the forbidden garments."
You might ask at this point whether I was tempted to take that dangerous plunge from friend to lover, to attempt a seduction, or make a clean break of the situation and tell Phoebe I was in love. But the fact of the matter was I was not in love, I was in brute animal lust; and powerful as that lust was, it could never seriously tempt me to lie about my feelings and feign a romantic attachment. The other obvious objection, of course, is that country girl was hopelessly straight.
So I could grin and bear it, as I was doing so far, or I could, if I dared, maybe just ask my friend to wear her forbidden garments elsewhere. If she then thought my original claims of sexual indifference to her were false, I could simply explain myself and hope she would understand. But I did not want to expose either of us to this awkwardness, did not want her to know I had been lusting after her like a wild beast for weeks . . .
My work began to deteriorate. There were days when I would sleep in, listening to Phoebe get ready for work in the next room, then run clumpety-clump down the stairs in her big black leather platform boots and slam the front door. As the engine of her motorcycle roared into action (yes, she had bought a motorcycle! What leather goddess should be without one?) the motor of my vibrator whirred into motion and I would let all manner of disloyal unplatonic thoughts fill my filthy head.
The low point came one Friday night when I was alone at home, and began to think of a small crack in the wall between Phoebe's bedroom and mine. I went into my room and began idly picking at the crack.
It seemed as if I hadn't really planned it that way, but within an hour there was a hole small enough to be unnoticeable, but large enough to see through.
I knew I was powerless not to look when I heard my friend get up next morning. At first I tried not to as I heard her getting dressed, but eventually I just gave in and put my eye to the hole. I saw Phoebe standing there half facing in my direction. She was already into her wig and biker jacket, her boots were on, and so were the pants that ran so tightly down her gorgeous legs into them. These were new pants, not quite the same as the ones the first day she came home all leathered up. Those had been more the conventional thick biker pants running just across the top of the hip, with lots of heavy, awkward folds in them.
But these new pants were something else. Very high-waisted, they were of a slightly thinner leather, shiny, (involuntarily I began to touch myself) and stretchy, the kind of leather that looks a bit like rubber in its capacity to stretch and form itself smoothly over the body, tightly, very tightly constraining it, without conflicting with that body's basic shape.
Her arms were behind her. There was a look of concentration on Phoebe's face as she stared off at some undefined point in the distance, and her tongue protruded unselfconsciously from the corner of her big mouth as she tottered on her platform boots, apparently bending all her abundant intellect on the absorbing task of zipping herself up in back. She bent backwards a little with the flexible "S" of her spine and tugged on the zipper. Dip, and tug. Dip, and tug. She was very patient with it, and she needed to be, as the pants were very tight and the zipper (though I couldn't see it from where I was) apparently started from very low on her bottom. She always looked nice and big in the rear whenever she wore tight leather. (I have always loved large bums and wanted to tell those of my sex who have them how beautiful they are, but alas...) I wondered momentarily what the effect would be of shouting "fire!" at this point, but dismissed the fiendish idea as quickly as I could. I shook my head. I remembered the words of another friend years ago who pointed out that pants with the zipper in front or even at the side were practical, but pants with a zipper up the back made no sense at all (except for what they insinuated sexually. I remembered Phoebe's hostility to anal sex and began to wonder.)
As Phoebe finally got the zipper closed and snapped shut the two dome fasteners above it, I tore myself away from the peephole. This spying was the sort of thing a guy would do, for God's sake, sexually exploiting a woman he pretended to have no sexual interest in. I thought of leering juveniles in some horrible Hollywood production like "Porky's" and nearly gagged on my own venality. I decided something had to change, and I had to change it today. I would tell her the truth (as much of it as was necessary) and ask her to spare me further torment as much as possible.
Phoebe went out then, but a few hours later, with the roar of her machine, and the clumpety-clump of her long lean boots on the stair she was back in the early afternoon.
I was at the kitchen table sipping tea and reading Sartre. With a heavenly squeak of leather Phoebe sat down across the diminutive table from me, plucked a fresh clean apple from the fruit bowl, and crunched into it.
"Watcha doin'?" she smiled with her big teeth.
"Reading Sartre," I said. Phoebe leaned back in her chair a little and began to quote some Sartre from memory. You could tell she had no bra on under the tight black tube top her open biker jacket revealed. She was big enough that way that such accoutrement took daring, yet firm enough that it actually looked pretty darned good. While she went on quoting Sartre, I wandered off into a fantasy where Phoebe somehow lost her biker jacket, and had to ride her motorcycle home over some very bumpy roads in full view of appreciative spectators...
Suddenly, I felt as if it wouldn't be so hard to broach the topic of her sartorial selections after all. She was Phoebe, after all, she was easy-going, it shouldn't be a problem. I interrupted her quotations and put my book down. Then I began to tell her (I hardly knew how to begin) just what exactly the problem was.
I can't remember just exactly what it was I said, but at some point her brow darkened a little, and I began to feel I was going about this all wrong. Perhaps I was over-articulating, making such a big deal about it that I was somehow implying something darker and harsher than was really the case. Somehow, I began to get the uncomfortable impression I had inadvertently implied that I thought Phoebe was teasing me. Of course, nothing was further from the truth. I knew she had had no such intention, and that I had not meant to imply she did.
In order to clear up that misunderstanding, I came right out and said that I had not intended to imply she was teasing me. Her brow grew darker yet. I had made a mistake. Maybe it had never occurred to her I was making any accusation until I denied the same! The rest is a bit of a blur, but as I recall, every attempt to normalize the situation on my part just got us deeper and deeper into anger and misunderstanding. Eventually, she was rather angry with me, and I at her, for I thought surely the situation was not so complicated, nor myself that inept at communication that she should take everything as negatively as she was.
We began to raise our voices at each other, something we had very seldom done, getting louder and louder. Eventually, completely fed up and wanting just to drop the whole thing until both our tempers cooled, I let my attention slip and said one of those stupid things that seems to fly almost from the subconscious to the outer world where there is no end to the trouble it will cause:
"Anyway, Phoebe, I'm not just thinking about myself, it's for your own protection."
She put the apple, with only one enormous bite taken out of it, slowly on the table. No sooner were the words out of my mouth than I realized what I had said, and how impossible it would be to make it sound like I had meant something else. She stared at me coldly and said in a low, level voice,
"Let me get this straight, shorty, if I don't do as you say when you say, you're going to rape me."
I was petrified both by her anger, and by the implications of what I had let slip out. Had I, at some monstrous level, really meant such a thing? I tried to gather my wits. "No! Of course not Phoebe! I . . . I . . ."
She began to laugh. I was confused for a moment, then she laughed more. I felt some tentative relief. Well, maybe she was not so offended after all. Maybe it was going to turn out all right then.
She continued laughing, louder yet, and my relief began to turn slowly to chagrin: "Imagine you," she choked out between laughs, "thinking you could ever . . ." I began to feel downright humiliated. I was not used to thinking in those terms. I did not pride myself, for God's sake, on any real or imagined ability to force myself on someone, but it surely wasn't all that ridiculous . . .
"And you're . . ." she put one leather-gloved hand on her belly, her eyes strained shut with mirth, huge lips pulled way back over her great teeth, "you're about half my size! When was the last time you did any physical labour? I . . . I . . . could throw you over the backyard fence!" A new round of laughter. "When I was eighteen a man tried that with me, and I think they're still trying to pull his balls back out of his groin!"
She continued laughing. I felt utterly defeated. It was no longer an issue of what she wore. I had inadvertently made a cruel and ridiculous boast, and the rebuff wounded my pride deeply. I stood up to storm off to my room, unable to bear the horse-like snort and whinny of her laughter.
"I mean," she continued, "no offense Marie, but what in the world would a lesbian do for . . ."
I went rigid with anger. Things seemed for a moment to be in slow motion. Her great breasts bounced joyfully beneath the tube top, the giant redrubber-lipped mouth was open wider than ever before . . .
I picked the apple off the table and, pushing it into her open mouth, swept past her in a state of fury. I stopped, turned, and said with barely controllable anger, "You should know this as a psychologist: have you ever perused Fartov and Belcher's 1995 study on straight women's attitudes to anal sex? They found a directly proportional link to the aversion a woman expressed towards the idea of anal intercourse and the frequency with which she wore pants with a big fat zipper up her ass." With that, I'm ashamed to say, just as she was jimmying a finger into her mouth to pry the apple out, I unzipped her. I just reached out, and without thinking, unzipped her pants. Two big cheeks bulged forward from between the steel teeth of the zipper, straining at the two sturdy snaps above it.
"Hmmmph?!" was her brilliant retort. Forgetting the apple in her mouth, she reflexively reached back to rezip. I watched for a moment, still seething with rage as she dipped and tugged, dipped and tugged, and then I folded my arms across my chest and proclaimed "I'm going out for a coffee." I turned to go but then turned back to her and, as a parting shot, grabbed the lapels of her open jacket from behind and pulled it around behind her, wrapping her arms in it.
"I could make short work of you if I wanted to my dear," I said, "in the few moments it would take you to get out of this I could do a thing or two that would have you thinking a very long time." Then I thumped down the stairs throwing my sweater over me, and slammed the front door as I left.
Instantly, I realized I had forgotten to take my purse with me. Still furious with Phoebe, I thumped up the stairs again, breezed through the kitchen/living room determined to pay my room-mate no attention, went into my bedroom, and began throwing things around in an angry effort to find my purse. I looked for it here, I looked for it there, it seemed to take forever. Then I spied it in an obvious place (hanging on the bedroom doorknob) threw it over my shoulder, and made for the stairs again. Just as I was breezing through the kitchen/living room I heard a sound as of squeaking leather. Forgetting to ignore Phoebe I turned towards the main room to look.
She was still stuck. Unbelievably, she had been unable to free her pinioned arms from the biker jacket wrapped up behind her. Somehow, I had really got her good and stuck. The apple was still in her mouth, from which oozed an abundant stream of saliva that caused her lipstick to smear all over her chin, her ass was still hanging out as she tottered, wiggled, and staggered around the room still fighting with the jacket, and, some time in the last few minutes of desperate struggle, her great lily-white melons had burst out of her tube top.
They bounced and jiggled at me in the most undignified manner possible.
I think I almost lost it then. I put my purse down.
The phone rang. Summoning all my will to compose myself, I answered. It was Steven. He would be here in about half an hour. I conveyed this piece of information to his girlfriend, then said loudly into the mouthpiece, "don't bother knocking when you get here Steve, just come right in."
I hung up, and looked at Phoebe. "You may need some help making yourself presentable for your boyfriend. However, it will cost you my dear."
She had stopped struggling. "Gmmmph?" she said. The look on her face was unbelievably stupid. I stopped for a moment to think, then resolved upon what I was going to do.
I went to my bedroom and returned with a tube of K-Y jelly and a lovely fat butt plug, a functional novelty item comically designed to look like a chubb of salami. The "dull" end of the plug had a convenient suction cup on it.
She watched, wide eyed, as I rolled up my sleeves at the kitchen table and proceeded to smear the jelly liberally over the butt plug. Then I pulled one of the wooden kitchen chairs out from the table, plunked it down in front of her, and smacked the plug down on the middle of the chair, suctioning it firmly in place.
The erect plug stood there vertically on the chair, seeming almost to mock my bound and gagged roommate.
"The choice is yours, dear." Walking right up behind her I continued, "this should make it a little easier for you to mate with Oscar Mayer here, should that be your wish," and so saying I unpopped the two snaps on the back of her pants, and started tugging them down over her hips.
"Hmmmph? Glmmph? Mmmmmm!" She was too surprised to resist.
"My these pants are tight! It must be some work getting into them!" I left them half way down her thighs, making it impossible for her to move except with the tiniest possible baby steps. Whatever chance she had had left of fighting back by kicking my ass was now gone. She didn't seem to understand, so I explained the situation to her: "obviously, someone has to free you from your current embarrassing situation. You can wait for Stevie to arrive, though I should think it would be pretty humiliating for you to have him find you like this, especially when you try to explain yourself. The alternative is for me to help you, but that will cost you." I pointed then at the butt plug. "Let's just say this is my way of telling you to sit on it."
I sat down myself in my rocking chair and proceeded to read Sartre again. This time, I noted, Phoebe was not quick with any quotations from the esteemed philosopher. It is hard to be taken seriously as a philosopher when you are bound in your own clothes, your bushy blonde pussy is hanging out, and there is an apple wedged in your mouth.
She stood there for a while staring at the plug like one mesmerized by a snake. Glancing at her occasionally, I continued coolly to read Sartre. The mantlepiece clock ticked. She kept looking at it, and then at the butt plug, and then back at the clock.
I must admit I was surprised. I had not thought she would give the plug any serious consideration.
With her thighs bound in her own pants, she shuffled in baby steps to the chair.
I put down my book and held my breath and walked up to stand in front of her and off to the side as she slowly, slowly squatted down towards the plug, thrusting her butt back as much as possible as if to spread her cheeks as much as she could.
She stared at me, a look of outrage fixed on her face, then craned her neck back, looking down towards her target, like some truck driver backing up, easing her flanks down towards that dreaded thing they covered from her sight. She looked back at me, and her nostrils flared and trembled as the salami bumped lightly against her crack but missed the bull's eye, and she tensed as she rose slightly, shifted, and slowly settled down.
Her eyes rounded, and crossed a little. "That's it," I said, motioning the driver with my hand, "a little more, a little more..."
Her taught thighs trembled as she eased slowly, slowly down. Her great buttocks twisted slowly and sensuously, stopped, then squirmed and wiggled as she slowly screwed herself in place.
"That's it dear, just relax your precious virgin asshole. That's it, relax..."
The glory hole stretched further than it clearly ever had before. She groaned long and low, her blue eyes meeting at the bridge of her nose in complete stupefaction as more and more of the plug found a home deep within her yielding fundament.
Finally, she was down-all the way down-and the butt plug was all the way in. Then we heard a car pull up. "My God, that must be Steven," I said, "he's early."
She shuddered, stopped, looked about wildly.
"Excellent. You've mated yourself to defeat, my dear. Well done. I couldn't have done it without you." I bent forward and kissed her forehead as an imploring look sprang to her eye. She seemed to be looking to me for further instructions.
"Slut!" I said. "You enjoy it, don't you? Fucking yourself up the ass. You aren't doing this to save face in front of your boyfriend, dear, you're a consummate anal hypocrite." I looked into her eyes. She was stunned, defeated, and totally turned on. I whispered into her ear: "punk bitch. Punk horse. I have broken you. And when you ditch that clown who's coming through the door, I'm going to ride."
She tried to stand up. "Mmmph!" she cried, and the chair came slightly off the ground with her before she slammed down again. She was really literally a tight-assed one, that's for sure. Then she tried again, and again, each time lifting the chair a half inch from the floor and dropping down into it. She looked at me imploringly as we heard the car door slam. Then she tried again, and lo and behold, the suction broke. She rocketed up to her feet instantly.
As I pushed the chair away and looked round behind her, I could see nothing of the butt plug except the suction cup end, firmly clamped between two big buttocks. From around the apple came all manner of inarticulate cries. God, how I wanted to spank her silly at that moment. But there was no time. I grabbed the waist of her pants and hauled it up, up, over her thighs, (ugh! that was a lot of work!
How did she manage it?) Snapped the snaps together, pushed her big ass in as I pulled on the zipper—we could hear Steven opening the front door now—and then I deftly unwrapped her jacket from her arms, pried the apple out of her mouth with a handy spoon while she stuffed her great boobs back into her tube top, and we were all set just as Steven reached the top of the stairs.
With a big smile on his face he grabbed her hand. "Come on, silly, we're going to be late for the concert! Had you forgotten?" Then he took off with her down the stairs, the two of them clattering in their big boots, Phoebe's big blue eyes stupidly wide open, still trying in vain to comprehend what had just happened to her in the past half hour or so.
I knew she would find some excuse to ditch him. A headache, maybe, it didn't matter.
"Stop!" I cried loudly, bringing them to a surprised and instant halt half way down the stairs. "Just one thing before you go. Phoebe?"
"Yes?" she said in bewilderment, just like some kind of innocent little girl, a great big tall little girl in leather and with a big fat butt plug she still can't believe is there stuck up her ass.
"That lovely little baloney I gave you not long ago? If you ever want another one, I'd be only too pleased . . ." I blew her a quick kiss.
Then I sent them off—all three of them.
Copyright 1996 and on, Erotica Readers Association, Inc.
The Boys Upstairs
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