by R. Gay
Except for her scent. There was the faint burnt smell of rubber, yes, but something else as well. Something muskily floral. I liked it. I wanted to smell it again.
But by this time, she was nowhere in sight.
I didn’t know her name. I didn’t know her face, even. I knew nothing at all about her except her voice, her scent, the feel of her body in my arms.
It was enough.
I tried to meet her after the show, but this was a club, not a proper theater; it didn’t have a standard backstage door. Besides, I didn’t know what she looked like. I went home alone. It was three in the morning. I was stone sober.
I dreamed that night of a polka-dot bikini trimmed with coarse black fun fur, and of burying my face in the creamy cleavage of the woman who wore it.
I knew I should just let it go, that I should just accept it as a chance encounter, a small gift from the universe—a girl in a gorilla suit, falling into my arms, a girl with a sexy voice and a seductive scent. Maybe all I was destined for was a chance to hold her for a moment and look into her eyes, never to know who she really was. Maybe I wasn’t meant to know who she really was. Maybe I shouldn’t tempt fate.
By the end of the week, though, I was having full-blown fantasies about the girl in the gorilla suit.
It didn’t start out entirely intentionally. I have a method I use when I’m spending quality time with myself. I like to jerk off just before bed—it’s my favorite way to relax after a long day, and the best way to guarantee a good night’s sleep. Plus, I’m less grumpy in the morning. I start out by just rubbing the tops of my thighs and my mons gently. While I’m warming up like that, in my head I like to sort through a wide variety of mental images, like cards in a deck: an old memory fragment of a lover pinning my wrists to the mattress, or how a sexy friend of mine looked when she bent over in a short skirt. Or maybe a scene in a movie, or a picture in a magazine. I just run through them over and over in my head until I find one that makes me gasp. Then, whatever triggered a reaction becomes the basis of my fantasy for the night.
One night, it was the memory of her falling off the stage, into my arms.
Somehow, it quickly morphed into a different scene entirely. My mind is like that sometimes. She was no longer in the full suit; she just wore a rubber gorilla mask, and that polka-dot bikini, but instead of fur there were her bare limbs, pale and unadorned. She did a striptease for me, losing first her top, then her bottom. She presented herself to me proudly, arms spread, completely naked from the neck down. Nipples erect, dark pubic bush gleaming with a hint of wetness. Finally, her hands lifted to her face, grabbed the edge of her mask and started to pull it off—
—and that’s when I came, hard, and much sooner than I expected, all in a gush.
Soon I was imagining all sorts of things, every night: a woman in a gorilla mask, tied spread-eagled to my bed. Did I dare lift the mask? I did not. Instead, I buried my face between her legs. Engulfed by that beguiling scent, I licked and suckled her clit until she pinned my head between her legs and wailed, her cries muffled beneath rubber and fur.
Or I pictured myself helping her zip up backstage, the zipper getting caught—putting my hand down the back of the suit to help free it, slipping farther down, farther…
Or I was watching her fellate a banana, then force me to eat it while she held it to her crotch—onstage.
Finally, I even started daydreaming. We would go out on a date, to an art gallery. She would be wearing her mask. The gallery owner would mistake her for one of those art provocateurs, the Guerilla Girls. I would have to explain that no, she was just my girlfriend. She would laugh behind her mask, and we would stumble out into the night, arm in arm, toward my apartment and endless domestic bliss.
Two weeks later, I was at the lip of the stage again.
I didn’t really know if I would see her again, that night or ever, but I figured it this way: if she’d invested in a full-blown gorilla suit, not just a mask, the odds were in my favor. Of course, it could have been a rental suit. I knew that, too. I kept my fingers crossed.
I also came prepared. In my back pocket was a note with my name and phone number. I’m the girl who caught you in my arms. Call me? I wasn’t entirely sure what I was going to do with the note, but I could figure that part out later.
Late in the second half, my bets paid off. There she was, all suited up, and dancing. She was doing some mockery of urban tribal belly dance—her gorilla suit was complemented this time by some braids made of yarn and cowrie shells, and instead of a polka-dot bikini she wore a studded belt, bell bottoms, and jingly bra.
Except that she was far too graceful to pull it off. When she shimmied, and those coins shook, I felt woozy. And I wasn’t the only one: the audience was silent, rapt.
Then she leaned over the stage and shook her cleavage in the face of the woman standing next to me, who screamed with delight and stuck a dollar bill in the band. And I had an idea. Hastily, I wrapped my note inside a dollar bill of my own, and waved my hand in the air.
Just before she turned and wiggled her furry ass at me, did she make eye contact? Did she wink? Or did I imagine it? I tucked the note and the bill into her fancy leather belt. My hands were inexplicably shaking, but I managed to make sure the bundle was secure.
Then I headed to the bar in the back of the club and ordered myself a whisky sour. I didn’t normally lean on liquid courage like this, but tonight, I needed something to drown the butterflies suddenly taking flight in my stomach.
I waited until the end of the show, when the lights dimmed over the stage and brightened over the audience, and the DJ climbed back into the booth to play one last set before last call. No one winked at me on her way out. Nobody offered a shy little wave of hello. There was no sign that the woman beneath the gorilla suit had gotten my note, or read it, or wanted to know more. I waited until closing time, nursing my drink, until they shooed the last stragglers out into the eerily silent streets.
Nobody called me that week. Or the next week.
Not that that stopped my fantasies. I imagined her pulling my head back for a rubber-lipped kiss; spanking me with rubbergloved hands. Once I dreamed of her dancing in the ropes just like the aerial acts I loved, naked, with her mask on as always. Once I dreamed of lying on my back onstage while she did the splits above my face.
Only now for some reason, sometimes, when I came, I found myself with tears in my eyes.
Of course I went back for the next show. I didn’t have a note. I didn’t have a plan. I just had a threadbare hope of seeing her again onstage. Even if she didn’t call, I wouldn’t mind watching her perform again. I liked how she moved, and I liked her sense of humor—and her voice, and her smell. And if that’s all I ever had of her, it would be enough. Eventually I’d find another set of fantasies to get my juices flowing and my fingers flying.
The first half ended without any sign of the gorilla girl’s act. I could feel my heart sinking toward my shoes. I knew I was being ridiculous. I took three deep breaths and headed for the bar.
I was waiting for my whisky sour when someone brushed a hand across my shoulder. I didn’t even look, just slid a few inches over to make room for whoever was next in line. I kept my eyes fixed on the bartender and the tattoo of a crown at the nape of her neck—nice—so I didn’t see at first who it was who was leaning in to whisper in my ear. “Hi,” said a low, smoky voice that tickled at my memory. “Nice to see you again.”
I narrowed my eyes in suspicion as I turned. The voice was familiar but the face was not—round and brown and definitely cute, with dark red lips and eyelashes for days, and a cute little pixie cap of jet black hair, with spit curls near her ears. Cute, but a stranger.
But my mother taught me manners, and I tried to be warmly polite as I asked, “I’m sorry, have we met? I must have forgotten your name.”
She smiled and looked down, into her drink. “Well, it’s hard to explain. You wouldn’t recognize me, but yes, we’ve met before. About a mont
h ago, I think.” Her look turned playful. “You caught me.” She gestured at the stage.
My eyes widened. “Are you…?”
She laughed. “The gorilla girl. Yes. My name is Mona. Thank you for saving me,” she said, and leaned over to kiss the back of my hand. I giggled inanely and covered my mouth with my hand, embarrassed.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you,” she said. “I guess I’m a little shy. I wanted to introduce myself first, here, at the bar. Just in case, you know?”
“In case of what?” I asked.
The club was too dark to see if she was blushing when she answered, “In case you changed your mind.”
And suddenly I liked the girl out of the gorilla suit just as much as I liked the girl inside the suit. I knew neither of them. But my chance had finally come to get to know them both. “Let me buy you a drink,” I said to her, “and let’s see how things go.”
THE OUT-OF-TOWNER
Delilah Devlin
Maybe I felt the unexpected attraction because we had been forced to share the same hotel suite. Or maybe it was just the late hour and I was bored. All I know for certain is when I put down my red pen after working diligently on notes for revising my portion of the proposal, my gaze caught Debra’s breasts.
Her sudden exhalation drew me to the shadowy cleft revealed by the two buttons she’d undone at the top of her blouse.
Already I could see the full, round curves as they pressed close together thanks to the magic of underwire. I stayed transfixed by a little shell button, turned sideways in the buttonhole, ready to pop free with her next deep breath.
I realized I’d been staring, and so far she hadn’t noticed because her own attention was focused on the colorful charts spread in front of her. “They’re crazy, you know,” Debra said, as she tapped one chart in particular. “How the hell are we supposed to find fifty thousand to scrub from this estimate? We’ve already cut the thing down to bare bones. The only way we can go cheaper is to stint on the quality of the parts, and Sanders will never go for that.” Her gaze drifted up, catching mine as I hastily glanced away. “I swear I’m so tired, if there was a solution, I wouldn’t see it now.”
I cleared my throat then swallowed because my mouth was dry. Could she see the heat climbing up my neck? “Maybe we should call it a night. Start again when we’re fresh in the morning. Our meeting’s not until four.”
“Sure,” she murmured. Debra stood and stretched her arms over her head. The button that hadn’t been able to make up its mind whether it was in or out, popped free. Her blouse parted, revealing another three inches of creamy skin and the lacy center of her ecru bra. The wire molded her curves into perfect creamy globes.
“Which bed do you want?” she asked, strolling toward the bathroom.
“Doesn’t matter to me,” I mumbled.
“I’ll take the one closest to the AC. I’m really hot.”
With that, she closed the bathroom door. I should have felt relief, but the sound of water splashing against the shower stall only heightened my arousal.
Which was crazy. I craved dick like my dachshund craved a chew toy. And why Debra? Sure her breasts were lush, but the rest of the package was a little… mismatched.
She was short, with a round face and close-cropped platinum curls nestled close to her skull. Kohl-rimmed her eyes might have made another woman look mysterious, but only made Debra seem younger. Her features were cute—snub nose, round chin, startling blue eyes—but nothing that would draw a man’s or woman’s gaze for long. Her body, however, was all grown up—lush full bosom, round hips.
In comparison, I looked like a lanky beanpole, not too tall, but together we made a very disparate pair. I’d seen the way the Advantage team had sized us up when we entered the conference room that morning, but while we looked mismatched, we’d worked together like a well-oiled machine, taking their concerns and offering options to revise the proposal that we’d present again the next day.
The door creaked open and Debra strode out, wearing only a towel and a crooked smile on her gamine face. “Forgot my pajamas.”
What she pulled from the drawer beneath the television wasn’t as cozy looking as she’d made it sound. A teal silk scrap spilled over her hand and she walked happily back to the bathroom.
I took the bed she didn’t want and sat on the edge. Then I lay back, staring at the blades of the ceiling fan as they slowly turned again and again. Nope, the cool air didn’t work. Neither did the monotonous motion.
The water stopped and Debra hummed off-key, the sound resonating through the door. I wondered if she realized she was tone deaf and couldn’t help the smile that kicked up one side of my mouth.
When the door opened, she caught me smiling like an idiot. “It’s all yours.”
I gathered my cotton pajamas and headed to the stall. The bathroom smelled of herbal shampoo and a fruity perfume. I stripped and stepped into the stall, then turned on the faucet, not caring if the water was cool or warm. I ducked my head beneath the spray and relaxed. My attraction was transitory. Once I hit the sheets, sleep would consume my lust.
Feeling a mild disappointment that I’d so easily given up my fantasy, I opened my eyes and finished washing, taking care to shave away the bristles on my legs and pussy. So what if no one would know I’d been diligent in my hygiene. I was only stalling the moment I’d have to reenter the bedroom. I hoped like hell she was already in bed, covers pulled up to her neck, because I didn’t think I could take another round of peep show without salivating.
My pajamas were decidedly unglamourous—a white tank and men’s pajama bottoms. But they covered the essentials, and maybe she’d never know I was interested.
The lights were out when I opened the door. I closed it behind me, plunging myself into darkness, and felt my way toward my bed.
A light clicked on. “No need to stub a toe,” Debra said.
The golden lamplight made her skin glow, and again, I couldn’t help but notice her full breasts now rounding out the bodice of her short silk nightgown.
“Thanks,” I said, a little too curtly. I was all out of polite. She had me rattled, starved for sex. How many weeks had it been since I’d hit Ben’s apartment for a quickie?
Debra lay on her side, a hand cupping the breast pressed to the mattress. Did she know she fondled herself? Or was she making fun of me because I’d been staring?
“You know, I asked to be partnered with you,” she said softly.
“Because I’ve worked with Advantage before?”
“Because I thought we’d have fun,” she said, staring with her blue cat’s eyes.
I blinked and sat on the edge of my bed. Then I reached for the light switch, but she cut my action short when she slipped the edge of her teal nightgown beneath one breast, exposing it fully. “You’ve been staring at it so much tonight, I thought I’d satisfy your curiosity.”
Her voice held no derision or disgust. Her smile deepened, a dimple sinking into one cheek.
The breast that spilled out and lay on the white sheet was full, round, topped with a small pink nipple that was dimpled; the tip beaded like a small, dusky pebble.
“It’s okay for you to touch.”
Moisture flooded my pussy and my mouth. I knew I didn’t want to only touch her with my fingers. I wanted to suckle that pink pearl.
“I have a boyfriend,” she said, in her soft, girlish voice. At work, it annoyed me, that girly tone, but right now, it raised every hair on my arms and neck.
I pried my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “I’ve met him. Seems nice.”
“He won’t mind, Stacey.”
“Mind what?” I asked stupidly, lifting my gaze from her nipple to her amazing eyes.
“If you kiss it.”
No, she did not just say that! Again, I locked on her face, looking to see whether she was serious. Her smile deepened and she rolled to her back, the boob framed by the taut silk.
“It’s nice…your breast…but not my thing.”
“Still, you’re curious,” she said, her face turned toward mine. “I could tell. Your cheeks flushed every time I popped a button.”
“I didn’t know if you knew and didn’t want to embarrass you by mentioning it.”
Debra’s lips parted, her white teeth flashed, and she sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. “I get it. You don’t like to make the first move.”
I braced my hands behind me as she approached, but her eyes narrowed, and her chin locked—a look that spelled trouble, because I’d seen it once before, when Kenneth Adams said she didn’t have the right stuff to make partner.
She lifted one foot and nudged the inside of one my ankles, pushing it outward, then bent and clasped my opened knees. Her breast hovered right in front of my mouth.
“You know you want to,” she whispered, then arched her back and pushed the nipple against my lips.
I opened my mouth to deny it, but she pressed inside.
My tongue pushed back, but lingered on the soft suede of her areola. The small dimples excited my tongue, and I swirled over them. The hard tip popped like those naughty buttons, elongating against the swab of my tongue until I couldn’t help the urge to suck it like a straw.
Her rattling moan echoed mine, and I was too far into this thing now to pretend I didn’t really want it. I reached up to cup the soft, lush breast and feed it into my mouth.
She pushed me on my back and straddled my thighs at the edge of the bed, her breast still locked between my lips.
Her body undulated, her pussy rubbing my lower belly until the motions and the heat radiating off her skin became too much, and I had to touch the rest of her, wanted to let my tongue search out other soft and sweetly responsive parts of her body.
I bit her nipple and shook my head free from under her. “Too many clothes,” I whispered.