After work, I caught BART to Mission and 16th, then walked up 16th to Big Lantern to meet Lucky. I grabbed one of the tables near the front window. It offered some privacy. Big Lantern was cheap, unpretentious, and close by. It was ideal for a second date and as a place to flirtily negotiate our play. Lucky arrived a few minutes after I’d taken off my Harris tweed blazer. She was wearing a worn brown leather jacket, a black cable-knit turtleneck sweater, black 501s, baby-blue suede chukkas, a wide, studded, brown leather cuff, and a smile. My nipples got hard immediately, and I was thankful that I’d thought to wear a lined black wool vest over my shirt. I needed all the layers I could get between my nipples and the world if I hoped to get through dinner without advertising my desire to rip my clothing off, climb onto the glass-topped table, and spread my legs open to Lucky’s fist. We ordered taro vegetable puffs, turnip cakes, pork siu mai, steamed BBQ pork buns, vegetable turnip buns, shrimp dumplings, vegetable dumplings, and a pot of tea.
“It seems a little weird to see you when I have all my clothes on,” I said.
“We can fix that later,” Lucky said, grinning.
The waiter brought our dim sum, and we spread out happily. I adored the creamy turnip cakes dipped in hot mustard sauce, while Lucky hogged the steamed BBQ pork buns. We were temporarily quiet until about halfway into dinner, when we both took a deep breath at the same time and started talking.
“How was your week?” Lucky and I asked simultaneously.
I wanted to be an adult and tell her that someone set a fire in historical romances, at one point all the toilets were out of commission for two hours, and Arial Gore gave a talk on memoir writing during our Writers Talk Writing series. But all I could think about was Lucky and me fucking. Instead I blushed and admitted to Lucky that I’d spent the week jerking off and thinking about our two all-too-brief interludes.
Then I cursed myself internally for sounding like a character from Downton Abbey crossed with a twenty-first-century, peevish, queer slut, so I told her about the fire in historical romances, clogged commodes on three floors, and meeting famous writers. I immediately felt more mature. Lucky was suave, yet she oozed vulnerability and was tender with her mother. Could it be that she was a bad boy who had actually grown up? Or maybe that was my hopeful heart.
“Let’s go back to my place and fuck,” I said. I’d never been good at being subtle and would cut to the chase given a moment. I also hated processing and Lucky was looking serious, or maybe it was sexy. I was so nervous I couldn’t tell the difference.
“Wait. I want to know more.” Lucky reached across the table with her greasy fingers and held mine, twining them together. “Tell me your limits. What you want?”
“Didn’t we do this already? At Café Flore? Remember?” I asked querulously.
Lucky raised one bushy graying eyebrow at my tone, lowered her voice, and increased her pressure on my fingers by squeezing them hard. “Please answer my questions. I want to know more.”
I blushed at Lucky’s sudden change and her demanding tone of voice, then decided to follow instructions. “If you want to be called ‘Sir,’ I’m fine with that, but not ‘Daddy.’” I thought back to my conversation with Tov earlier that day and kissed Lucky’s forefinger. “I’ve never done needles and have done singletails only a few times. Not enough to count or form an opinion. I like canes and floggers and being tied up. And assfucking. Also being fisted and sucking cock, but you already knew that part. I don’t like being gone down on unless I’m wearing a cock. My tits are supersensitive. I’ll try most things at least once. I’m pretty simple, really.”
“I usually don’t use honorifics like ‘Sir,’ but I do like it sometimes. I’ll let you know when. I liked it when you called me ‘baby’ the other night. What is your safeword?” Lucky asked, as she fed me a nibble of turnip cake.
I sighed and felt my fingers in Lucky’s grow restless. I was always worried when we got to this part during negotiation. It was not sexy, and I felt too vulnerable. “I don’t use safewords. It isn’t that I don’t believe in them, but I didn’t grow up with them. I learned S/M outside of the leather community and we just plowed ahead. If it worked it worked, and if it didn’t work, we wouldn’t do it again.”
Lucky looked at me oddly, almost calculatingly, and stroked my fingers softly. “Okay, no safewords for you then. Should I stop if you cry?”
“Oh god, no. Please continue. I like to cry. Not every time, but sometimes,” I said with longing and reverence. I licked a spot of mustard sauce from Lucky’s forefinger.
“Water sports?”
“Yes, but I’ve never swallowed. So to speak.” I giggled.
“Boot stomping?” Lucky asked menacingly, her eyebrows wiggling like Groucho Marx’s and her dimples deepening.
I felt pressure on my foot, and Lucky’s chukka was pressing down on my oxfords oh so casually. I gasped, “Yes, but it’s scary. And I need aftercare.”
“Do you usually need aftercare?” Lucky asked, surprised, her ankle boot riding up my leg slowly.
“No. I take it back. My idea of aftercare is being on my knees sucking your cock! Seriously, if I’m collapsing in a puddle of come with bruises and marks up and down my body, it’s all good. What about you? Do you need aftercare?” I was trying not to sink under the table. All I wanted to do was crawl under the dim sum-littered table to Lucky’s lap, unbutton her jeans, take out her cock, and suck. I licked my lips.
Lucky caught my lip licking and grinned, stroking my palm with her fingernail. “Sometimes. All that swinging, tying, and pistoning can be tiring. A little chocolate or cheese. A hand massage helps.” Lucky held my wrist with her other hand. “Do you have any physical limitations?”
I groaned softly at Lucky’s grip on my wrist, the touch of her finger on my sensitive palm, and her boot on my leg. My erect nipples throbbed painfully in my tight binder, and I was squirmy and damp. Breathlessly, I answered, “I have a slightly prolapsed uterus from childbirth and a misdiagnosed thyroid condition. Fisting helps. Fisting is practically medicinal for me.” I snickered. “I can’t get up from kneeling easily anymore, I have chronic pain in my legs that I treat with turmeric, and my stamina for some bondage positions is limited. I’m fucking sixty and my body lets that fact be known in uncomfortable ways. And you?”
“I have mild arthritis in my hands and knees and gardener’s elbow. It sucks, but acupuncture and pot salve helps.” Lucky leaned forward, holding each of my wrists down on the table firmly, my left wrist next to the leftover pork siu mai, and my right wrist next to the remnants of the shrimp dumplings.
Between five days of anticipation, dim sum bondage, and Lucky’s climb up my leg, I was done in. I glanced at Lucky’s precious hands with some alarm. “Can we go now?” I whined. This negotiation process had felt a little demanding in a good way, a little processy in a demanding way, a little flirty in a hot way, and although I loved the hot parts and the demanding parts, I was ready for it to be over with ten minutes ago. Lucky just laughed at me.
We got the bill, split it, and meandered to my place, bumping shoulders. It was another beautiful night in San Francisco. It was in the fifties, cool enough to make our jackets useful. It was a short thirty-minute walk to my place and we got there quickly, happy for privacy.
Once inside, Lucky asked for tea. I hung up our jackets and Lucky’s leather satchel on the Eastlake coatrack, and started some hot water in the red metal kettle for tea. I liked that Lucky was guiding the fuck. However, if I’d had my way we’d be naked by now. Or at least I would be naked, but it was cozy in the kitchen with Lucky. She admired my collection of vintage velvet paintings, paint-by-number paintings, and 1970s porn movie posters. She scanned my two shelves of cookbooks as I got out my Brown Betty teapot, turquoise Fiesta mugs, sugar, and Ceylon tea. Lucky left to use the bathroom while I puttered in the kitchen, laying out tea and sandy digestive biscuits on my metal Queen Elizabeth coronation commemorative tray.
We had tea in the living room, Francy
sleeping on the Moroccan leather ottoman, the tea tray on the Persian coffee table, and ourselves sitting side by side on the olive mohair sofa with the velvet drapes keeping out the sounds of traffic. Lucky leaned in for a kiss. It was the most delicate kiss, a sweet exchange of air between us. Lucky’s breath felt like an electrical current. Our lips touched lightly, then we drew back. I licked the corners of Lucky’s mouth with the tip of my tongue, stiff and wet, slowly tracing an arc from one side of her mouth to the other. Our breath traveled between us, generating sexual energy until I swooned, falling toward her. Lucky caught me by my wrists and tightened her grip as she bit my lower lip, first delicately, then harder. I groaned with need as Lucky pulled me up from the sofa, restraining my wrists behind my back while walking behind me down the hallway and into my bedroom. I blearily saw her snag her satchel on the way into the bedroom.
I had just enough time to turn on the bedside lamp before Lucky shoved me backward against the walnut wardrobe. “Undress.”
I was paralyzed for a second as my cunt flooded and my clit hardened more, then I shakily unbuttoned my vest, untied my velvet bow tie, and unbuttoned my shirt revealing my chest in its binder. I struggled to get out of my oxfords, socks, and slacks, carefully draping my clothing on the valet stand. I’d worn my new shorts, the navy knit ones with the white contrasting piping and tiny white buttons. I eyed Lucky’s oversized satchel nervously and expectantly. Lucky took off her turtleneck sweater and opened her 1950s black-leather doctor’s satchel. I averted my eyes from the open bag, however I caught a glimpse of what I thought was a cane.
Lucky slapped my face lightly, and said, “All of it off.”
I stepped out of my shorts clumsily and struggled to take my tight binder off over my head.
“I’m ‘Sir’ tonight.”
“Yes, Sir,” I responded, keeping my eyes to the carpet, my nipples painfully tight and hard in the cool night air. Lucky spun me around, then fastened my wrists behind my back with padded leather cuffs.
“Thank you, Sir,” I gasped, as Lucky clasped tit clamps around my sensitive erect nipples and they started to burn, sending a current to my cock. “Thank you, Sir!” I thanked Lucky once more. I was awash with thankfulness.
Lucky pushed me over to my tall mahogany bed by my manacled wrists, then hissed menacingly while hoisting me up on the bed by my crotch, “Lean over the side. Up and at ’em!”
I fell onto the quilted bed, a pouf of lavender from the bedclothes rising as my chest hit the mattress. Lucky gripped me tightly by the back of my neck with one hand and knocked my legs apart with her booted foot. I rested with my head turned sideways, my cheek against my worn handmade quilt. I could glimpse a square of purple Japanese hopping bunny fabric, next to a square of blue William Morris Liberty cotton lawn and I focused on those two prints. Lucky rested full length along my back, pressing into me, one part comfort, one part promise, and one part threat. I could feel the softness of her breasts with their hard nipples under her white T-shirt against my mid-back, her warm breath against my neck, and her stiff cock against my ass. I lay as still as I could, trying desperately not to rear back against her cock with my hips. I wanted her to learn the shape of my outstretched naked self, to soak it up with her body until she could read each flush, twitch, and moan. And I wanted to learn her desires, to sniff out her needs before she knew them and offer them to her on the platter of my flesh and my heart. We lay together carefully, adjusting to each other’s bodies and desires, the room deepening with anticipation. The room was starting to heat up. I couldn’t easily see, but I could feel Lucky’s presence beside me like a generator, a conductor of pleasure.
Lucky bit the nape of my neck, sending a sharp pain through me, then pushed herself up, digging her hips into mine as she straightened up. She caressed my ass gently with her rough palm, swooping down to dip into my pulsing cunt with two fingers, then back up lightly over my asshole. I sensed a swing behind me, then felt the sting of the cane against my ass, driving my hips into the bedside. I clenched the quilt loosely, then more tightly as she continued to beat my cheeks with the cane. She beat me methodically, three strikes to each cheek over and over, the stinging pain driving me forward. She had not asked me to keep count, and had not mentioned needing this ritual, so I lost myself in the giddy delight of handing it over and giving it up to Lucky. At one point Lucky paused to run her hand through the river between my thighs.
I said, “Thank you, Sir,” pushing my clamped tits into the mattress, squirming to release more pain. My cunt was clasping in pleasure, the muscles tightening and swelling.
I heard the pop of 501 fly buttons, the tear of a condom being opened, and felt a cold dribble of lube against my asshole. Lucky’s thick cock worked its way between my burning asscheeks, sinking into my ass like a missile looking for its target. I moaned as she started fucking me, drawing out so the tip of her cock rested in my asshole, before diving in deliberately, the contact of her hard rubber harness irritating my bruised ass. She teased me with her cock, drawing out slowly, stopping, then sinking in up to the hilt and repeating this intolerably slow half-speed fuck.
“Hold still,” she commanded, while choking me lightly by holding me down by the back of my neck. Lucky fucked me snail-like while I forced myself to not move, my clit growing larger and rubbing against the quilt. It became a meditative fuck, with Lucky chortling as she pistoned leisurely into my asshole with her cock, squeezing my sore asscheeks with her hands and twisting them painfully. I could feel drops of precome dripping down my thighs as I shuddered from containing my need. I was getting a feel for what Lucky wanted, learning what turned her on. She liked desperation and obedience, and I aspired to give her these.
“Please, please, Sir!” I begged. What was I begging for? I was so delirious that I almost no longer knew what I pleaded for. I wanted to come, but my pleas were for something greater than a string of orgasms. I wanted to give myself to Lucky and I wanted Lucky to take me, to devour me with her greed and her needs.
Lucky reached around to my tender nipples, twisting and pulling the clamped, swollen, reddened flesh as she sped up. “Now,” she grunted, and started fucking me deeply and quickly, slamming into my bruised ass in her hurry to come. With a drawn-out groan, Lucky came, balls deep in my black-and-blue ass. I whimpered. I’d been holding back so long that I had not come yet and couldn’t. Lucky rested a minute, popped her cock out, and lightly stroked my back with her hand, dipping in between my legs, then drawing her hand out, painting my thighs with my juices. I lay there panting, half sobbing in need.
I felt a whoosh by my feet, then the confining metallic click of padded ankle cuffs around my ankles. “Alley-up! On your belly.” Lucky then rolled me onto my belly like a tumbleweed and hogtied me, fastening my ankles to my wrists behind my back.
I lay there helpless as she stood back and laughed. “It looks like my little invert is stuck for the night,” she said, then reached over to pull off the tit clamps. She pinched my tender nipples cruelly, teasing them until they were diamond cutters, crinkled all hard and yearning and desperate.
I felt a cold metal plug going into my ass, then Lucky’s fingers lightly stroking my cunt from my cock to my hole, leaving me twitching, my clit engorged and slippery. She started fucking my cunt deliberately, adding fingers one after the other. First just one delicate forefinger, then two fingers barely filling me, then three curved digits, my cunt pulsing and pleading, then four fingers as my cunt grabbed her hand begging for the remainder. “Please fuck me…oh god, I need you! Sir!”
Then Lucky’s hand slid into me, my flesh opening up for her, the most tender cave. Lucky’s fist twisted inside me, as my cunt caught fire, everything gripping and contracting and holding. Me holding her with my cunt muscles as I fucked her back, her words spilling over my back. “Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!” Lucky shouted, and I came with a deluge of salty come spraying over and over and over, pumping out come as if it would never run out. My ears were buzzing and I was shaking, but I
could hear Lucky very faintly. She shouted triumphantly, “Yes!” as we came together. Lucky unfastened the cuffs, then we collapsed in each other’s arms in giggling exhaustion.
We snuggled, Lucky nibbling on the fancy-schmancy chocolate I’d put in my bedside table drawer for her and me soothing my raspy throat with gulps of ice water. As we were drifting off to sleep, Lucky asked me if Francy slept with me in the bed. Just then, there was a soft thud, and Francy leapt onto the covers, carefully arranging herself in a furry ball between our knees for the night.
We spent the weekend undressed, spittle and come flying, taking breaks only for quick meals on the lam and hot showers. Sunday evening found me tender, striped, marked, and bruised. We had not left the apartment once. We did not wander in the tiny urban park a quarter block from my apartment, we did not step out for coffee and chai at Ritual Coffee, I did not meet Tov for our regular Sunday midafter-noon writing date at Café Flore, and Lucky missed her Sunday early evening meditation at Rainbow Retreat with her best friend, Poppy. Sunday at 7:00 p.m. found me laying out my dress shirts for the week, setting up the ironing board in the living room, and fetching my shoes and shoe-care kit. It felt like a fairy tale. The weekend shimmered phantasm-like. I needed to be alone. Some of my desire for solitude was due to being overwhelmed at the intensity of our sexual and emotional connection, but some was due to my age and habits. I needed space to settle. Lucky seemed more inclined to linger past the magic witching hour of Sunday night preparations for the work week, and I hoped that I wasn’t hurting her feelings by shooing her out of the apartment.
As I ironed my shirts for the week I brooded. I pressed my aqua-and-brown-striped button-down shirt thinking of the limitations and quality of time. Was I able to be Lucky’s friend? Her confidant? Fucking was easy with Lucky, and through fucking and play we built intimacy. I was sixty. My rose-patterned Liberty shirt started me mulling about time. How much time did I have left? The older you get, the faster the finish line speeds toward you. While starching my purple-checked shirt, I contemplated expanding our emotional and intellectual intimacy. Did I want it, and for that matter, was I capable of it? Maybe I was like the fellow in the Adult Children of Alcoholics meeting lead that I heard thirty years ago. He said that he had a point with intimacy that he was incapable of traveling beyond. In each relationship he would pull out his troupe of intimacy tricks, with the relationship staggering along until he ran out of tricks. Then the relationship would peter away sadly. Was that me? By the time I’d reached my white oxford shirt, I wondered. Was I stunted, doomed to repeat each relationship Groundhog Day–like, until I keeled over, lonely and unloved? The dramatic, depressive temperament of the artist. I guessed we might as well find out.
Behrouz Gets Lucky Page 4