Midtown Masters

by Cara McKenna

  “Can you hear my eyes rolling?”

  A wistful sigh. “You really did it, Suze.”

  “I know. Can you believe it? I never would have seen that coming when we started camming. I feel like you should get to fuck somebody else, now. To make it fair.”

  “Oh, I plan to. Or rather I plan to get fucked, and hopefully soon.”

  It took her a moment to unpack those words. “You mean by John.”

  “I certainly do. Unless you have a compelling reason why I shouldn’t, provided he does his homework, watches that sample. You two haven’t gone and gotten engaged, have you? Sworn yourselves to ironclad fidelity?”

  “No, of course not. And if he wants to take this education as far as it goes, I damn well want to be there to see it go down.”

  “Thank Christ.”

  “But don’t get your hopes up too high.”

  “Why not? What did he say?”

  “Nothing. You’re just asking a lot of a man who basically lost his virginity this morning. Temper your expectations.”

  “You’re giving my dick a sad.”

  “It’ll live. I promise I’ll take the temperature of the situation the next time we talk.”

  “You better. I’ve already credited his account the cost of the video and messaged him the link.”

  She laughed. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you so eager. Or so organized.”

  “I suppose I’ll just have to admit that I’m no longer immune to Miss Lindsay’s beguiling ways.”

  Suzy sipped the coffee. “Since you discovered she’s got a cock, you mean.”

  “Precisely. And a lovely one it is.”

  “I have to go, Mey. I’ve got a million things to do before tonight’s performance. See you at eight thirty.”

  “See you then.”

  Though she had no doubt it would be John she was seeing in her mind’s eye as they fucked, no matter who was issuing the orders.

  She set down her phone, watched the passing traffic, and realized that for the first time since they started this venture, it might just start feeling like a job.

  “Jeez. That ain’t good.”

  ***

  “Yeah. Fuck me.”

  John sat before his computer, mesmerized by the scene unfolding before him. The sample he’d been ordered by Meyer to watch. That had been Saturday. It had taken him until the following Tuesday to summon the nerve.

  “Deeper.” A long, animal moan.

  Meyer’s face was closest to the camera, his expression nothing short of hypnotic in its intensity. He looked pained, exquisitely so, and his hand fisted the covers at his chin. Over his shoulder you could see the long expanse of his torso and the swell of his buttocks, his body jolting with every thrust.

  He was naked; Suzy wasn’t. John was halfway through the forty-minute video, and while Meyer had been stripped bare, Suzy still wore a camisole and her bra. Her jeans were gone, panties too, the latter replaced by a black harness, a strap-on. The dildo was black as well, and fairly long, fairly thick, though not as big as Meyer on either count.

  John stared in wonder at what he could see of the action, though this camera angle was more about showcasing Meyer’s pleasure than the penetration. That had come earlier—the explicit moments as she lubed him, fingered him, worked the dildo in slow and steady. What remained of the baser action was the steady flex of Suzy’s hips, the impact on Meyer’s flesh, the odd glimpse of gleaming black when she drew back.

  John had never witnessed anything like this before. He’d watched a little bit of gay porn in his near-forty years—furtively—but never pegging. He hadn’t even known what that term meant until he’d first found their site and seen the title of that clip, and Googled it.

  As he’d hit PLAY tonight he’d been more anxious than aroused. But even though it was kinky, and even though gender norms were flipped inside out, even though the sex was darker and rougher and meaner than anything John had ever requested of them, the affection between the two still shone through.

  It wasn’t like porn, where strangers went from zero to anal with no apparent preparation. Suzy had gotten Meyer ready as part of the foreplay, making it as erotic and intense and intimate as the moment of first penetration.

  It had taught John more about male-on-male sex than gay porn had.

  But could I do that? That was the big question. Could he be Suzy, in this equation?

  I couldn’t be that rough. She wasn’t brutalizing him, but John simply didn’t know if he had it in him to do those things. It’d be a lie to say it didn’t intrigue and excite him, but still . . .

  But still, it didn’t stop him from watching the entire video, or from going back and watching Meyer come again, flat on his back with Suzy pumping between his spread legs and his own racing hand on his cock.

  And it didn’t stop John from mentally replaying exactly those moments half an hour later when he lay down on his own bed and quenched his restless body.

  ***

  It had taken John three days to watch the clip, and it took another three to do anything about it. But on Friday morning just after eleven, he dialed Suzy. He only suffered two nervous rings before—

  “John! Hey, how are you?” She sounded genuinely excited to hear his answer, and indeed to have seen his name on her phone. That steeled him some.

  “I’m well,” he said. “How have you been?”

  “Honestly? I’ve had a bit of a sexual hangover since last weekend, but I guess I’m fine, besides that.”

  He flushed with pleasure. “Color me flattered.” Flattered, as it turned out, was a blinding shade of pink.

  “Not to sound weird or patronizing,” she said, “but how’ve you been, since it all went down? Not traumatized, I hope?”

  “Not at all. I, um . . . I don’t know exactly how to say it without sounding like an idiot, but I feel rather . . . transformed. Awakened, silly as that sounds.”

  “No regrets, then?”

  “None whatsoever. I’m actually rather proud of myself, for just letting go and getting swept up in everything. I’m not the sort of man who’s typically ripe for sweeping, so . . .”

  She laughed. “Happy to have done some of that sweeping, then.”

  “I was really just calling to say thank you. And to maybe ask if Tuesdays were still free, if it’s not too strange, now.”

  “Strange?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. All I do know is that I’m not famous for my grasp of everyday social nuances, to say nothing of the etiquette when one goes from client to . . . well, to an actual lover, I suppose. I mean, I’d pay you, the same as always. But . . . Oh hell, I don’t know. I’m probably just being circumspect. Overly so.”

  “You are,” she said warmly, “but it’s appreciated. And we’d be happy to have you back.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it.”

  “It’d be a zillion times hotter, actually,” she went on, and there was noise in the background, the chink of a cup or bowl, a soft clatter—the sounds of dishes being put away, he guessed. “We’ve only cammed for Lindsay, after all. Never John. And while the mystery was exciting, the history’s not without its own allure. Pardon the rhyme.”

  “Good.”

  “But listen, John. Meyer and I were talking. What would you think about us coming to visit you?”

  He blinked. “Visit me?”

  “You came to Pittsburgh. We could come to you. To pick up where we left off? And not for money, to put a fine point on it. Just like last weekend. No pressure, and no rush, either. It’s an open invitation.”

  “Goodness, I . . .” He wanted to scream YES YES YES into the phone but held back. This wasn’t an invitation to be pounced upon without some thought, surely. Or was it? Hell, he had no idea. He couldn’t even say if the sweat prickling beneath his arms was from excitement or anxiety.


  “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Even if we did meet again, it seems silly for the both of you to travel all that way. I was in town for work, after all. Plus I suspect my job is more flexible. Eight hours on a train is just eight hours of writing, for me. Whereas you two have schedules.” You two have lives, he clarified in his head.

  “I guess, but that doesn’t really matter. We can make time.”

  “No, no. If we do, let me come to Pittsburgh again. Honestly, it’s no trouble. I could write the trip off as research, anyway, provided I spend a few hours wandering around the locales I mention in the book.”

  “Jeez, if you insist—sure, that’d be great. We always take Saturdays off, and Sunday mornings, so just name your weekend.”

  “Let me think it over and get back to you in the next few days.”

  A strange sensation was swirling in John’s chest, something dizzying, at once alarming and delightful. He imagined this must be what it felt like, after one took the person of their dreams on a perfect date, and shared a film-worthy kiss on their front steps. This was how one would feel as the door softly shut and they began their stroll down the sidewalk in the moonlight, feet light, head fuzzy. This was hope mixed with champagne, injected straight into the heart.

  “I’ll cook us dinner at my place,” Suzy announced. “The Parkses’ room aside, my apartment’s not much to write home about, but I haven’t done a dinner party in ages. I cook a mean bibimbap.”

  “I’m not sure what that is.”

  “It’s my mom’s recipe. Don’t worry, it’s not crazy. Basically stir-fry with an egg on top. And I’m sure Meyer will bring some ridiculously overpriced bottle of Scotch just so he can watch you enjoy it.”

  John frowned. “Is that wise?”

  “Hard to say. His relationship with alcohol is still kinda dysfunctional. I harangued him a lot about it when we were dating, but I’ve backed off, since. He doesn’t hear any of it, and it’s pretty maddening. I try not to overthink it, but I know it’s fucked-up.”

  “I don’t mean to judge.”

  “Don’t worry about it. If I had the energy to get wound up about it, I would, but for now I’m just crossing my fingers and letting Meyer be Meyer.”

  “Fair enough.” Something that John had been wondering—if not quite worrying about—nagged afresh. “Have you two spoken much since Saturday night?”

  “Yeah. About what happened, you mean?”

  “I suppose.”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “I . . . He asked me to watch that video. And I did. Does he mean what he intimated, about wanting . . . Wanting me to . . .”

  “To fuck him?” Suzy supplied, a smile in her voice.

  “Yes.”

  “He wants that, for sure. But that doesn’t mean it has to happen, or even that he expects it would. Meyer’s more intuitive than he seems, and he knows you, in a way. He knows you’re not the type to push too hard, because of your experiences with sex, and just because of how you are. Your personality. He won’t hesitate to tell you what he wants, but that doesn’t mean he assumes you’re going to say yes.”

  “He can be awfully . . . forthright. I wasn’t sure if he was just used to people doing his bidding.”

  “I get that,” she said. “That’s Meyer. He’s a button-pusher. But at the end of the day, it’s you he wants dominating him. Which leaves the ball entirely in your court.”

  Hearing her phrase it like that had a new set of anxieties tugging at John’s nerves. “I wouldn’t have the first clue how to dominate anyone.”

  “Maybe that’s not the best wording . . . Have you heard the term ‘topping from the bottom’?”

  “No.”

  “Meyer’s the world’s foremost expert at it. It means when the person who’s the bottom in a sexual encounter—the one being penetrated, typically—is the one in charge, issuing the orders.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s a BDSM term. It’s kind of thorny, but it basically means that the roles are inverted. Like, usually you’d expect the top to be the one orchestrating everything, but not always. Anyhow, that’s very Meyer. He’ll go full-on submissive if a client asks for it or that’s the mood he’s in—all obedient, even cowering. But most of the time he stays pushy. Like when he went down on you. He was being a very toppy bottom, there.”

  “Thank you for the vocabulary lesson . . . ‘Pushy’ isn’t exactly how I would have described the way he spoke to me that night. ‘Pushy’ would imply I didn’t enjoy it. Perhaps ‘provocative’ is a better fit.”

  “Yeah, that’s a good distinction.” A pause, then, “You said you enjoyed it.”

  “I did. I mean, in the moment it was a little frightening, but not in a bad way. Like being strapped into a roller coaster. Scary, but the kind of scary you sign up for. And, if I can be completely honest . . .”

  “Always.”

  “That was what I’ve replayed the most, since that night. The things he said to me.”

  “Well, just know this: Whether you fuck him or not doesn’t matter. He just wants more. More of the same, more of whatever you’re up for. More of you, that’s what he’s after.”

  John rubbed his chest, feeling a fever blossoming there. “That’s very flattering.”

  “You think you want the same?”

  He spoke the truth. “Yes. I do.”

  “All right, then.”

  “I want more of you as well, of course. I’ve thought about Friday night and Sunday morning a thousand times apiece since it all happened. I suppose I want more of both of you, though it sounds so greedy to say it.”

  She laughed, the noise crisp and sweet and kind, even across the cellular divide. “Never. That’s exactly what I was hoping to hear.”

  “I won’t lie, though—I’m in over my head. I never imagined I’d ever actually be with a man. That is, I’m not the type who’d appeal to gay men for casual sex. I don’t know what I’m doing, which probably isn’t much of a turn-on. And I doubt I’d appeal to a man for a relationship, when I’m not attracted to men romantically, and a relationship seems more like the context for learning how to do all those things. Being with someone patient, I suppose. I guess I just never pictured it as a possibility.”

  “Well, now it is.”

  “Yes. And with a man I find shockingly attractive, but who also scares me witless.”

  Another laugh. “He is a force of nature. I’m happy to hold your hand as you wade around in the shallow end, but Meyer doesn’t work that way. Like, I’ll teach you how to drive, but Meyer will carjack you.”

  He smiled. “My suspicions exactly.”

  “He’s good with boundaries, though. If you thought about what you’re up for and laid it out ahead of time, he’d respect it. I can’t guarantee that you wouldn’t still find it overwhelming, though—Meyer can make anything feel insanely filthy. Kissing, foot rubs, hell, just talking. Just making eye contact. It’ll be intense,” she said, “whatever it might be. Setting aside what you know he wants, if you imagined it happening, what do you think you’d be up for? Just hypothetically speaking.”

  “He wants me to . . . to fuck him,” John blurted, tripping on the sharp edges of that particular verb. But he believed in finding the best word to suit a purpose, and fuck was really the only one for the job. “That’s a lot.”

  “Of course.”

  “If he wanted to . . . to use his mouth on me again, I could handle that. That was very . . .” Erotic? Incendiary? Wholly life-altering? “Exciting. But there’s so much about actual sex that intimidates me. I don’t know how I’d fare with a condom on, with him. Plus, I mean, I had a hard time maintaining an erection when you were just touching me that first night, and I’d hate to not be able to keep one during that.” The fears were tumbling from his mouth, articulated so much more simply than they were in his head. She reall
y was a good psychologist.

  “And like you said,” John went on, “he won’t hold my hand the way you have. I’d be afraid that he’d get frustrated if I couldn’t deliver what he wants.”

  “Those are some legit concerns. The final one, though—not so much. I’m sure a good chunk of what has Meyer so hot for you is the fact that you need teaching. If you fumbled or needed lots of instruction, he’d be into that, not annoyed. So you can cross that one off your list.”

  John sighed, daunted by the menu it seemed was entirely his to curate. The invitation felt momentous.

  “There’s no gaming how it would actually be if it happened,” she said gently. “So try to put that out of your mind. All you really need to ponder is, ‘If I didn’t do this, would I regret it?’”

  He frowned. “That’s a very good point.” And a frightening one, as it seemed to edge him ever closer to accepting, officially.

  “Listen,” she said, “I have to get ready to go to my research job, but I’m so glad you called. Give it some thought, and if you decide you’re only up for watching us for the time being, like the old days, that’s totally fine. Just give us a day’s notice so we don’t give the Tuesday slot to somebody on the waitlist.”

  A little of that sparkly sensation in John’s chest dulled. Is that what had happened, the past two Tuesdays, since he’d first cut and run? Someone else had been with them, on his night? He shoved the sour feeling aside. I ought to be grateful. I’m experiencing a jealousy one only gets to feel when there are lovers involved. Three lovers, come to that. It was extraordinary that this was even his life.

  “Sounds good,” he said.

  “And if you decide you do want to meet up again, awesome. Just let us know which weekend and we’ll get busy counting down the minutes.”

  He smiled, a huge, doofusy grin he was glad she couldn’t see. “I will.”

  “Great. I’m so glad you called. Enjoy the rest of your day, okay? I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “Have a nice afternoon, Suzy. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  John didn’t hang up, but watched his phone’s screen until the green circle turned red and the words Call Ended blinked. The device went black, and he set it aside. He was so full of feelings he felt bolted to the chair, a hundred things to process and no clue how to start.