Penthouse (18 page)

We laugh. We’re connected, wired, alive again.

I stare at myself in the mirror and describe, in practical, minute detail, what I am wearing and precisely how and where he
is going to take me. His breathing changes dramatically. I know that he can see me now in his mind. Trembling, I’m instantly
wet. Dizzy as a junkie on the edge. Perched to glide in his lust.

I’m trussed and tied up into an absurdly expensive, leather-laced corset, mail-ordered from Amsterdam. My hair, piled high
into a loose Victorian twist, spills down my back with a single twist of a pearly comb. The corset is unforgiving. My waist
is mercilessly cinched so small that I can hardly breathe. Each shallow, measured breath makes my breasts (already squeezed
upward and beginning to swell) heave up and down. The slight pain spirals my senses upward onto a higher plane, intensifying
every erotic sensation. I’m too hyperalive in this outfit to feel anything but elemental lust. Tonight I’m his willing witch,
his personal whore, the love of his life.

“You’re watching me sashay across the room toward
you. I drop to my knees and kneel in front of you. Richard, you’re staring down into my exaggerated cleavage. You love it,
and want to sink your cock right in the middle, don’t you? Not yet, darling. First, I just have to sink my red lips into your
belly. I’m slowwwly peeling down your pants and oh, sweetheart—your skin’s so warm, my hands are cool on your skin. Where
are your hands, baby?”

I am whispering now.

“Open your pants, babee… there. Now, put your hand on your cock. Yes, yes. Tell me. Tell me what it looks like. Oh yessss,
I’m soaked, babee, yes, my cunt is aching for you. Squeeze my tits, babeee, oh yeeez, just…like that…”

I yelp loudly. “Oh god, I’m dying, u-n-l-a-c-e me nowwww!”

We are laughing hysterically. But in ten minutes I know that we will both be flat on the floor. Moaning, gushing oceans, hearing
only each other’s crazed climaxing.

Silently, we decide there is no longer an if, only a when. This can’t go on. We both know that he will eventually fill me
to overflowing. With his promise and his cock. With his lewd and heated cooing in my ear. With his surging sea of frothy silver
semen.

There is something ethereal, almost poetic, about cyberspace. A bullet-straight trip that begins on a dryly logical, high-tech
superhighway can lead one into the most exotic and erotic places. In cyberspace, I’m forever twenty-nine and my boobs are
monumental. Make a wish. The anonymity is intoxicating.

BY
C
AROL
Q
UEEN

D
ark, smoky bar. Ceiling a little lower, I think, than is legal. And a pair of gorgeous women peeling deliberately out of their
clothes, thrilled for once to have an audience of their own to dance for, not the usual males trying to mask their hopeless
lust with boredom. A packed house of women yell the dancers on, once in a while even reaching out to them with a proffered
dollar bill. Foxy as these girls are, it’s hard for me to stay in the here and now.

The little stripper reminds me of Maria—Maria, who stole my heart away on my very first day at Club Lust. This girl has dark
hair that tumbles in loose curls down her back, like Maria’s, and flawless tits, body worked out and tight, but not at all
like some of the too-skinny chicks who work the clubs. (Sometimes I can’t even enjoy the show for worrying about anorexia
or heroin.) Her face even resembles Maria’s. But she’s Maria in miniature, a foot shorter, must be a size 4. Maria was an
amazon, a perfect woman made larger than life.

On my first day at Club Lust, Maria hiked her wasabi-colored
spandex dress up over her ass and slowly spun round the brass pole, flashing flushed-pink pussy at all the men—and at me.
God, I thought, I’m gonna like this job.

Tonight her tiny look-alike swivels her hips and hikes her tight skirt up just that way. She’s dancing to “Cream,” maybe the
sexiest of sexy Prince songs. Maria loved that song. We even danced together to it once. What a dance.

“Cream,” Prince purrs through the club’s bass-heavy sound system, “Get on top.…”

Fred had called to give me some business. He knew all about my job at Club Lust because he was my accountant. In fact he was
the one to point out to me that my legitimate business write-offs included wigs, rubber dresses, lingerie—and condoms, if
I got into any mischief on the side.

“My birthday’s coming up,” he’d said on the phone, “and you know I always throw a big party. Well, this one’s my fortieth,
and I want something special, a girl-girl show—and I thought you might know someone you’d like to work with. Hey, it’s only
fair I should give you a shot at earning back some of the money you pay me for doing your taxes.”

That Fred—what a sweet guy. “Do I ever know someone!” I said. “A long, tall drink of water, Fred. I’ll get right back to you.”
I hung up and called Maria.

“It’s a special show,” I told her. “I mean, it’s his birthday, and he is my accountant. But he’s also like this big dyke trapped
in a man’s body. All his friends are lesbians. I don’t think I’ve ever known him to socialize with men. All the guests at
this party will be women. If you want to do this gig with me, we have to do it right. They’ll all be able to spot fake lesbo
action. They want the genuine article.”

Maria said she didn’t think we’d have a bit of trouble delivering the real thing.

“Great,” Fred said when I called him back. “A hundred and fifty bucks each, okay, and be here at nine on Saturday. I want
it to be a surprise, so come dressed like you’re guests.”

Maria and I pulled up at his hilltop home just before nine o’clock, dressed in pressed designer jeans and silk shirts, which
is what I figured most of Fred’s lesbian friends would be wearing. Whenever I ran into Fred and his pals at a club, the women
were well-groomed professionals. I supposed all the dyke accountants in town would be there, probably a lawyer or two or three,
and who knows who else. Not really the kind of women Maria or I socialized with, usually, but we could certainly dress the
part.

Sure enough, Fred gave us the thumbs-up when he answered the door. “We’ll do the show in about half an hour,” he whispered.
“Everybody ought to be here by then. Just go ahead and mingle. Leslie made a huge bowl of pasta primavera, help yourselves.”

Of the thirty women who were at the party, only Leslie—Fred’s roommate—was in on it. At twenty past, she led us into her room
so we could get ready. “Do you want any special music?” she asked, and I handed her that new Prince CD.

That was the first time I heard “Cream”—following Maria out of the bedroom when Leslie came to get us, watching that same
green dress Maria wore at work begin to hike itself up toward her ass cheeks.

Her walk was slinky, a slow stride that cocked her hips from side to side as she moved, and the movement itself— not her hands—brought
the skintight dress up her thighs. By the time we had moved to the center of Fred’s living room the bottom curve of her butt
showed, and I reached out for it just like I’d always wanted to do. Oh, what a
creamy, luscious ass. Day after day I watched Maria drive men to rock-hard distraction with that ass, and now my palms cupped
it like she was mine, all mine.

I used to have a hard time finding women to have sex with, especially casual sex. I knew lots of women had that problem, but
that didn’t make me happy about it. Then I started doing all-girl shows at Club Lust. We were practically all bisexual there,
and not just for the money. Even strippers who would never date other women outside the club thought the all-girl action shows
were a big perk.

As I pushed my hands under Maria’s clinging dress I reflected for a second on the splendid irony of it: Thirty pairs of lesbian
eyes watched me while I explored Maria’s magnificent ass. I would probably never be in a position to run my hands over any
of their asses; for one thing, as a bisexual woman, I often didn’t feel all that welcome in lesbian circles. And maybe if
Fred weren’t paying us a hundred and fifty bucks each to get to know each other better, Maria and I would have never had sex.
I certainly wouldn’t have been so bold as to grab her ass right away.

Nor to run my fingers up over the tight spandex to her breasts, just a little too large for my hands. Maria’s hands were on
me, too, touching, stroking. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Fred, looking pleased, so far. I was certainly pleased.
Nothing feels like a tight body under tight spandex.

Nor can I think of anything that compares with the feeling of being stared at by myriad eyes as I start to get turned on—it
made me aware of everything: my nipples going hard under her clever fingers, my own short skirt riding up my ass. Plus I had
a surprise under that skirt, and now Maria began to rub against me so she could feel it.

My hands tangled themselves up in that long, silky brown hair. Long, tall Maria brought her mouth down to mine—she had to
bend over to kiss me, just like a man would, and I had to tilt my head up. Prince’s voice cast a spell over me, and I pulled
her down to the floor. She knelt over me, skirt all the way up over her magnificent ass now, her legs spread wide, straddling
me. “Cream,” Prince sang, “get on top.” You would have thought Maria was starring in the video.

Very deliberately, in the exaggerated way of sex performers, she rubbed her pussy on my strapped-on cock. Now we did the dance
lying down, and it surprised me how quiet our audience was. At Club Lust this kind of action would have drawn hoots and cries
of appreciation. These women sat silently, regarding us with as much fascination, I think, as a crowd of men would have displayed,
but still as church mice.

Still, I had the best view in the place. I lay on my back, pumping my hips up slowly, trying to keep it sensuous. Hold off
on the lewd body movements until the crowd warms up, I thought—if it ever does. I could look right up Maria’s body, see her
up on her knees straddling me— “you’re wicked cute and baby you know it,” Prince sang to her, and I could almost hear the
way she would sassily concur: “Uh-huh.”

Undulating on top of me, she stroked me into real heat, running her hands up my belly and over my breasts and inching my skirt
up and up. Finally she revealed the strapped-on dildo. One brave woman yelled “Woo-hoo!” when she saw it. Too bad there weren’t
a few more cowgirls like her in the room.

I had a small tube of lubricant tucked in my clingy red top. Maria removed it, then worked the spandex up over
my head. She could really get at my breasts now, and did, while I arched back and began to breathe hard. Then she slicked
the dildo with lube and resumed rubbing her pussy against it, writhing now and, I could feel, almost catching her cunt on
it.

When she finally did rise up higher and position herself on it, her ass and pussy in full view of Fred and all his friends,
she winked at me before starting the slow slide on my cock. The weight of her body settling onto it rubbed its base against
my clit. And she threw her head back and began to fuck me.

“Mmmmm, Cream, get on top.…” Maria, fuck me good, honey. Make these power-suit girls wet between their legs while they try
to figure out whether it’s okay to howl. She had my tits in her hands and pumped herself on me so slowly I started to feel
dizzy. She let it go on for another song, and by the end of it I was bucking like a little pony, fucking the slick silicone
cock up into her while she, with big, slow humping motions, thrust down onto it. By the end of the second song she was arching
her torso over with each thrust down so that her hair fell over her face. With each upstroke she flipped it back.

As the third song began, she lifted off me, kneeling to one side so her ass was pointing right at the silent, staring crowd.
As she unbuckled my harness, she rotated that perfect butt in little circles, a move that, when she did it at Club Lust, sometimes
made men moan out loud. Here the silence only deepened—which I realized meant that all the women watching us, and Fred too,
were holding their breath simultaneously. Maria tossed the harness and dildo aside and then pulled me up, where—standing,
though a little weak-kneed—I felt her fingers push my skirt all the way up, leaving my pussy unobstructed. I spread my legs
for her, rested my hands on her shoulders for balance, and her tongue crept up to my clit and circled it relentlessly. Just
before the song’s last chorus I came. (It’s still a challenge to come standing up, but I’ve learned to do it; at Club Lust
the staging of the show didn’t always allow time to lie down. What was I supposed to do, miss the orgasm?) They never did
hoot and holler, the dykes, not until our performance was over. With the last bars of the song we bowed, holding hands, and
then slinked out just the way we came in, returning to Leslie’s bedroom—hearing shouts and applause follow us the whole way.

The little stripper can’t even take her G-string off tonight, because we’re in a public club. But she strips down to that,
and she and her dance partner caress each other, playfully tap each other’s pretty butt, and kiss—careful to look sexy without
getting the lipstick all smeared. Got to love those sex-industry femmes! Finally their song ends and they part, leaving the
stage one after the other. All the way off they’re still looking for tips and copped feels. It’s amazing how eager we are
for other women to do things that might get the men in the clubs a slap in the face. But stripping for women feels nothing
like stripping for men. You see the difference in their eyes, which gaze on us with such wonder—whoever puts on a show just
for women? No wonder they don’t know how to take it.

It’s been almost four years since we danced to “Cream.” Now shows for women aren’t quite so rare—but still, this club tonight
is a temple where the little beauty, this miniature Maria, dances with her sweet blond friend to prove we deserve to watch
someone hot, someone who’s intent on making us gasp, making us howl. And we do.

“I love that CD,” Maria had said as she tugged her dress, sweaty from the dance, over her chestnut hair. It
wasn’t very personal, but her sparkling eyes said a lot more.