Stolen Moments (6 page)

*

Non, je ne regrette rien.
I hummed the old Edith Piaf number as I drove my Land Rover into its bay in the underground car park at HQ and stepped out, grabbing my portfolio.

“Hey, Kim, how did it go?” Jack waved to me as he threw his briefcase into his Merc. I had caught him just before he left for the board meeting. What a bonus.

“Success. They went for the whole campaign, Web slots and all.” It was a massive contract for the company, my best work to date.

“Excellent. I knew you’d pull it off. That pay raise of yours is secure.”

He saluted as he climbed into the car, then stuck his head out of the window. “And you be sure you take yourself a good lunch break. You deserve it!”

I smiled to myself as I headed for the lift.
Too right, honey.
I had just enjoyed the best lunch break I’d ever had, and with a pay raise in the offing, I could afford to visit Kilpatrick’s for lunch more often, just as Martine had suggested I should. Now, how was that for staff motivation?

“Honey, let’s go in drag tonight.”

I looked up from the newspaper and tried to suppress a grin. Shelby is a femme. Not ultra-ultra-femme—no super-long nails or heavy-duty make-up, but she doesn’t leave the house without eyeliner, either. Plus, she’s small. Okay,
petite.
Her head comes to my chest. But she’s perfectly built—every part of her—from her pert, high breasts to her nicely rounded, squeezable ass. But no one, nohow, would take her for a guy. Not even with a twelve-inch dick. “Sure, baby, but we only brought one dick.”

It’s tough packing toys when you travel, and the security people at the airport in Provincetown check
everything.
But then I guess they’ve
seen
everything, too, and there’s no way I was going on vacation without my equipment. Still, I couldn’t bring a complete complement either, so we both wouldn’t be able to dress in full gear.

Shel’s lush pink lips parted, her tongue peeked out as she ran it lightly over the velvet surface, and my mind turned to oatmeal. “We only
need
one. For me.”

I got hold of myself and dragged my thoughts away from what she could do with that tongue. “Huh? What am
I
going to wear, then?”

“This,” she replied sweetly as she held up a tiny swatch of leather.

I paled. “That’s a skirt.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s yours.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I can’t wear
that.
” I started to sweat. I started to look for the exit. I was in boxers and nothing else. I couldn’t run.

“You might be taller, but your hips aren’t that much bigger than mine. It will just be a little short.”

“A
little?
” God help me, I actually squeaked. Just the thought of the skirt was making my clit shrink. “That won’t even cover my crotch!”

“This will.”

She held up a black satin thong, and my clit fell clean off.

“Oh no—no fucking way.”

“Please, honey?”

Not fair. Not fair, not fair, not fair.

“Then we’ll
both
be in drag,” Shel pointed out, twirling the thong around her index finger. “It
is
drag bingo, after all.”

Ordinarily, Shelby within twenty feet of a thong makes me want to start at her toes and lick my way to the top of her head, but today all I could think about was how much that tiny triangle
didn’t
cover. Especially on me.

“We don’t have any drag clothes that will fit you. My jackets are all too big.” I tried a different tack. Shel was very particular about her clothes.

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll manage something.” She leaned over the sofa, cupped my crotch, and resurrected my clit as she squeezed. “Didn’t fall off, now, did it?”

“Ha ha,” I muttered as she stuck her warm tongue in my mouth. It was a few minutes before I thought about much of anything except how clever her fingers were. When she stopped doing that wonderful up and down, round and round thing she was doing with her thumb, I groaned in protest. “Hey—what—?”

“Later, honey.” She gave me another little tug and kissed the tip of my nose. My clit gave a little jump right back. “I have to get dressed. And so do you.”

That effectively killed my healthy, happy hard-on once and for all.

I dawdled. I balked. I downright stonewalled. Okay, okay—I mostly sulked. I showered but then I refused to get dressed. Shelby ignored me as I sat on the foot of the bed staring at the floor, naked, immobile—a pathetic rendition of the Thinker facing a firing squad.

“What do you think?” Shel asked softly.

I turned my head and found myself eye to eye with a pair of black silk boxers that tented out suggestively over the gently bobbing dick inside. Now I have to tell you, I think wearing a dick is about the sexiest feeling I’ve ever had—except, of course, fucking Shelby with one. But I’ve never particularly been interested in being on the receiving end. Fortunately, Shelby has never complained. So I’d never seen her strapped before. I couldn’t take my eyes off her smooth, tanned belly encircled by the broad waistband of the boxers and the jutting prominence below. She is such a girl in every way, and I wouldn’t have believed how hot she’d look with all that girl power dancing inches from my face.

“Jesus,” I breathed in awe.

She made a little sound like a contented purr. And then she reached down and wrapped her dainty fist around the silk-sheathed cock and gave it a little shake. My mouth dropped open and my clit stood at attention.

“Does it always make you horny right away when you put it on?” she asked a little dreamily.

“Usually, yeah,” I muttered, watching her hand action speed up a little bit. “Baby?”

“Hmm?”

“If you want to jerk off with that, come a little closer and I’ll help.”

“Oh no.” She laughed knowingly, giving the dick one final tug before letting go. “You just want to distract me so we miss bingo.”

“That was the furthest thing from my mind,” I protested. It was true, too. In that moment, all I could think about was holding on to her ass and putting her dick in my mouth.
In my mouth? Jesus Christ. What’s happening to me?

“Come on, honey. Stand up. Let me dress you.”

My brain was still a bit addled, and without thinking, I complied. The next thing I knew, I was wearing a sleeveless mesh top that was so tight my nipples nearly protruded through the tiny holes, the black satin thong that barely kept my clit covered, and the leather skirt that hit right at the bottom of my butt cheeks. I don’t know why she bothered to put me into clothes at all. I took one look in the mirror and almost fainted.

“I can’t go out like this.”

“Sure you can. I promise your butch credentials will not be revoked.”

I turned, ready to take a stand, and got a good look at her as she buckled a thin black belt around her waist. She’d gone for the simple
GQ
look, and it worked perfectly on her. She wore an open-collared black silk shirt tucked into tailored black trousers with dress shoes and the belt. She’d slicked back her short blond hair and wore no make-up. She resembled an androgynous Calvin Klein model, the ones that I always feel a little bit guilty about staring at. I glanced down. She looked like a handsome young man with a very substantial hard-on.
Oh baby.

“You gonna walk around town like that?” I felt myself getting wet. This was so confusing.

“Why not?” She gave her hips a tiny bump. “You do.”

“Well, yeah, but that’s different.”

She stepped closer, cupped my jaw, and stood on her tiptoes to kiss me. When she leaned against me, I felt the firm press of her dick against my thigh. Now I was wet
and
hard. I put my hands on her waist and moved to turn her toward the bed. To my astonishment, she pushed me gently away.

“Uh-uh. No touching.”

“Oh, come on, baby. Let’s just stay home.”

“Nope.” She slid a slim leather wallet into her back pocket and buttoned it. Then she held out her hand and gave me that smile that I’ve never been able to resist. “Come on, honey. Time to go to drag bingo.”

We stood in line along with half the population of Provincetown to get through the white picket fence and onto the grass-covered front lawn of the Unitarian Universalist Church where dozens of metal folding tables had been set up for one of the highlights of Carnival week. Drag bingo. The space was crowded with tourists and townspeople, drag queens, and here and there, a drag king. It was a party atmosphere, and everyone was taking pictures of everyone else. We wended our way toward a free table, carrying our fat color markers and our stack of bingo cards.

I would have felt self-conscious in my less-than-flattering outfit, except no one was paying any attention to me. The drag queens were so flamboyant, so outrageously wonderful, that all eyes were on them. Except for the dykes who were unabashedly eyeing my girlfriend. I had a wholly unfamiliar urge to start scratching eyes out.
Scratching eyes out? Who the hell am I?

“Can’t you strap that thing down?” I said in an irritated whisper after the third time I spied some sexy femme staring at Shelby’s crotch.

“It’s as down as it’s going to get,” she said with a grin. “You ought to know.”

“Well,
I
never get cruised the way you are when I’m packing it.”

She gave me a fiery look. “Oh yes, you do. You just don’t know how to stake out your territory. It’s a girl thing.”

“Then sit down,” I hissed, indicating one of the few free seats left, “and hide that before I have to hurt someone.”

“I was wondering,” she whispered, leaning close as I took the seat next to her, “if it always makes you want to come in your pants really bad, too.”

I groaned. I would have banged my head on the table, but they were starting to call out the first of the bingo numbers, and everyone around me was in a frenzy to mark their cards. You didn’t interfere with some of these people at bingo, not and keep your body parts.

It’s not easy to sit very long in a skirt, I discovered. I tried crossing my legs, but my feet went numb. If I didn’t cross my legs, I forgot to keep my knees together, and although I welcomed the breeze, I was afraid that I’d be advertising to all and sundry exactly the state I was in. Which, considering the fact that every few minutes, Shelby would run her fingers up the inside of my thigh underneath the table, was one of terminal arousal bordering on coming in my seat. When she casually picked up my left hand, moved it under the table and into her lap, and pressed it against the bulge in her trousers, I almost did.

“You’re driving me crazy,” I growled into her ear. “I’m going to the bathroom to stick my head under the cold-water faucet.”

She laughed as I walked away.

I passed by the long lines for the Porta-Johns outside the church and walked around to the side entrance. Having been to more than one show in the church auditorium, I knew there was another small bathroom just inside. Fortunately, not many other people thought of it, and the line was short. Two of the three stalls were occupied, and as I stepped into the third—the farthest from the door—I felt a hand against my back and another person crowded in behind me.

“Shh,” Shelby whispered before I could say anything.

I couldn’t even turn around, we were pressed so close together, her behind me and my knees nearly up against the toilet. When she gave my shoulders a gentle shove, I reflexively reached out with both hands and braced myself against the wall in front of me. It’s a good thing I did, because a second later she slipped her hand under the back of my skirt and between my legs, and my knees nearly gave out. For the first time, I appreciated the ingenious nature of a thong. With a practiced flick of her thumb, she swept the material aside and slid her fingertips between my labia.

I heard her groan as I drenched her hand, and I had to bite my lip to hold back a cry of my own. I think I mentioned how good she is with her hands, and I was already pushing my hips back and forth in an attempt to rub my clitoris against her fingers. I’d been so turned on for so long, I knew I’d come in seconds. To my surprise, she pulled away before I could get there. Then I heard it, and my heart stopped.

The unmistakable sound of a zipper slowly sliding open.

When I moved to turn around, she cupped the back of my neck in her hand to stop me with a whisper. “No.”

Off balance, still braced against the wall, I had no room to do anything but wait. I felt as if my whole body was waiting, waiting to be touched, waiting to be filled, waiting to be taken. It was wholly unfamiliar and completely natural. With the first brush of the smooth, cool length of her dick between my legs, my clit jerked and I tightened inside and all I wanted was for her to make me come. I pushed back again, this time against the fat, firm head, and felt it slip inside. I moaned. I couldn’t help it.

“Feels good, doesn’t it, honey?” she murmured in my ear, her breath hot and ragged.

I knew what she was feeling, the pressure against her clit from the base of the cock, the sweet power of being inside her woman, the need to give and take at the same time. I could only whimper and nod my head. I wanted more, but I was afraid. Afraid to be other than I have always thought myself to be; afraid to be not less, but more. She knew, and she helped me.