|
|
|
Phyllis blinks at you. “’Shanti’” he says with a tone of surprise in his voice, “fancy seeing you at my front door.”
“I’ve been driving around all day. I need a place to stay for a little while.” You wish you didn’t feel so glad to see him. You tell yourself it’s merely because this is a safe haven, but you can feel your dick getting thick.
“Come on in.” He stands aside and opens the door wide. “Are you hungry? I don’t have any lamb stew left, but I’m sure I can find something.” He is wearing loose jeans and a baggy grey sweatshirt. He is barefoot, and his toenails are pink having had the red lacquer removed. He gives a whole new meaning to being barefoot in the kitchen.
“I can pay you,” you say. You want to keep it strictly business.
“I’m not a prostitute. I will give it to you for free.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about, and that’s not why I’m here.”
“But you are here none the less.” He bats his eyes at you. “And so soon at that. What has it been? Three days?”
He leads you to the kitchen. You sit in the same chair as before.
“The police are after me for a murder I didn’t commit.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“But this time it’s true.”
“They all say that, too.”
Phyllis bends over to check the lower shelves of the refrigerator. After a moment, he says, “I can fix you an omelet.” He slides his hand into his rear pocket, then takes it out and pats himself on the ass. He stands up and faces you, “Interested?”
“I’m not interested in your ass,” you answer.
“I meant the omelet, silly. I already know your feelings about my ass.”
“Thanks, an omelet would be nice.”
He breaks three eggs in a bowl, and begins to beat them. “So who got killed?” he asks.
You tell him.
“How was he killed?”
You tell him that, too.
“Do you know who’s working the case?” He puts some oil in a skillet and lights a flame under it.
“Detective Middleman,” you answer.
“Arnold Middleman?”
“Yeah, Arnie,” you say. “Do you know him?”
“I know of him.”
“How?”
“I work at the police station in your district.” He pours the eggs into the skillet.
“Doing what?” You can hear the surprise in your own voice.
“I’m a clerk for one of the judges over there.” He sprinkles some grated cheese into the skillet. He turns the omelet once, then twice, then folds it and slides it onto a waiting plate. After placing it before you, he fetches some silverware, and toasts some dark brown bread. He butters it and walks around next to you. He accidentally-on-purpose brushes his hip against your shoulder, and places the toast on your plate next to the eggs. You imagine you can smell the oil he uses, and the thickness in your pants grows. Maybe you’re not imagining it. He moves back around the table and sits down.
“So what do you know about this Middleman?” you ask. You stuff a forkful of eggs into your mouth, and bite a corner of toast. You can feel yourself forcing your eyes to focus on your plate. You don’t want him to see you staring at him.
“Not a lot,” he answers, “but he has a reputation for being thorough.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning if he arrests you, you’ll probably be convicted. He’s lost a few, but not many”
“Thanks a lot,” you say. Suddenly, the eggs don’t taste as good as they did. You didn’t like the little creep to begin with, and you like him even less now.
“Wait a minute,” he says standing up abruptly. “There was an article about him in the Times not long ago which I saved. I’ll get it.” He leaves the room.
By the time he returns, you are finished eating. It is immediately clear what took him so long. The jeans and sweatshirt are gone. He’s wearing a loose-fitting, mid-thigh length yellow dress with short bloused sleeves. He walks right over next to you and, lifting the skirt up just high enough for you to see that he isn’t wearing any underwear, sits his bare behind on the table. He crosses his legs, and arranges the skirt neatly over his thighs. He gives you the article. You can smell that he has just taken a shower. It is all you can do to contain your excitement, but you don’t want him to know. In fact, you wish it were not true that you even feel excitement. In fact, it pisses you off. Men don’t fuck other men, at least not by choice. And you catch yourself wondering if these were the kind of thoughts Reggie had. Was he conflicted in the same way? Is it possible that he had more trouble fucking you than you had getting fucked? For you, the issue was simple. You were doing it to protect you sister. You had no choice. But he did. He controlled everything.
The article is short, and it’s not about Middleman at all. It’s about an increase in the number of claims of police brutality against the police department in recent months. Middleman is merely quoted a couple of times defending the department’s record.
“Interesting,” you say.
Phyllis takes the article from you and puts it on the table, then places your hand on his knee. “How so?” he asks.
You rub his knee gently, then you rub his thigh like you would rub a woman’s. Now you have the choice. You don’t have to do this. His leg feels like a woman’s, soft and smooth, not hard and hairy like a man’s. “Maybe surprising is a better word. It’s surprising that you would have saved this article.”
“It’s not all that surprising,” he says. “The big bazooka used to live here until last week.”
You pull your hand away. “I thought you said you knew of him.”
“That too,” he says, putting your hand back on his knee. “In fact, his gun is still here, upstairs in a little safe he bought. He thinks I don’t know the combination.”
“I need to be somewhere where he can’t find me,” you say pulling your hand away again.
“And this is it,” he says putting your hand onto his knee again.
“This is not it,” you say. You stand up and walk to the other side of the kitchen. “One call from you and I’m toast.”
“Why would I make that call?”
“I don’t know, maybe to get back in good with the big bazooka.”
“I’m the one who ended it.”
“Ok,” you say, “then he might come stalking around here trying to get his woman back.”
“In that relationship, he was the woman. And he knows better than to come sneaking around here like some love struck schoolgirl.” For just a moment reflecting on his relationship with Middleman, he slips out of character. His voice is a man’s again. Then he slips back in. “I wanted to be the woman, so I broke it off, and I found you.” He bats his eyes at you. His lashes are long and dark. Certainly longer than Jean’s and maybe longer than Alice’s.
Looking away, you tell him, “There is no ‘Shanti and Phyllis.”
“But you’re here, and that’s what counts.”
“Listen,” you tell him, “I am using you. They came to arrest me today, and I had to get out of my apartment fast. I’m here because this is the only place I know that I can go that nobody I know knows about. So let’s not fool ourselves. I hate that I have to trust you, but I don’t see that I have a choice. My only hope is that you like my dick enough to not call Middleman until I have figured out what I should do next.” Shit! You hadn’t meant to offer up your dick. Was that some kind of Freudian slip? Poking a hole in the scrim for this ridiculous act?
“Sex for room and board?” he asks.
“You got it. There is no love here, and like I said before, I don’t do mama.” What? Was denying love and not doing mama supposed to clean up for wanting to stick your dick in his ass? You sounded like Reggie calling you the faggot in order to cover up his own lust for a young boy.
“Ok,” he says, “but I want it on demand. I will do all the shopping and cooking so you won’t have to go out unless you want to.”
“Like any other woman.”
“Like any other woman. Do we have a deal?”
It worked. He doesn’t know that you can’t wait to poke him. He thinks you’re cutting a business deal. Now if you could just convince yourself.
“Do we have a deal?” he asks again.
“Yes,” you answer, “we have a deal.”
“Good,” he says, then he swivels his behind across to a corner of the table next to you. He lies all the way back pulling his dress up around his waist. He hikes his knees as close to his chest as he can get them, and opens them as wide as he can get them. His butt is right at the edge of the table. The oil on his rectum shines in the light from the ceiling. He looks at you standing two feet away looking at his bottom. “What are you waiting for?” he asks. “It’s time to consummate the contract.”
He looks so small lying there, so fragile. This time, it wasn’t your imagination. You did smell the oil. You unzip your pants and let them drop to the floor. You fondle yourself in order to cover up the fact that your dick was already hard. Then you move to the corner of the table and rub the head of your dick across his rectum a couple of times. His breath quickens. So does yours, but you conceal it. You play it off. Finally, rising up on your tiptoes for better leverage, you push it in as far as it will go.
He grips the edge of the table to keep himself from sliding away. You begin rocking inside him to a slow cadence and he rocks his butt up and down to match you. To support your weight as you cantilever forward, you rest your palms on the edge of the table next to his hands. Feeling the closeness, he moves his grip from the table to your wrists, caressing them at first, then gripping them with surprising strength.
You remember the picture in his bedroom of him staring up at his mother who is looking sternly at the camera. He has that same look in his eyes now looking up at you.
You pull and push into him non-stop. You feel your body begin to glow with sweat. His face and neck and shoulders are becoming moist as well.
“Are you near coming, yet?” you ask.
“I’m trying to make you come,” he says.
“This isn’t for me,” you counter, “it’s for you.”
You stop and stand up. He loosens the grip on you wrists. You slide your dick out slowly, and Phyllis sits up on the side of the table. You pull out a chair and sit down. Your dick is soft by now. Phyllis scoots off the table and moves to the sink where he wets a piece of paper towel and begins cleaning his ass.
“I won’t always come,” you say.
“You were holding back.”
“So what if I was?”
“Yeah,” he says, “so what if you were?” He throws the paper towel into the garbage, and sits in a chair across from you. He tilts his pelvis a little to one side to keep his weight off his rectum.
“So now what?” you ask, your pants still around you ankles. Before he can answer, you remember that you haven’t talked to Jean since leaving the building this morning. “I need to make a phone call,” you say.
“Don’t call anyone you know from here on the land line,” he says, “they might have caller ID and be able to trace you here.”
“Good point,” you say, “I’ll call from a public phone.” You reach for your pants.
He passes you his cell phone. “Just use this.”
 |  |  |
|
|
|