Dress Pinks

By M. Christian

Excerpt from
Speaking Parts: Provocative Lesbian Erotica

The funny thing was that the day -- until about half an hour ago -- hadn't been half bad.

Rosy had gotten up at -- for her -- a respectable ten, and leapt into getting showered, and primped: good shampoo, excellent conditioner, moisturizer, gentle glides of the razor along her legs, practiced sweeps of her brush to give her black hair just the right amount of lift. After, she carefully crawled into what she called her dress pinks -- even though the whole outfit was just black and off-whites. Most of the time when she looked at the simple black, calf-high skirt, business-high heels, taupe hose, satin blouse, austere jacket with more than a little distaste -- but that morning she felt like she was getting ready for inspection, and barely suppress a snapped salute when she checked herself out in the mirror before heading out.

That afternoon Mr. Perez had actually liked the cover and layout treatments, going as far as to say "Bueno -- exactly what I was looking for!" What suggestions he'd made had even made a certain amount of sense, and wouldn't take more than an hour, maybe two, to tweak. After the meeting downtown at the offices of Si! magazine they'd all gone to dinner at Ploufs -- a couple of glasses of a gentle white wine and the handsome Latino businessman had even hit them up for working on some designs for Si!'s sister mag in Argentina.

Heading back to her car, weaving just a little bit from the good wine and the heady success, she smiled -- beamed, and congratulated herself on a job well done. Though, as usual, she couldn't help but wonder how much of her job well done had come from her talent as a graphic artist and how much had been the cool professionalism of her (metaphorically) three-piece business uniform.

Walking down the dark streets -- click, click, click on her not-too high, but high enough heels -- Rosy smiled: the rule was to usually imagine the audience in their underwear, but for her she always seemed to bring a springy sense of humor to her presentations, relishing in the ridiculous facade of her hose, heels and silk blouse when she'd created what Mr. Perez had gushed over wearing an old Glamour Pussiest-shirt and threadbare, but comfortable, panties.

After all, she thought as she wandered down Dore alley just after midnight, I'm in the business of images -- I'm naturally a canvas for a particularly effective one.

It was about that time -- turning from the narrow alley onto the larger river of Folsom -- that she realized she couldn't find her car.

In a blush of anger and embarrassment, she stood on the empty street and ran quickly through that she'd left in the battered old Cougar. Right there. Definitely right there -- she remembered the overflowing trash can, the Guardian newsrack, the lighting store (which was still very well lit) across the street -- it was definitely the corner: all that was missing was the car.

Luckily, Rosy's inventory didn't turn up a lot to be worried about -- except for the car itself: an old coat, a five year old Thomas Bros. map, an ashtray still overflowing from Louise's pack a day habit. If anything it was that damned disgusting ashtray that she suddenly longed for the most. Louise hadn't been the best girlfriend she'd had -- far from it, in fact, her pack-a-day had been just one of her whole parade of self-centered and more than a little repulsive personal habits -- but she'd been in Rosy's life for almost five years. Five years of toenail clippings in the bed, ancient dishes in the sink, moldy sandwiches in the fridge, and morning breath that could bring down light aircraft. But, still, Louise had been hers and she had been Louise's -- it wasn't a fancy, three-piece relationship, but it had been a smoking, fuming one. They had melted together, flowed through many a long weekend -- only crawling out of their heavily rolling orgasmic ocean when Rosy had been forced by 8:00AM to crawl into her dress pinks and wander off into the real world to earn their living.

"Oh, fuck --" Rosy said, not for the car (because it was a piece of shit), not for the cigarette buts that was all that was left of Louise (because that was done for, and the ache was starting to really close up), not because she had to walk home (it was only eight blocks), or that she had to get up early (she didn't) but because there was just something profoundly lonely about that ten block walk -- without anything to look forward to in the morning, and without even the hollow reminder of a past love to keep her company.

"Well, that's a bitch," said a voice nearby. "Isn't it?"

Should have expected it, after all: Folsom and Dore, the leather paradise for a whole generation of gay men. "Damned straight," Rosy said, turning and smiling at the voice.

For someone who'd lived in the city as long as she had, Rosy didn't claim that many fag boys as friends. Maybe it was because since she'd met Louise very shortly after moving to the city from her old home turf of Miami and they hadn't left their little Mission flat if they had to -- but, more than that, Rosy suspected that after coming out to herself she just didn't see the attraction in them. It was as if after allowing herself to love women, she didn't have time for anything else.

"Yeah, a royal one --" she said, huffing out a good deep sigh as she looked again at where the car had been parked. "Not like the thing was worth stealing."

"Had it happen to me once. A piece of shit but it seemed everyone knew how to get in and take it for a spin. Had it ripped off half a dozen times the first two years I was here."

Looking at him, though, Rosy could feel a bit of the attraction -- a gentle fluttering down in the pit of her stomach, and that bothered her. He was young -- almost boyish in fact, something she knew was pretty rare for a hard-core leatherman. Ash-blond hair cut into a severe crew -- showing off his very squared and elegantly shaped skull, and a very wispy mustache. He wore his own uniform well -- a revelation that almost brought a giggle, but did bring a smile to Rosy's lips as she realized it, that she was still in her own severe dress pinks. He wore tight, tight, tight leather chaps, thick-heeled calf-high motorcycle boots, a muscle-contouring similar black vest, and even a small cap. He looked like a recruitment poster for Drummer, a center spread for Mach, a living totem of the spirit of Mr. San Francisco Leather.

"Well," Rosy said, shaking herself slightly, "I'd better get to a phone -- call it in."

"Who knows," he said, again in his deep but still remarkably musical voice, as he moved back -- giving her space to step up onto the curb, "maybe it just got towed. Happens all the time."

"I can only hope," she said as she started to walk away.

Half a minute later she realized she had no idea where the nearest phone was, turning around she was shocked -- and again that fluttering deep in her belly -- to see him smiling broadly. "There's one over this way," he said, gesturing back the other way. "Here, I'll show you."

It seemed so perfectly natural to take his arm when he offered -- and together they walked off down the street. Even though she wouldn’t have admitted it, on the arm of the leatherman her day had actually begun to look up.

"You don't seem freaked out -- that's good!" he yelled into her ear.

Rosy shook her head, not wanting to bellow over the thumping disco. She definitely didn't feel ... well, uncomfortable wasn't really the right word. She felt safe, certainly, but she definitely wasn't completely at ease, either -- she was, at best, distracted.

Looking around, she smiled again to herself: only in San Francisco -- a business afternoon, a towed car (thank goodness), a short walk, and then an evening spent in a leatherbar.

Rosy would have liked to have thought her leatherman charming, but the fact is she could barely hear him over the heavy-beating disco. It was hard, she discovered quickly to be charming when your wit couldn’t be heard.

But Rosy was able to tell was that -- deep breath, deep breath, deep breath -- he was (ahem) kinda, well, sorta, um ... damned sexy. It was a very hard to accept, and in fact the first admission that she actually found him attractive had rushed over her like a kind of panic -- like the same kind of panic that had grabbed her just a few hours before when she realized her car was gone. Rosy didn’t have a indecisive past, she liked to say that she was a born lesbian: no clumsy proms trying to feel attracted to the boys, no waking up in the middle of a marriage to hunger for another woman’s lips. None of that. Boys, to Rosy, were like some distant land -- she knew where it was on the map, but didn’t really care to visit.

Until her car got towed, and she found herself in the presence of the leatherman. Maybe that was it, she thought, milling at him as she sipped her coke. Was she really attracted to him or the leather? He was almost too perfect, a dead-cow icon, a Tom of Finland deity: gleaming leather chaps, vest with those merit badges of boy-sex S/M clubs, even the little leather cap. He was like a .32¢ stamp for hot leatherboy sex.

Seeing him made Rosy feel like she had a hot, hard leather fist up inside her. It was an unexpected and -- yes, at first -- shocking sensation, but the desire she felt rolling around inside her was strong enough to quick firmly shove that hesitation aside.

The only thing she really regretted, staring at her icon, was that her own dress pinks were so stiff and emotionless. She never wanted to before, but that night seemed a night for first times -- she wished she had a collar on.

As she had been thoughtfully and -- yes, she had to admit it -- hungrily, he’d been looking at her. The leatherman had been looking at her.

He said something. Over the pounding of the music, she couldn’t make out what he’d said. She leaned forward and yelled, "What?!" at him.

That’s when he’d said it. Simple enough in an every day context, but for Rosy in her power-suit and he in his incredibly sexy leather, it meant a lot more -- a lot that Rosy suddenly realized, fully, she was filling to go along with: "Do you want to go to the bathroom?"

That’s how Rosy, who’d never even kissed a boy, ended up being led into the dinge and tile of a SOMA S/M bar by a leatherman.

"Did I say you could kiss me?"

No, he hadn’t. He hadn’t said anything actually -- dead silence had followed them, not a word, not a command, since the door had closed behind them. Surprisingly, the bathroom had been empty -- a fact that she didn’t puzzle till later, and ended up shelving a possibly his power as the Ideal Leatherman. He could clear a room by just wanting to use it.

Even though Rosy felt a kind of blooming of submission within her she really didn’t have the tools to deal with what was happening. She just had Louise and half a dozen girlfriends behind her. She knew the mechanics of boy-girl (what there was of it), and had a pretty good idea of what could happen to her in the tiny, moderately dirty bathroom, but didn’t know the first steps to the dance. It had seemed natural to just turn and try and kiss those strong, yet soft, looking lips.

Quicker than her own pounding heartbeat, he had her long brown hair in one knotted first, pulling her head back. "Listen, slut, you’re mine -- you do nothing but what I tell you. Got that?"

She didn’t know what to do -- fear bubbled up from down deep, and -- even more shockingly -- anger. A part of Rosy wanted to shake him loose, gut punch him, and walk proudly out. But another part of her ... she was wet. That was it. But more than anything, what was getting to her? Was it his cock? Was it the possibly of a good, old-fashioned (aghast, ‘straight’) fuck? Rosy, surprisingly, was able to look down at herself and answer, ‘no.’ So what was it, then -- what was it that was making her simple, professional panties so damp?

Then it was there -- simple and straightforward. In a little voice that sent shivers of delight and excitement through her body, she said, "Yes, Sir."

"Good, slut -- very good. You’re a good slut, aren’t you? A hungry slut. You want it, don’t you -- you need it. You ache for it. Right, slut?"

"Yes, Sir -- I do need it."

"Good, because you’re going to get it."

One of his slender -- yet very strong -- hands reached up to her blouse, cupped her right breast. Before she could get ready, his fingers skillfully flicked over the swell of her breast till he found her -- already hard -- nipple. The squeeze was powerful, even though it was partially expected: with a gasp, Rosy gripped his strong arm and felt her knees quickly give way under the wave of pleasure spiced with pain. When he voice returned it was a high squeal: "Yes, Sir."

Again his hand found her hair, again her head was jerked back, but this time rather than his growled displeasure, his thin fingers traced the lines of her tight neck muscles. "Good -- very good: Sluts should always recognize themselves."

His other hand found her breasts again. The powerful squeeze brought tears to her eyes. Again strong fingers to her aching -- and also throbbing -- nipples. The pinch this time was even stronger, but somehow controlled: it was a precise generation of pain pushing towards pleasure ... or was it the other way around? Mixed up with endorphins of all kinds, Rosy couldn’t tell anything, anything at all beyond the burst of sensation -- except that she wanted more.

Distantly, she heard buttons hitting tile, metal partitions. Distantly, too, she regretted the loss of the blouse -- but not the cause. She arced her body forward, offering him her breasts.

He took what she pushed at him, scooping first the right and then the left free of her business-style bra. Bare to the warm air, and the even hotter atmosphere, of the bathroom, she groaned from their release and whatever else he was planning for their torment -- and her pleasure.

His bite was quick, sudden, shocking, frightening -- but like his fingers not the predatory tearing of a beast. Rather, it was like his perfect little teeth were being used as precise instruments for the delivery of agony. Just back from the plump nibs of her nipples, he gave her a quick stinging bite -- before retreating just a little to then slowly, ponderously, grind his jaws together. The steady progress of his bite pushed Rosy even farther from the cool tile wall she was leaning against -- and increased her grip on the side of the sink where her hand had grabbed for. The hiss that escaped her lips was like a crack in a boiler -- hot, shrill, and unstoppable.

She knew she was wet ... no, Rosy absolutely was sure that the simple business panties under her dress pinks were soaking. She was always like that -- a base primal lover. Rosy was excited and so her cunt was hungry.

His fingers reached down and pushed up -- hard -- her no-nonsense black skirt. A firm pressure reached her through her tope pantyhose and right through the pedestrian cotton of her panties. The contact was a shiver that blasted up through her body, a ponderous skyrocket that straightened her spine and escalated the velocity and pitch of her hiss.

A part of her that had been resting just below the surface opened its eyes, growing from groggy to ravenous.

Something tore, parting under an unstoppable force -- his fingers ripping through tope pantyhose. Rosy took a breath, expecting the next, waiting for it, wanting it.

As the thin veil of nylon parted, he spoke: "Good, slut -- very good. You want it, don’t you, slut. You want it bad. You need it, you need it like you never needed anything else in the world. You need this slut -- you need it now ... don’t you?"

She knew that the rules said that she should have said something, opened her mouth and played the role she was supposed to. But Rosy was excited and her cunt was wet -- so all that emerged from between her tight lips and clenched teeth was another notch to the shrill hiss. But her heart was in the right place -- and in her mind she was The Slut, his slut, his plaything, his toy. "Yes, Sir" might not have escaped her lips, but it certainly was loud and clear in her mind.

In the next moment he found out how wet she was -- a discovery that changed the timbre of her sounds to a bass purr. She felt his fingers expertly part her damp underwear and find the slick folds of her cunt. Gentle at first, but then with more and more insistence, he explored her cunt: the plump lips, the tight, slick passage up inside her, the pucker of her asshole, and -- deeper purr -- the throbbing point of her clit.

There, he stopped -- "That’s you, slut, that’s you right there. That’s where you live. Right there: and now I’ve got you" -- and right there he really started. His was more than a leatherman, more than her Master, he was a finger artist. The feelings rushed up through her. Not a skyrocket, no strange little metaphors this time: the simple fact was what kept ringing through her mind: My Master’s finger on my clit, my Master’s finger on my clit." She was right, in that magic spot she suspected but never realized was deep inside herself: Rosy the slut, Rosy the toy, Rosy the object of his powerful will."

It happened almost before she was aware it had started: a quivering, shaking body-rush of exaltation that took even more strength from her legs as it brought brilliant flashes of light to her eyes and a thundering pulse to her ears. As orgasms went, it was good -- not the best -- but there was something else there, a kind of awakening. Not to him, but rather to Him -- to her position and his power. It wasn’t the sex that blasted through her but rather that she was the receiving end of his strength.

When her legs stopped shaking and she felt she wasn’t going to drop down to the cool tiles in a quivering heap, she breathed in, deeply -- one, two, three, four -- and managed to focus on his smiling (slightly) face. "There was never a question," he said, "in my mind: good slut."

There was something missing, there was something she had to do. It was part of the act, part of the ceremony. She knew it was wrong to speak without being spoken to, but she had to complete the act -- to place herself firmly in the world her leatherman belonged: "Can I suck your cock, Sir?"

"Yes, slut, you may," was his smiling response -- pleased she sensed at some subterranean level by the eagerness, and correctness of her desire.

Cool tiles this time under her knees, torn pantyhose riding up the warm, damp seam of her ass, breasts wobbling, tender nipples grazing the courser material of her open jacket. There -- in front of her, the altar of her leatherman, her leathergod: slick black chaps over too-tight jeans. A bulge of power just inches from her face. "You know what to o, slut," he said from above, thunder from on high.

Actually she hadn’t a clue. Vibrators and toys, yes, but never to those other lips. But this was the new Rosy, and this was something she had to do for him -- it was part of the rules. Slightly quaking fingers to his fly, a slow, steady inching down. She’d hoped that he’d help at some point, give her pointers or at least help free himself from the jail of his pants. No such luck, though -- he stood, a leather statue, above her and didn’t move, didn’t say a word.

So she had to do it all. Hesitant fingers in through the metal teethed opening, a gentle dig around. Ah, contact -- not too soft, not as warm as she expected. A careful pull -- not too insistent -- feeling the fat head slide up and then, oh yes, out. Out, out, out -- her first sight of her Master’s dick, her leathergod’s cock.

A moment of shocked silence.

A very long moment. Longer than any moment in Rosy’s life. A record-setting movement.

It ended with a smile. "It’s a wonderful cock, sir," Rosy said, kissing the tip of the long dildo -- tasting a little cotton lint and much plastic. "It’s fantastic, Sir," she said as she opened her mouth to tape the tip in.

As Rosy licked, kissed, and sucked her plastic cock she let the warmth of what she had discovered: not that she'd been ready, willing and able to suck a leatherman's cock; not even that she'd realized how much joy there could be in being a powerful figure's plaything, their slut; but that sometimes the wrapping, the uniform is the best thing about what was inside.

Her name was Jackie. She lived in the Mission. She was a musician by choice (which was important), and a word processor out of necessity (which wasn't important). She was also Jack, and Jack was a leather ... man, boy, person? Jack was leather, a gravely tone, and firm commands. Jack was a pair of chaps, a leather vest, a white t-shirt, and a little black leather cap.

Outside, in a light drizzle, they exchanged phone numbers. Before parting -- Jack on a throbbing motorcycle and Rosy by cab -- they kissed: soft lips and a hesitant but electric touch of tongues. "Another time?" said Rosy.

"For sure," said Jackie.

"Be sure and bring Jack," Rosy said.

"Oh, I will -- you just bring the slut."

Speaking Parts: Provocative Lesbian Erotica
Edited by M. Christian, Introduction by Carol Queen
Alyson Pubns; ISBN: 155583700X $13.95