Me and My Boi Page 16

  Without letting go of her waist, I released her wrists and half carried her to the bed. Pulling the covers down I slid in next to her and covered us both. I spooned her and felt the rhythm of her heart as it slowed to a normal pace. I was almost drifting off when she suddenly flipped to face me. Roughly she shoved my thighs apart.

  “Sorry,” she said, and thrust three fingers into my still wet pussy.

  I groaned as she built up a strong rhythm, her long fingers touching just the right places. Suddenly she added another finger, and then another, and suddenly the little boi butch was fisting me. I screamed, my already low voice coming out in a feral roar. Her fist disappeared inside me, only to be pulled almost all the way out before being slammed back in. I rode it hard, and as I was about to come her other hand closed around my throat. I came hard, bucking against her fist, her water-blue eyes never leaving mine. My come covered her fist and I moaned out the last of it before collapsing back onto the bed, totally spent.

  She pulled out slowly and grinned at the wetness dripping from her hand and arm.

  “Bathroom’s over there.” I nodded in the right direction and closed my eyes. We still had the whole night ahead of us, and I had a cupboard full of toys. I was ready, and I had a feeling she was too.

  CRICKET

  Anna Watson

  What a funny little woman,” said my coworker.

  I looked up from my computer to see our ten o’clock in the parking lot, a client I hadn’t met before. She was getting out of an old, dark-blue Chevy Impala, a real granddad car. She opened the back door, took out a small leather briefcase, then checked twice that the doors were locked before making her way over to our law office. Her movements were precise and purposeful and she held herself stiffly upright, carrying the briefcase almost reverently. As she reached the door, Arvid, the senior partner, came rushing out to greet her, ushering her quickly into his inner sanctum with just a quick command of, “Coffee!” over his shoulder.

  I knocked and brought in the tray. Arvid introduced me to Heloise Taylor, saying that her mother had died suddenly and that they were discussing the will. I murmured my sympathies as I set out the coffee things.

  Heloise was sitting on the Hard Chair. I hate that chair, and have gone so far as to haul it out to the curb on trash day, but Arvid always brings it back in. He says some people need a hard chair, and it did seem to particularly suit Heloise. Arvid is actually a pretty good lawyer. His hearty uncle act can be very effective, but I wasn’t sure he was clicking with Heloise. He must not have been sure, either, because he invited me to stay.

  Heloise was the sole survivor, the last of her family. She and her mother had lived together, and it was obvious that Heloise was in shock at her mother’s death. Still, she was completely present at the table, paying close attention to everything Arvid was saying. It was almost as if, even in the depths of her grief—especially in the depths of her grief—she wanted to show us how well she was caring for her mother.

  The will had a few minor complications, nothing serious, but Heloise did have to come in several times after that first appointment. She always came alone. I always sat in. I wished there had been someone we could call to help her, a niece or a cousin, but she kept saying that there was no one and that she was fine. The last time she came in, she waited until Arvid had left the room, and then stood to shake my hand.

  “Thank you for your help, Tiffany. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”

  I watched out the window as she made her way to her car. She was wearing the same clothes she’d worn for the first appointment, when my coworker had called her a funny little woman. I wondered if they had been her mother’s clothes, or something her mother chose for her: beige polyester elastic-waisted slacks in a large check, circa 1975, a turquoise sweater set, black lace-up old-lady shoes with white athletic anklets. I could see what was so amusing, of course, but Heloise had her own dignity. And it was her dignity that I had been noticing. And another thing. I was pretty sure that her short graying hair had been cut by a barber.

  After Heloise stopped coming into the office, I looked for her in town. I just found myself thinking about her, keeping an eye out, wondering how she was doing. Once I thought I saw her at Albertson’s in the frozen food department and another time when I was getting a pain au chocolat at Le Petit Outre, but I was mistaken. The last place I expected to run into her was Miller’s.

  Miller’s is Missoula’s only independently owned department store, now in serious decline. It’s fabulous in there. They have a beautiful line of slips, as well as goodies from the past like dress shields, shoulder pads and outdated foundation garments. This particular late afternoon, the lingerie department was completely deserted, as was often the case. I was dreamily perusing the wall of panties when I felt someone beside me, and, turning brusquely, almost knocked into Heloise.

  “Heloise!” I cleared my throat. “So nice to see you! How are you doing?”

  “I ran out of dainties,” she blurted out. “I mean underwear. Um, drawers.”

  “Well, you came to the right place,” I said, raising an eyebrow.

  She began to blush. It was the most beautiful thing. Her cheeks flushed, her ears began to take on color, and her neck and chest—the little bit of it I could see above her buttoned-up blouse—turned a solid, brick red. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

  “Mother called them dainties,” Heloise began to explain, stammering with embarrassment. “She had words for everything. And she’s the one who shopped for them. I shovel and keep the car tuned up, and she shopped for dainties. I just came here to see, if I could find…” she stopped, looking at me helplessly.

  After that chance meeting, when I helped her choose some plain, white underwear, I heard from Heloise regularly. The first time, she called me at the office to see if we could use some elk meat a neighbor had given her in exchange for keeping their plants watered when they were on vacation. Arvid, still fuming because he’d been unable to bag an elk this year himself, accepted the gift with slightly bad grace. Heloise began calling my personal line, and then my cell, with offers of other small gifts: would I allow her to take my car to be inspected, as she’d noticed my sticker was about to expire and she was sure I was extremely busy; she knew where to get some cheap firewood if I had a fireplace or a woodstove; she was free during the day if I needed any other errands run—maybe I had a dog at home who would enjoy a walk at noon?

  “Are you working, Heloise?” I asked her once, and she said no, that her father had provided for her and her mother. That after high school she thought she might like to work for a vet, but it never panned out. “That was when Daddy was sick,” she said. “And Mother needed me at home. She needed me after he died, too. And Daddy asked me to take care of her. I did. I took good care of her.”

  I began to depend on her help for things a lady alone such as myself can easily find herself ignoring, little repair jobs around the house, car maintenance. I was certainly happy to have her walk Medusa, the Bergamasco my ex had insisted on when we’d moved to Missoula and I had inherited when she fled. Dusa and Heloise adored each other.

  One Saturday, Heloise called to ask, very hesitantly, for a favor from me. She wondered if I would go shopping with her for new clothes. She would very much appreciate my help.

  We went to Miller’s of course, and had been there for only a few minutes, going quickly through racks of blouses and skirts, when she touched my arm. She was wired, kind of in overdrive, almost silly.

  “Do you think it would be all right if we looked there?” She was gesturing to the men’s department.

  “Of course!” My heart rate speeded up as we walked over, and I thought about how fine she would look in a pair of jeans, a western shirt and cowboy boots. She went right to the polo shirts and khakis, though, and started trying to figure out her size. I helped, keeping an eye out for the elderly queen who worked there, just to make sure he wouldn’t bother Heloise or ask awkward questions. He usually spent a
lot of time meticulously folding the scarves and ascots, but he wasn’t there. It was early evening, a time when most of the staff seemed to go on break.

  By now, Heloise had a pile of clothes in her arms, and we were both giggling, brushing up against each other accidentally-on-purpose. I took her to the dressing rooms in lingerie. No one else was down there.

  “The one at the end is big enough for both of us,” I told her, leading the way into the dimly lit warren of cubicles. The dressing rooms were as old-fashioned as the rest of the store, with solid doors, scuffed wooden floors, pincushions, and, in the larger room at the end, an ottoman. I sat there while she nervously sorted through the clothes.

  “They’re fine,” I said, more sharply than I’d ever spoken to her before. I took a breath. “Try this one on first.”

  I gave her a polo shirt. She hung it carefully on a hook, then looked at me. I nodded in encouragement. I wanted to see her undress. Pale, her fingers shaking, she began to undo the buttons of her blouse. She was deeply embarrassed, but I could see she was determined. I liked that very much. Underneath her blouse, she was wearing a camisole, and underneath that, a plain white bra. Something looked weird about it.

  “Take that off and let me see it,” I said. We hadn’t talked about this, but now we were in it together. She was breathing more quickly and her skin flushing—not as red as I knew it could get, but pinker than usual.

  “Yes, okay, I mean, of course, but I could keep it on and just try the shirt…”

  “Shh,” I said. “Sometimes people say, ‘Yes, Ma’am.’”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” she whispered. She reached behind and unfastened the bra.

  It was an ordinary underwire, or had been, but she’d altered it. The straps were folded over and firmly sewn down to shorten them, and the underwires had been removed, the holes neatly stitched up again.

  “You sewed this?”

  Heloise had her arms crossed in front of her chest. “Yes,” she managed to say, her voice catching in her throat. “Mother taught me. All girls should know how to sew.” She started to drop her arms, but then hugged herself miserably. “I’m sorry. What should I do now?”

  “Just show me,” I said. “I want to see.”

  She dropped her arms and stood up straighter. She revealed herself to me. I gazed at her small chest as I fingered the bra in my hands. Looking at it again, I saw that squares of felt had been sewn into the center of each cup.

  “It’s my best one,” Heloise said quietly. “I always wear it when I go out. I don’t like…” She looked down at her nipples, which were fully at attention in the cool, musty air of the dressing room.

  “That’s right,” I said. “This is nicely done. You don’t want people looking at your nipples.”

  Heloise gave me such a look of desperate relief that I felt my pussy clench. Really, I almost came. “I will look at your nipples, however,” I said. “I am enjoying looking at your nipples right now.”

  For a moment, I thought Heloise would collapse right there on the floor, but she rallied. “How…?” she rasped.

  I settled myself more comfortably on the ottoman. “Just stand up straight and stay like that,” I instructed. “Put your shoulders back more. Yes, that’s right. That’s very nice.”

  I looked at her nipples until she was trembling, and then I looked some more. I thought about how salty-sweet they would taste when I tongued them, how firm they would be when I put my lips around them, how they would throb and ache when I got her home and did to them whatever it was I had a mind to, involving perhaps hair clips or clothespins or twist ties.

  “Breathe,” I told her and she sobbed in a great gulp of air. I reached out a hand to her, and she grabbed it. Brought it to her lips.

  “You’re so beautiful,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” Her mouth was soft on my palm.

  “I’m too old. It’s been too long.”

  “Nonsense. What matters is that you want to please me. Is that what you want, Heloise?”

  “Cricket!” she burst out.

  “What did you say?”

  “Call me Cricket—it’s my nickname. I hate being called Heloise!” She was trembling even more violently now, and starting to hunch over. I rested my hands on her hips and she calmed.

  “Cricket. Do you want to please me? Answer the question.”

  “Yes, Ma’am! I do want to please you, of course I want to please you. I’ve only ever wanted to!”

  “You do please me, Cricket. You have been a very good boi.” I searched her face to see if she knew what I was talking about. I already knew she’d grown up and lived in a parallel world to mine, one where there was no queer theory, no talk of power dynamics, no Best Lesbian Erotica or being Facebook friends with Carol Queen. She just returned my gaze, undaunted, waiting for what I was going to say next.

  “Take off your slacks.”

  Hastily, she slid the elastic waistband down her hips, unlaced her shoes and kicked them off. She got out of her slacks and threw them into a corner, eagerly straightening back up to face me in just her white anklets and a pair of the plain white underwear we had bought together.

  “Your dainties, too,” I said. “And do it nicely. This will be the last time you ever have to wear them.” I had picked up a package of boxers for her.

  Now her body was crimson. I was so pleased. I love a whole-body guy.

  “Someone will come,” she said, looking at the door.

  “No one will come.”

  “But when I took Mother shopping here, someone always came to the door and asked, ‘How are you doing?’ They always did!”

  “No one will come,” I said again. “No one saw us. Now take them off.”

  “But I can’t!”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m embarrassed.”

  “Why, Cricket?”

  “I don’t want you to see my, um, my…”

  “Your?” I tapped my foot. I’m sure I was flushed, as well. It had been too long since I’d had a boi at my mercy like this.

  “My, I forget what, I mean, my…”

  “Just say it, Cricket.”

  “I can’t!”

  “Say it! What don’t you want me to see?”

  “I don’t want you to see my front bottom, Ma’am!”

  I couldn’t help it, I let out a bark of laughter. “Your what?”

  Redder and redder. “I’m sorry! I know there are other names for it, I, it’s just, that’s what Mother called it—please, can I leave my dainties on? I’ll do whatever you want!”

  “I want you to take them off.”

  The room was very quiet, just our labored breathing. I thought I might lose her. She looked over in the corner at her crumpled slacks and she looked at her bra, still on my knee. I didn’t want to lose her.

  “Cricket,” I said softly. “Your dainties.”

  She took them off for me. Slowly. She did it as nicely as she could.

  “Now touch it,” I said when she was naked. “Touch it for me.”

  “It’s private,” she said.

  “Not today. Today, I want to see you touch it.”

  “But Mother said it’s private! To follow the rules of health, an occasional release is necessary, Ma’am, but in private! We, I mean, I could, would you let me…”

  “Yes, Cricket, I will let you. But today, right here, I want to see you touch it. I want to see how you do it. It’s not private today.”

  I was sure she had never done anything like this before. Who had been her lovers, during the sheltered, insular life she had told me about? I squeezed my legs together as she reached hesitantly down her belly, coming to rest with her fingers at the top of the sparse line of hair below her navel. I told her to go lower.

  “Show me how you do it,” I said again, then sighed with pleasure when she withdrew her hand and licked her fingers thoroughly before she began.

  “Like this, Ma’am?” she asked, her voice rough. “You truly want to see me do thi
s?”

  “That’s right. That’s very good.”

  She resigned herself to it, steeled herself. It wasn’t what she had been expecting. I don’t know what she had been expecting, but she gave herself to me regardless. She started to jack off, knees slightly bent and apart, steadying herself against the wall with her other hand, her eyes never leaving mine. I could hear the small, wet, slapping sounds as she worked, see her gaze slacken as she got into it, hear her begin to make small, painful sounds in her throat. She moved closer to me, as if she couldn’t help herself, and I let her stand between my knees. She was moving with more abandon now that she could read approval in my eyes. Her other hand slipped off the wall and I pinned her between my legs so she wouldn’t fall. She struggled a little against me, squirming to get into the right position, the hand that had been on the wall gripping my shoulder. I could smell her excitement. I could almost taste it. I swallowed, licked my lips and brought my face to her chest. Her nipples were as succulent as I had imagined, and so sensitive. She shook and groaned at the feel of my tongue. I pulled her closer, kneading her ass, running my nails up and down the backs of her thighs. She was saying something, not words, just sounds. She let go of my shoulder, wet down all ten of her fingers and used both hands to bring herself off, leaning back, her crotch very close to my lips. Then her arms went around me in a desperate hug.

  I pulled her into my lap and held her, my beautiful boi. She was shaking, tears running silently down her face. I wrapped her in my coat.

  “Stay here.”

  I found the old queen dusting men’s fragrances and paid for Heloise’s new clothes. I gave her the boxers and a men’s undershirt, had her put on the polo and a pair of khakis. I let her wear her old bra. When she was dressed, she carefully shook out my coat and helped me into it. She carried the bags, opened the doors for me and got me settled in the passenger seat of the Impala. It was very cold now, and fully dark. We drove through the city of Missoula, a valley where elk once wintered over and now 67,000 people live and dream and fight and fuck and go out for pizza. She looked so handsome in the light of the dash. We didn’t talk, although I could tell she was bursting to say something, anything, ask me what came next. But I knew she would wait. And when we got back to her quiet, orderly home in her quiet neighborhood, the one where she’d lived so long and so biddably with her mother, I would have no lack of instruction for her, my darling, my eager-to-please, my hungry, my newly-hatched boi.