Posts Tagged ‘alcohol’
Because I’m working so hard on the story Sugarbutch Star: Matt part two, I haven’t been writing much else (and it’s still not done – hopefully later or tomorrow!).
So, here: hopefully Mr. Maddow can entertain you for a little while. Interesting gender dynamics between these two, hmmm?
See also: bloopers from the same take. And I can’t not mention the Maddow Widowers Club, because if it was ever an option, Kristen would leave me in a heartbeat. I did see some chunky Maddow glasses on St. Mark’s the other day and thought, hmmmm. Maddow role-play? You be Susan, I’ll be your yardboy …
For Datedyke, because she asked me for this story, with thanks for reading the early draft and commenting things like “Make my character more mean,” “Don’t say thank you,” and “Just take me down,” and for providing the details of her outfit, and picking out my tie. “Swift thrust of cock,” one of my very favorite lines, was written by DD, not me; and DD informs me that “Lea” is pronounced “Lee.”*
“Honey!” Lea calls from the bathroom while she’s doing her hair and makeup. “Which tie are you going to wear?”
I’m dressed, plain black slacks and a black button-down, sitting on her bed, fidgeting with three ties in my fist I know will fit her desired houseboy fare. I bring them to her, gaze at her in the mirror as she applies something to her eyes with a fine brush.
“Either this silver, or this dark purple, or the dark blue with the white dots?” I offer.
“No no. This one.” She turns around fast and points, chooses the silver, the one she bought for me over the holidays. I nod and set the other two on the counter, start to tie the silver one. She glances at me in the mirror, aware that I’m watching her, narrowing her eyes a little, then finishes with the brush, tosses it into her makeup case.
She’s a little annoyed. She doesn’t like it when I watch her get ready. “Hand me those earrings, will you?” I see small diamond studs on the counter and hand them over.
“Not those,” she says. She’s beginning to get stressed. Three of her closest friends will be here any minute. It is my first time as her houseboy for a group.
“Those,” she points again and I see favorite pair of gold hoops. Of course. They match the black heels with the gold trim that she has on with her cocktail dress.
I fetch the earrings and she fastens them to her ears. I attempt to kiss her shoulders, neck, slip my hands around her waist, touch the curves of her hips in her sleek black cocktail dress. She shrugs me off, turns around, kisses me swiftly, dismissively. “Darling,” she says, “You look great. Really. I’m excited for the party.” And then she’s gone, running downstairs to check on the kitchen, fuss over food and drinks.
I sigh at my reflection, take a breath. Check my eyebrows, my teeth, my perfectly messy hair. I’m nervous, but ready for this, excited to be shown off, a trophy boy, look at my tricks. I want to please her. I adjust the dimple in my tie and then my cock under my harness strap.
The Oscars start at four and her friends have one of those pools where they’ve all guessed the winners and someone wins the whole pot. Lea gives me significant glances when the doorbell rings and I take coats to the closet, take drink requests, and practice my sweet “hi, hello” submission as they come in the door. Her friends are dressed up: The Cuban Genius, BB, and the Butch Daddy.
BB giggles at my predicament and hugs me, eyes twinkling, flirtatious, amused. The Butch Daddy eyes me like we’re fags and she’s cruising. I feel myself stiffen and try to relax.
Lea shines, says hello, hugs and smiles and laughter and greetings. She is subtly maneuvering this whole interaction, sparkling in her element; her earrings catch the light, glitter, and her makeup is flawless, soft. Her dress flirts around her knees, off her shoulders.
I serve martinis and cosmos, smiling and making myself as unnoticeable as I can be while I watch her. My attention is tuned fully into her body language, her eye contact, her hands. Not only for her cues at service, but to see her, to observe, to take in. I admire her like this. That external expert persona of hers is so appealing, I see her through her friend’s eyes, strong, poised, capable. I am blessed to see the soft parts, too.
Conversation flows, they catch up on jobs, girlfriends, America’s Next Top Model, the weather for upcoming kayaking, hiking. I try to participate, but Lea keeps interrupting me with glances and gestures every time I sit.
“Boy! More wieners!” she calls while I’m in the kitchen fetching a glass of water for the Butch Daddy, and everyone laughs. She’s been waiting to use that command. I bring the next plate of cocktail wieners onto the coffee table with a bow and a smile, as if I’m in on the joke.
Lea brings one up to her lips and leaves it poised. “Mmm, I love wieners,” she says, winking dramatically. Everyone’s still giggling; BB is giving me suggestive glances, the Cuban Genius mimics Lea’s movement of a wiener to her mouth and gives it a mock blow job, eyes low, looking at the Butch Daddy. I blush and try to laugh, adjust my silver tie nervously.
Lea takes inventory of the living room. “Refill BB’s drink,” she whispers loudly, for everyone to hear, and I take BB’s glass. He gives me a smug flirty smile. I mix his martini like he said, three olives, and I am careful careful careful not to spill in the long walk from the kitchen to the couch, and hand it to BB.
“BB likes his martinis dirtier than that,” Lea hisses at me as I resume my perch on the edge of the chair. “Make it right next time.”
I look to Lea in a glance, apologetically and to see her face, to see what’s under these commands, pleasure or embarrassment, gratitude or heat, but she’s already engaged back in her conversation with the Cuban Genius, laughing about something, talking about someone whose name I don’t recognize, who is that, who are these people I don’t know? She feels me looking at her and glances at me briefly, and for just a fraction of a second I see her features soften with deep appreciation, lust, care.
Then it’s gone; her body languages changes and she holds her near-empty cosmo up at me. “You’ve got another one of these ready, right? I shouldn’t have to even be asking you.”
I duck my head, go back to the kitchen.
A few minutes later she’s calling me, but I don’t recognize the call of “boy” fast enough, don’t hear her for a moment too long. Finally she uses my name: “Sinclair!” And I look up, caught off guard.
She inclines her head quickly to mean, come here, with that look on her face of hard exasperation and displeasure. She’s sitting on the arm of her couch, it makes her feel taller, and I approach. “No, here,” she says as I stop, pointing at the space next to her.
“Take your cock out,” she says.