Author: Guede Mazaka
Paul Smecker’s not lithe or lean or supple. He’s got nothing in common with Greek sculpture, except maybe how in the dark his cheekbones make him look like a tragic hero, a great ruin of a man who has been battered by fate and who gets it turned into a goddamn opera that every fucking high-schooler’s got to read once instead of just fading away like everyone else. No, he’s compact, sparsely put-together with too many angles and razor edges to be beautiful. When he shaves and smoothes on the pantyhose, it looks as if the jagged pieces vanish, but that’s just an illusion. Like a smile on a murderer’s face.
Your hands on Smecker’s waist, feeling the tops of his hips cut deep to the bone. They hook your tendons and twist them around, pull you flush against him by your fingerbones. Like playing a piano by wrenching up the top and plucking the strings.
His hands on your hips, his mouth leaving lipstick and shivers all over your choking throat. The rustle of his skirt between you tries to make you forget about your hands and how you’re losing use of them, how he’s slicing them to limpness, but then he swivels and presses hipshot into you so his knee slashes the feel of his silky hose through your pants. Makes your dick pay attention so when he rubs his blade-body up against yours, he’s got something important to lacerate. He wouldn’t waste his time on petty cuts, little petulant jabs like a boy pulling wings off a fly. No, Smecker only stays around for the big operations.
You don’t quite make the mistake of thinking that’s a compliment to you.
“Hey, big boy,” Smecker purrs, slightest bit of masculinity in his voice. Fucker. He could iron it out if he wanted to, make it all coy breathless woman, but he wants you to remember that you’re reacting to—fuck—a fantasy. A put-on job. He’s fucking with you, just the slow dawdling stroke of his fingers down your chest is fucking with you, and he wants you to know it.
“Get the fuck off…” Except now you’re not really wanting that, says your stiff dick. No, whispers the hands that climb up your front and curl ever so gently around your neck. Edges of the nails catch there, scratch you playfully like a girl would and you want to like it, want to like the way he/she cuts you bare to the raw instincts.
The way Smecker laughs is too practiced, too throaty but you jerk to it anyway. Groan and let him dip a hand into your pants. There’s where the illusion really breaks down, because his hands are too large and too rough and too clever in their teasing. But your brain doesn’t believe it because you have your hands full of skirt and your ears full of low feminine murmuring, telling you what a big strong one you are and how damn hot that is, how fucking good it is to finally have a real man taken in hand. Fucking your reason in time to the fucking your cock is doing to the tight perfect circle of Smecker’s fingers. You dig your fingers into thighs, waist, arms and for a moment you think too hard I’ll break her but then Smecker’s teeth snap a reminder into your skin. So you lose yourself to it, to the confusion of the delicate flowery perfume staining his sweat and the gun-calluses on his palm. Breath comes faster and faster and your back arches and you close your eyes in a fervid bid to pretend.
But he wrings you out so you sag down the wall, bricks scraping the hell out of your hundred-dollar leather coat that’s your pride and joy—that fucking is your pride now, metaphor and reality intercutting each other—and that puts your mouth on the level with his. And he’s fucked your body and fucked your mind, so it shouldn’t matter too much if he decides to tongue-fuck you after the fact, but it does. Because he kisses hard and nasty and he groans through it, sounding in no way like a woman. Puts his whole self into it so you can feel his cock rubbing against your thigh, so his skirt rides up and when your hands float that way and land on his hips again, they feel cool slip sheathing hard lean muscle. So you know you’re being kissed by a fucking man and that you’re fucking well kissing back.
“Yeah, you liked that. Big strong man, big man in the BPD. Get your kicks from demure little ladies, do you?” Not pitching the voice high now. And this close, the real Smecker shows through the cracks in the make-up. He should look garish but he doesn’t. He looks like an actor grinning behind his sad, superbly deceiving mask at the sentimental fools of the world.
“No fucking lady would do what you did,” you say, and your voice tells too damn much. So does the way your back can’t leave the wall, ‘less you want to fall over and pitch your face in the trash, and the way you use your tongue to probe at the tiny gashes his teeth have left in your lower lip. “Smecker—
He pets you on the cheek, leaves a last smudge on your jaw. “I need to wash my skirt. Go drag Duffy out—we’ve heard about all the useful information this place has to offer.” Pivots on his high heels without tottering in the least, wig rumpled and clothes splattered with your come and composure unbroken. “And get me a coffee while you’re in there. None of that anisette crap in it—just—”
“Sweet ‘n Low,” you manage to mumble. Fake shit. Which you’re developing a taste for.
“Now you’re learning,” he coos. Blows a kiss over his shoulder and struts off, while back in the alley you’re still bleeding from how he ripped the wool from your eyes.