Fifteen

The night of the company party, the elevator finally lets you out on Fifteen. It’s one of the few floors in the building you’ve never been on. Your firm takes up 11 stories of this high-rise, and different departments are divided into their own distinct floors. Each floor has its own theme, tonight. On your way in, two hours ago, you picked up a “Gala Nite” map at the reception desk in the lobby, which detailed the locations of different varieties of party and what departments they’re associated with. But after confusing yourself over directions and entertainment choices amid the festive noise and lights, you tossed away the map and simply waded into the fray. You wandered about for a while, hopping on and off elevators and grabbing refreshments along the way. Most of the themes bored you — tropical paradises, concrete jungles, circuses, dude ranches.

Here, on Fifteen, the theme is “Magicians”. At last, you’ve arrived. Dressed as a man, hair slicked back, shoulders padded, your breasts bound close to your chest under your tuxedo shirt, and packing your dildo under loose-fitting suit pants, you could pass for another one of these entertainers — easy. You take a deep breath and hop off the elevator.

You work your way into the throng of David Copperfields and Mumford-the-Magnificents, jostling a couple of would-be conjurers who struggle to operate their scarf-into-flower paraphernalia. Quarters appear out of ears and noses, and the scent of trick smoke is in the air. In a crowded corner, a tuxedo-clad magician stands beside a large, rocking crate, proclaiming at the top of his lungs that his lovely assistant is about to disappear. But every time he says his magic words and flings open the door, his lovely assistant is still there. Frazzled and irritated, the buxom, blonde, barely clad woman complains bitterly about missing the party, while he placates her with promises of fame and fortune, should his trick work.

What’s really disappearing, is the booze. Several bars placed strategically around the room are packed with thirsty throngs, and dozens of liquor-laden clear plastic cups pass from bartenders to partiers, as cocktail napkins float to the floor. Fifteen has a sordid reputation — “Work hard – Play hard,” is their motto, and tonight they’re living up to their reputation. Here and there throughout the suite, ambitious entertainers are tying themselves into chairs, as their co-workers check the strength of their knots. Freelance Houdinis teeter through the crowd in straitjackets and handcuffs, struggling to undo their straps. The air of the place is abandon, wild abandon — it’s only nine o’clock, and already heavy petting is going on in the nether regions beneath potted palms.

If you’re looking for a kinky time, you’ve come to the right place. You smooth back your hair and order a scotch and soda. In your black and white suit and your slicked-back hair, you look like just another Houdini wandering through the crowd. You look male. You look mysterious. You look good. You pass easily in this intoxicated crowd of either-men-or-women, and as you look around, you see no other drag folk who might see through your cover. Nobody has said a word to you about roaming the gray areas of gender-fuck, and nobody has remarked at the dildo you wear inside your left pantleg. You spot a spare set of handcuffs on a nearby table and swipe them up. If you’re going to court the edge, you might as well get a little closer to it.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch a glimpse of someone watching you from behind a potted palm across the room. It’s the magician’s assistant — the one who never disappeared from her box. Dressed in red sequins, a drink in her hand, she’s clearly done with acting as a prop for the evening. She makes a beeline for you, but when she reaches your side, she feigns recognizing someone across the room and waves. She swerves slightly, tips sideways and jostles against you, rubbing her hip against your groin — then looks up at you in surprise, a hungry, martini-curious look in her eye.

“Welcome to Fifteen…” she slurs, pressing her torso against you, as a gaggle of partiers pushes past. Her breath is hot, rough from cigarettes and hard liquor. Her perfume is barely detectable beneath the scent of her body and booze.

You look away, trying not to breathe too deeply of her. You could easily slip into a back corner with her, you think, as she rubs a clandestine hand up your thigh, starting a warm thrill in your inseam. She’s attractive, sure, but you didn’t come to this party in search of conquest. You pull away from her before she reaches your crotch and dangle your pilfered handcuffs in front of her. Mumbling something about “bad girls getting disciplined,” you move off into the crowd. You can feel her eyes on your back, but you don’t turn around.

You meander through the crowd for another two hours, nursing your potent drink, watching Fifteen souse its way through case after case of hard liquor. The catering staff is working overtime just to keep up with them, and when their hand truck loses a wheel and a case of gin crashes to the floor, a collective groan rises from the crowd. You’ve had your fill of liquor, and you begin to think of going home.

But something keeps you there. Someone wants you to stay. Every time you turn around, the magician’s assistant is there, at first winking coyly from across the room… then as the night wears on, raising her continuously filled glass to you from 20 – 15 – 10… feet away. She seems to be following you, and the more she drinks, the less tentative is her stalking, the less veiled her salutes.

Before you know it, the midnight hour tolls, and the more responsible department heads find their ways out to their cars (with or without their dates). Then the heavy partying commences. All hell breaks loose, as liquor flows like a river, cigar and cigarette smoke thickens overhead in a choking gray cloud, clothes fall away from bodies, and debauchery gains a foothold throughout the floor.

A little woozy, you head for the restrooms and, forgetting your disguise, you instinctively open the Women’s Room door. Inside, the lights are down, and you realize your mistake too late — not that it matters. You stumble across the writhing forms of a mixed three-some (or is it a four-some?) in the many-mirrored restroom foyer. You back away, mumbling an apology, then turn and find yourself face-to-face with the woman who’s been tracking you all night.

“I think you have the wrong restroom,” she says, rubbing up against you again. The scent of liquor and skin fills your nose, and your gut leaps. In spite of that wretched wig, she is attractive, and on an impulse, you reach up and pull it away from her head. Her own hair is thin, blonde, sweat-damp. You wonder if she’s a natural blonde.

“You bad boy –” she slurs, reaching for your groin. When she feels your cock, hard along your thigh, she sucks in her breath quickly. “You bad, bad boy –”

If you were physically capable, your dick would jump to attention. But this woman doesn’t seem to realize it’s only latex. All she seems to notice, is that it’s in the right place and has the right consistency in her hands.

She reaches around you and pats your ass and waist. Her breast are full, and even through your binding, you can feel her erect nipples brushing your chest. “Where are those handcuffs? You know bad boys get disciplined…” She starts to lose her balance, but you catch her and pull her to you.

She giggles, then gives a low, guttural laugh. “Come on,” she says, taking your hand. “I know a place…”

You swing around and try to check your look in one of the mirrors, but she has you in a viselike grip and tugs you out into the room. She leads the way, weaving in and out of the writhing mass of people in various stages of compromise, and takes you down a long hall flanked by offices. At the end of the hall, she stops. With one hand, she reaches up and grabs the back of your neck and pulls you down to kiss her, and with the other, she negotiates the handle of a door marked “Exit”.

You fall through the door in mid-kiss, your scrabbling shuffle echoing loudly in the concrete stairwell. Swaying against you, she looks around and says “Ooops! Wrong door!” She grabs your hand and pulls you back into the hall and through a door beside the stairwell, marked “Janitor”.

Inside, you pause, trying to let your eyes adjust to the dark. The closet is filled with brooms and buckets and the air is heavy with the smell of antiseptic and window cleaner. This woman seems to know her way around; she jumps up on a drum in the corner. She pulls up her skirt, showing gartered thighs and a thick patch of pubic hair that glows luminous in the darkness. She’s a natural blonde.

Fuck me,” she says.

So you do. Mirroring the pent-up drive that’s been on her face all evening — with every inch, every last bit of sweat and strength you can muster, you launch yourself at that woman, not knowing quite what to expect, but not caring what you’ll find because this is what you want and this is what she’s offered. Her thin blonde hair falls down around her shoulders, and she grunts as she takes your cock up to the hilt, moaning beneath you, rising and falling with your thrusts, impervious to everything but the ride. You’re afraid you might hurt her, but she’s tough and ready and hungry for whatever you have. Your ears fill with her ragged breath, her fuck-me-fuck-me-fuck-me demands for more, the thumping of the drum as you rock it against the corner wall, and the sound of her fists on your back and her nails dragging down your chest.

But there is another sound — a rip, a tear — as you feel your chest binding come loose — one of your breasts falls free. And there is the sharp intake of her breath as she moves her hand to your sternum and feels the outline of your cleavage under her hand. She freezes. You try to continue your thrusting, but she is suddenly ominously silent as she pulls open your shirt, feels the cloth around your chest, and touches the rock-hard nipple of your exposed breast.

“You bitch –” she hisses, shoving you away with frantic strength. “You cunt — You fucking faggot!” She leaps from the drum and pulls down her skirt. “How dare you!” she spits at you, swaying.

For a moment, you simply stand and look at one another — she with make-up smeared, you with shiny dildo dangling from your open fly, gleaming silver in the darkness with the liquid signs of her pleasure. You almost burst out laughing.

But with a piercing shriek, she launches herself at you like a puma on its prey. Scratching, kicking, she comes at you with wild rage and confusion, and it is all you can do, to throw your hands in front of your face. Nails, long, red, lethal nails, scrape like chisels against wood grain, digging into your neck, arms, chest, the backs of your hands. You try to defend yourself, crouching as she drives her open-toed feet into your shins and thighs, but she is swift as a snake, elusive as a banshee on a murky night, and she has the advantage of drunken outrage.

In an eternal moment it’s over. You feel her attack slow, then stop, and you peek between your fingers. She stands before you, bedraggled, flushed, her hair wild in all directions, eyes sharp, half insane. She lifts a finger, opens her mouth as though to speak, then closes her mouth and backs away slowly, finger still raised. If you begin to speak or move, she shakes that threatening finger and takes a menacing step towards you. You shut up and freeze. Her face is pale, and she sways.

You reached out a hand to steady her, but she slaps you away. “Get your fucking paws off me, you pervert!” she shrieks. “You — you –” she looks down at the cock dangling from your fly, her fists clenching and unclenching. ” — you –” But before she can complete her thought, her pale face goes paler, and with a gasp, she drops to the floor, passed out.

You touch your welted neck and cheeks where her nails scraped, and your fingers come away sticky with blood. You aren’t sure if you should beat a hasty retreat before she awakes, or if you should help her. You stuff your cock inside your pants quickly, glancing around, hoping no one heard the ruckus, praying no one will stumble across you in this dark room with this passed-out woman. You want to split — make a run for it — but you can’t just leave her there. Gingerly, you nudge her with your toe, and when she makes no move to leap up and attack you again, you bend over and pick her up. Inching the door open, you look up and down the hall, making sure the passageway is clear. It is. You look down at her traumatized face, bracing yourself for another attack, but she is passed out cold and feels light in your arms. You step out into the revealing fluorescence and carry her limp body down the hall until you’re within earshot of the party. Laying her on the floor along the wall, you turn her over on her stomach so she won’t choke if she vomits in her sleep. Then you steal out the back exit of the building.

Bitch, you think, tenderly fingering your wounds and waving down a passing cab. She led me on.

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