Behrouz Gets Lucky Read online

  Hands. That’s right, I’d almost forgotten. Lucky had hands with delicate ribbons of earth under each crescent-shaped fingernail and fingers that already knew how to reach inside my cunt to yank out strings of orgasms like one would pull yarn from a skein. Oh fuck! I was getting wet while sitting on a park bench in the shade, surrounded by French tourists snapping photos of bushes and a tottering couple walking propped up by carved wooden canes. My nipples were hardening inside my binder and my shorts were damp. I wondered if it would be in poor taste to find a deserted shady pathway to fondle myself. Just for a minute to relieve the ache. I rolled my eyes at myself. You’d think that one’s hormones would have wilted by age sixty, but I was more randy and responsive now than I’d ever been in my twenties and as I’d aged, I knew even more so what to do with it.

  I got up, brushed off a few stray pecans, then meandered out of the Fragrance Garden, turning right toward the Ancient Plant Garden and Waterfowl Pond. Past excited turtle-watching kids, flocks of vaguely belligerent geese, and gangs of stroller-pushing parents, to the plants of Australia. I remembered there was a secluded stone wall surrounded by trees in that area of the park, and I found it. The tall trees and bushes made it even cooler, so I pulled my gray hoodie out of my rucksack, put it on, then sat back waiting for the armies of tame squirrels to find me and amuse me with their antics.

  I was happily feeding the squirrels sticky bun crumbs when I heard a voice: “Hey, you!”

  I looked up as the bushy-tailed rodents scattered. “Lucky!”

  There stood Lucky in her red buffalo-check shirt, black newsboy cap, 501s, and boots with a beaming elderly woman beside her. “This is my mom, Betty. Mom, this is Behrouz. Remember, I told you about them? They’re a librarian and a writer.”

  Lucky’s mom was tiny, around five feet tall with short, thick, curly white hair, oval, gold, metal-framed glasses, brown eyes, a deep tan, an expansive lush build, and wearing a deep purple cotton turtleneck sweater, white knit pants, a long, flowing, brightly flowered wool challis scarf, a chunky turquoise necklace, and red walking shoes. I could smell a light whiff of elegant and spicy Cristalle by Chanel.

  “You must be that nice person that Lucky told me about! I’m always happy to meet one of Lucky’s friends.”

  Betty and I shook hands, “Pleased to meet you. I hope you’re enjoying your visit to San Francisco.”

  “Oh, yes. Lucky has worn me out traveling all over the city, but I’m flying back to Florida tomorrow morning. We’re getting ready to walk over to the Japanese Tea Garden. Would you care to join us?” she asked effusively.

  I agreed. Lucky looked pleased but a little abashed at the turn of events, as we meandered through the park to the Japanese Tea Garden.

  Once there, we sat at an oak table under the shingled awning and ordered pots of savory Genmaicha and flowery jasmine tea along with a plate of teahouse cookies and an order of dorayaki, red-bean-paste-filled cakes. Lucky’s mom was exuberant, filling me in on her life at the retirement community in Florida. The community was known for its freewheeling ways, and she told me proudly that she enjoyed the freedom that came with being single. She ate Milano cookies for dinner and green power shakes for breakfast, woke up at 5:00 a.m. to read and meditate, had learned how to play tennis, and was a member of a women’s reading group, an international cooking group, and a bridge group. Betty had read Tantric Orgasms for Women Over 60 in her women’s reading group a year ago, and it had changed her life.

  She confided, “I have two gentleman callers and experience sexual ecstasy daily! Now Lucky, it was never like this with your father, bless his heart. Of course, he drank some and his diabetes didn’t help. You two should try some of this tantric sex. You never know, you might like it!” Betty chortled.

  I blinked in astonishment. Lucky turned a becoming shade of apricot, and I turned hot strawberry pink.

  “Did Lucky tell you that I’m turning eighty on Wednesday? Lucky flew me out here as a birthday present, and we have eaten cake every single day I’ve been in San Francisco! One bakery after the other: Stella’s, Tartine, B Patisserie, Golden Gate Bakery, Dianda’s. Well, you can see where Lucky got her sweet tooth.” Betty patted Lucky’s arm lovingly and beamed even more brightly.

  I could see where Lucky got a lot of her personality. Betty was a delightful handful of hedonistic little old lady.

  Eventually, the sun started going down and we parted ways, Lucky and Betty headed back to Lucky’s so that Betty could pack for her flight home, and me home to do my Sunday evening chores.

  I got home, fed Francy, and laid out my shoe-shining kit, scuffed shoes and boots, shirts, and my bottle of homemade amber-scented spray starch. Every Sunday evening I liked to take a shower, get into a pair of Liberty of London paisley cotton pajamas, turn up the music, then shine my work shoes and boots, and iron and starch my dress shirts for the upcoming week. I loved the smell of shoe wax, steamed cotton, and amber, and the Sunday evening ritual made me feel satisfied, sexy, and complete. I was onto my third shirt, when my phone chirped. It was Lucky texting and wanting to know if I’d like to get together during the week. Perhaps Wednesday would work?

  I felt more relaxed about seeing Lucky again now that I’d met her in the park. Seeing her with her clothes on and interacting with her mom made her more real and less a porntastic figure of my imagination. She was no longer Lucky-the-gardener-with-talented-hands-and-a-sly-smile, but Lucky-the-person. I texted back, Wednesday is swell! Then I hesitated. Was it too soon to send her dirty texts? Would she think I was being forward? Obviously, given the chance, I could and would worry about anything, including whether it was proper to sext someone who the night before had been wrist deep in my grateful cunt. And really, I wanted to be witty and suave…a combination of Djuna Barnes, Phil Sparrow, and Oscar Wilde, but all I could come up with was a plaintive, I want your hand inside of me. Now. I hoped that Lucky could hear my tone in my text. I was begging her, my knees to the floor and my cock hard.

  In half an hour. Be ready. Signed, your invert, was the somewhat terse text from Lucky.

  I hurriedly put away the metal ironing board, my laundry, boots, and shoe-shine kit, then took a fast whore’s bath, washing my pits and cunt and brushing my teeth. I undressed, then put on my silk robe and a black rubber jockstrap. The special robe, the 1930s burnt-orange silk one with the black shawl collar.

  Twenty-seven minutes later my doorbell rang and I buzzed Lucky up. I opened my apartment door. Lucky stood there and we stared at each other. We didn’t say a word. I pulled the cord of my robe, letting it fall open, then reached over to unzip Lucky’s brown-leather jacket. With a growl, Lucky grabbed my hair, shoving me to the carpeted floor and shutting the door with her boot. I fell to my knees, not caring for anything except that I was on the floor and Lucky was towering over me—me looking up, and her looking down. She kicked me forward with her black-leather harness boots as I half crawled and half rolled to the center of the hallway. She wasn’t kicking me very hard, just hard enough to let me know that she was in charge, that for now, she controlled my body. I heard the snap of a glove. Lucky fell to the floor, parted my legs, and started fucking me quickly with three fingers, then four fingers, then her entire hand. Each time she added another finger she grunted, while I grunted right back. I skidded forward with the force of her fucking, my knees burning against the carpet and my cheek chaffing on the coarse wool. I’d been ready for her all day, wet and throbbing, and as soon as I’d heard Lucky ring my bell I’d flooded again. With a howl that started in my gut, I started coming, my sensitive tits rubbing against the scratchy carpet, Lucky’s right hand pistoning in and out of my desperate cunt, and her left hand squeezing the bruises on my ass from the belt beating the night before. Lucky was fucking the past three years of celibacy out of me, and those lonely years were shooting from my body. Lucky and I had traveled from the middle of the hallway to the corner at the end, where I had a Victorian oak wooden library stand holding my mother’s copy of the two-vol
ume Compact Oxford English Dictionary. My head banged against the library stand as Lucky and I fucked. For one minute, I wondered if I was going to get brained by the OED, then all thoughts fled. I came, yelling as loud as I could, coming over and over, my come squirting out, soaking the carpet.

  “Oh my god. Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I babbled, as Lucky and I lay panting on the hallway floor.

  “No, thank you,” Lucky murmured, petting my head.

  We stood up shakily and I led Lucky into the living room where we sat quietly on the sofa for a minute. I held Lucky’s hand, kneading her fingers. “What about your mom? Don’t you need to go back home?”

  “I needed to pick up coffee, half-and-half, and yogurt at the corner store. I told Mom I’d be right back.”

  “You snuck out to fuck! What are you, like fifteen?” I giggled. “Let’s talk later this week. I really like you. I’m sorry. I just, you know.”

  “I do know. And I really like you too. Let’s get together later on this week. Not Wednesday, but Friday. Are you free Friday night?” Lucky asked.

  “Yes. I’ll text later.” I walked Lucky to the door, kissed her goodbye, and she left.

  Monday through Friday was spent in a haze of lust. All I could think of was what shenanigans Lucky and I could cook up if we had a few hours of time and a good night’s rest. I woke up at 5:00 a.m. each morning, my hand between my legs, wishing that Lucky’s cock was behind me pushing forward, the tip against my ass and her fingers twisting and stretching my tender nipples until I cried out. It was difficult to leave for work in the morning, to stop touching myself and put on clothing. I’d stir my morning oatmeal naked, my left hand holding the wooden spoon and my right holding my tit, pulling my nipple until I’d cry out in pleasure, hunched over a pot of bubbling oats. Sometimes I’d spank my breasts with the spoon before stirring, beating my chest, my nipples swelling and engorged. And as I bent over the stove, I’d again imagine Lucky behind me, squeezing my breasts while rudely plunging into my cunt, my ass. Fucking me into the stove while I held on to the overhead stove hood to keep my balance. Riding the F streetcar to work, I knitted, dropping stitches in my distraction, my scarf decreasing from thirty-two stitches on Monday to twenty-four by Thursday, a wobbly testament to my desire for Lucky. I daydreamed at the library, sitting in long afternoon library meetings while imagining Lucky’s grubby gardener’s hands touching me. I loved those vestiges of earth beneath her nails, the calluses on her stubby fingers, the softness of her palm. I wanted to fuck Lucky in a pile of dirt, sinking into the rich soil with her, the smell of plants and dank rising, enveloping us.

  Tuesday night, I came home, opening my front door to my darkened hallway. I remembered our quickie on Sunday night. I flicked the light switch revealing honey-colored walls, the library stand with the OED, and the rough maroon-and-brown Persian carpet runner. I wanted a repeat, but more, always more. I wanted to crawl down the carpeted hallway, my rump swinging from side to side. An invitation to Lucky, to have her way with me, beat my ass, my thighs. Take great handfuls of my flesh and twist them, squeezing the bruises clean as I howl. My howls caught in my throat, and I longed for the look on her face as she hit me, so fiendishly delighted.

  I texted Lucky on Wednesday, channeling e. e. cummings, if only he had texted. The bruises on my ass are gone, but knee rug burns remain. Look forward to your lips and your sweet etc.

  I heard back within minutes, No wartime, but thinking of your smile yes knees and of your etc. I liked a gal who got the poetic gist.

  On Thursday, I came home from the library, staggered down the hallway in a sexual frenzy, and threw off my corduroy sports coat, tweed trousers, oxford shirt, and Scottish tartan necktie as if they were on fire. I retrieved my rope, tit clamps, a handful of clothespins, my largest cock, a stainless-steel sound, a bottle of lube, my njoy, a hand towel, a waterproof pad, and my Hitachi wand, tossed them on the bed and settled in for a one-person fuckfest.

  Francy fled the bedroom. She knew what I was up to. I turned my blankets and sheets back, then laid out the waterproof pad and towel. I bound my breasts in a figure eight, wrapping the rope around my chest, then around each breast, tweaking my nipples into hard points when I was done, then applying my tit clamps. The tight clench of rope around my chest and digging into my soft breasts, and the sharp pain of the clamps on my nipples made me gasp, my cunt swelling, wet, and hard. I’d been thinking about Lucky all day at work between recommending books to patrons, helping them with their computers, and processing holds. I lubed up my cock, sliding it into my asshole slowly, feeling myself open up eagerly until it was all in but the last inch, then sat on it, shoving the remainder in. I groaned in relief at being so filled, and started jerking off my clit, my cock. Testosterone had filled me out, the way hormones fill out the chest of an adolescent girl. My clit’s legs that traveled from my clit to my cunt opening had grown, so when I became excited both my clit and its legs became erect, hard, and swollen. I fucked my asshole, imagining Lucky grinding into me with her cock. I wanted everything filled, so I greased up my sound, felt for my pisshole with my index finger, and slipped the cold sound in slowly, fucking my pisshole gently while I sat on my cock. I was filled up twice over now. I caught the chain between my tit clamps in between my teeth and yanked, causing the clamps to pull and twist my nipples with pain and pleasure. The sound felt soft and raspy in my pisshole, so close to my G-spot that it made my legs shake with excitement. I needed my cunt and mouth filled too. What if Lucky were there, dangling a heavy metal chain over my mouth? I’d open wide to swallow the chain, the taste of steel on my tongue, filling my mouth. I twirled the sound in my pisshole and snorted in pleasure, then slid it out, lubed up the large end of the stainless-steel njoy and slid it into my dripping cunt. The fat cock in my ass bulged into my cunt, taking up space, making the njoy difficult to insert, but I wiggled the metal toy and finally got it past the bulge the cock made and inside my wet hole. I started fucking myself, sliding up and down on my cock and pressing into my g-spot with the njoy. I was coming in small waves, my come showering over my hand as I fucked myself.

  It wasn’t enough, but it never is enough. I removed the njoy, took eight clothespins and pinned four to each nipple flanking the clamps. Then I grabbed my silicone paddle from the bedside table drawer and started whacking my thighs, each whack a sting that made my nipples harder and more engorged, making the clamps and pins more painful. I started fucking myself with the njoy again, coming harder, soaking the towel, begging for more, my hips thrusting. I wanted a bigger cock in my ass, I wanted two cocks in my ass, I wanted three cocks in my ass, I wanted to be filled up until all I was were holes filled with sensation. I was cramming as much of the cock into my ass as possible, grunting with need. I turned on the Hitachi and started rubbing my clit. I spasmed as I yelled with my last orgasm, then fell back panting, my throat sore and my muscles tender. I couldn’t move, so I lay there for a few minutes in postcoital relaxation. Then I slowly dismantled. I untied my breasts, removed the cock from my ass, the pins and clamps from my breasts, and the njoy from my cunt and hobbled into the bathroom to wash up my toys and my cunt.

  I’d felt like an insatiable one-man band, every part of me stimulating another part. Riding the cock in my ass, my teeth pulling on the tit-clamp chain like a bit, one hand fucking my pisshole with the thick sound, and the other hand forcing jet after jet of come from my cunt with the njoy. This was the disadvantage to fucking oneself. It was difficult to roughly overtake oneself. I was hoping Lucky would change things.

  I learned the word insatiable when I was four from a picture book that my mother would read to me. I clearly remember her pointing to the picture of a little boy and reading excitedly, “‘More, more!’ he cried. He was insatiable!” I loved the word insatiable so much, and clearly took it to heart.

  I spent most of Friday in a state of panic. Would Lucky be turned on by my insatiable urge to fill my holes? For that matter, would I be enough for Lucky? Was I kinky en
ough? Could I give her what she wanted? I had forty-five years of BDSM notched into my bedpost, was incapable of being vanilla for any sustained length of time, yet I worried. Much of my experience was acquired outside of the leather community and Lucky had considerably more experience within the leather community. Suppose I was actually a BDSM dilettante, but didn’t know it? That everything I did was merely a dalliance…nothing. I hated my internal whining and insecurity, even as I knew that unsureness when starting an affair was normal. I dressed carefully on Friday. A Liberty of London orange floral paisley shirt, black wool vest, an olive-green velvet bow tie, pleated rust herringbone wool trousers, a tweed blazer, and olive-green captoe oxfords.

  I called my best pal Tov while I was at lunch. “What if Lucky doesn’t like me? What if she thinks I’m boring in bed?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Lucky has all this experience. Probably more than I do. Suppose I’m too vanilla?”

  Tov laughed at me, “Nervousness is such a turn-on for us tops. We love hearing bottoms get all off balance. And I know that you’re as kinky as they come.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You’re the top! What if they come with a toy bag stuffed with needles and singletails, neither of which I have much experience with and both of which frighten me?”

  Tov started humming “You’re the Top,” then said, “That is what negotiations are for.”

  “Oh fuck. I’m doomed.” I sighed dramatically. “Thanks for listening. I’ve got to go. We have a departmental meeting in two minutes. Love you. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Good luck with tonight. We’ll talk later. Bye.” Tov hung up laughing. At me, not with me. At least I’m pretty sure of that.