The Ceilings of Seattle

I looked up. I was visiting Seattle, and this was the first ceiling I’d seen. My boyfriend’s mother-in-law apartment had been refinished recently. The living room was paneled in real wood; not tacky rec room paneling, but rather 1930’s cabin resort fir planks. The ceiling was low and painted cream. I could see a thin crack the shape of Italy running diagonally near the northwest corner. It was clean and smooth, with no spider webs or dust. There was one couch, a wood and leather sling chair, a reddish Oriental carpet, and a music stand in the room, but not much else. Wine-colored velvet drapes hung at the room’s small window.

I was lying on a long brown leather couch watching Cory unpack toy bags. We had gotten into an elaborate game of show and tell – well, she was doing all the showing, and I was lounging about feeling younger by the minute. Maybe it was the paneling, but I felt like a 14 year old boy with a forelock of blond hair; someone who plays tennis and sneaks their mother’s Pall Mall cigarettes in the summer bushes. I could feel each grin become a little more crooked and boyish as she held up a leather mask, and then a handful of floggers and canes for my approval and inspection.

Cory wore canvas work pants, and a tee shirt with an orange and blue flannel layered over it. Her brown hair was buzzed, her jaw line firm, craggy-featured, and with a delightfully devilish smile. Sometimes she was a dyke and sometimes she was trans and sometimes she was a man. I liked it like that. I mean, what good is gender binary if you can’t de-bionize it? Not that I ever did that on any kind of formal basis; I was just an artist and non-academic that wanted to have fun. I couldn’t have deconstructed gender theory if it came with a socket wrench and a toolbox, but I did know how to fuck around.

I was wearing trashed out jeans and a white cotton-poly men’s shirt. It was a favorite shirt of mine; tight across my chest and translucent. The tattoos on my hip and biceps showed through the fabric which made me feel sexy. I’d gotten a fresh haircut before flying up to visit, and the nape of my neck still felt tender. My legs were propped up on the couch’s armrest. Cory kept moving quickly from my side, and then to the end of the couch showing me her collection of sex toys that she had accumulated over the course of 20 years.

I was enjoying watching her pop new toys from the four bags that were opened on the carpet. Each bag was some variation of broken-down, worn-out leather, with zippered compartments and airplane travel tags from 1981 to the present tied to their handles. LAX, JFK, SFO, PDX; she was well traveled. Leather, metal, and rope implements dangled from pockets and overflowed onto the floor. Some of the tools looked newer, and many had obviously been well-loved. Soon there were whips, floggers, masks, rope, chains, and dildos strewn about on all upright surfaces, except for me. I lay there, still boyishly ruffled, yet with an air of teen nonchalance.

Finally Cory stationed herself at the end of the couch, and started looming over me whispering filthy suggestions towards my ear. She started off by telling me how much she wanted to suck my dick. I don’t know how she was able to read my teenage boy vibe, but did and she ran with it.

“Ummmm, I can taste your dick”, she murmured. “So salty and sweet with pre-come. The head soft like velvet, and your shaft all hard inside your pants.” She reached down as it to rub my crotch, but stopped short. “I want to suck on your balls, roll them around in my mouth” she whispered.

I squirmed, flushed, and my hand shakily unbuttoned my jeans. I took my time with the buttons, partially because I was nervous, and partially because I wanted to tease her. Hell, I wanted to tease myself. I wanted everything drawn out like taffy; all slow and sweet and sticky. I bit my lower lip hard, feeling my pointy incisor almost draw blood. My hand traveled further down into my pants, but I kept my belt buckle fastened and my shirt tucked in. I felt like a man, just finding my cock like a missile or a guided rocket, caring nothing for the rest, and heading straight for the heat. I could see my nipples all hard poking up darkly through my thin shirt. As I imagined Cory pulling and twisting on them, they started throbbing.

Cory leaned in, eyes gleaming, and whispered more obscenities. I could barely hear her I was so intent on fitting my entire hand through the fly of my jeans to grasp my cunt. Once inside, I was so hard and slippery, that each time my fingers slid down from my clit to my opening, my belly twitched. I was rubbing myself, my forefinger and middle finger straddling my clit, feeling it get bigger and bigger until I thought that it really was my dick. I was jerking myself off, my fingers smelling of sex and imagined stolen cigarettes, all explosive and eager and not caring at all about anything other than the fire between my legs.

I kept on staring at Cory. She floated above me, keeping up a steady stream of filth about how she wanted to take my dick between her lips, lick my hairy balls, and rim my asshole with her tongue. She was smiling, her each word and her breath exploding from her mouth in little puffs. I wasn’t anywhere close to coming, but the atmosphere in the room had taken on a haze; the air appeared kind of glittery and foggy. I blinked, thinking that maybe my eyes had just gotten really dry, but that wasn’t the case. Cory looked sweetly ethereal; her face floating over her shoulders like a balloon, and her blue eyes shimmering with lust. The space around her head glowed with a golden light as her features started to shift and change. My fingers were tugging at my clit, and I pinched my labia roughly, digging my nails into my flesh as hard as I could. The sharp pain made me gasp and made my hips rise.

Cory’s face became broader and more angular. The air sparkled gloriously. Her sideburns lengthened as she started to change. She was being transformed into maleness, but she was unlike a man. She wasn’t straight or bi or gay. She wasn’t a man or a trans or a woman. It wasn’t like she was purified maleness, a distilled essence of manhood, or any other smarmy gender-fuckery. I don’t know, she was a man in some kind of abstract yet personal, I’m-going-to-suck-you-off-until-you-scream kind of way. And I was lying beneath her gaze, being exactly the kind of man she wanted to go down on, filling her mouth with me even as I looked up at her. I pulled my hand from my fly, licked my salty come from each finger, and smiling rakishly. And this was the kind of men we were.

About Avery Cassell

Avery Cassell is a queer butch San Francisco writer, poet, cartoonist, and artist who grew up in Iran.
This entry was posted in erotica, Smut and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

1 Response to The Ceilings of Seattle

  1. it echoes says:

    Ace blog. Great post.


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