Steel Eyes




Some people meet for the first time and have a drink. Some have drinks and then sex, and some...just skip the drinks. Alex Winthrop was flexible—although this time, something was different.

She felt this girl enter the store before she even saw her. She felt it on her skin the way a canvas would feel a brushstroke if it could, and every follicle on the back of her neck stood and chilled her.

“Can I help you find your size?” Alex asked the girl rummaging through the shelves stacked with trendy blue jeans. She practically had to shout over the screaming guitars on The Allman Brothers song “Whipping Post,” which she had blaring through the speakers.

“Twenty-eight, extra long,” the girl answered. “Dressing room?”

Alex pointed to the back of the little store on Fourth Street, just off Seventh Avenue in the beatnik-turned-hippie evolution of Greenwich Village in Lower Manhattan. To her, this particular defining moment consisted of a shared sideways glance and the dressing room in the back of a patchouli-incense-fogged basement boutique.

Alex found two pairs of the bell-bottom jeans in the size the girl wanted and brought them to the dressing room. When she got there, the girl was wearing only a black lace bra and matching French-cut panties. Alex stared at the perfect V of her cleavage formed by voluptuous, round breasts that curved amply above the cup. Beneath the fabric, the nipples were erect even though the room was warm. Alex’s gaze drifted upward into the sultry stare, then to the full lips begging to be kissed.

She’s young, too young for me, Alex thought. She drank in the vision of the smooth and milky skin and the long, straight blondish hair that splayed around the girl’s form.

The girl pulled her into the tiny room, and slid the bolt shut like punctuation, like an assumption that this moment meant more than what it did.

Alex dropped the jeans and shoved the girl up against the wall, their passion all-consuming. Their kisses grew wetter and deeper. The smoldering heat from their bodies smashed up against each other reeked of longing and the surrender of inconsequential youth.

The girl pulled Alex hard against her and gasped when Alex ripped the panties off her body. Alex kissed her harder. The girl reached down, unzipped Alex’s jeans and slipped her hands into the back pockets. In one fluid movement, she dropped gracefully to her knees while sliding them down and off.

Alex braced her back against the wall, felt the hot breath beneath her, then let the girl take her somewhere she had never been. To a place where sensation trumped reason, where her skin tingled and her heart pumped hard.

Their introduction was guttural and breathless, exhilarating and jarring at the same time. The sensation of those luscious lips made Alex’s body go weak, made her legs watery. Alex stroked the long hair below her, then, holding that gorgeous mouth in place, she treated herself to the longest climax she’d ever had.

The girl stood and kissed her, drawing Alex in with no more than her desire. Alex pulled off the bra and feasted on the breasts before her, reaching between the woman’s legs. With one swift move, Alex laced her hands around the girl’s inner thighs and hoisted her upward. The girl wrapped her legs around Alex’s hips and Alex took her deep, not relenting until the girl fell limp against her.

The song “Whipping Post” played on and The Allman Brothers sang about feeling as though they were bound to a whipping post—tied, to a whipping post.

Alex never did get the girl’s number...or her name for that matter.


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