Eye Candy

He gives me the eye and crosses his arms over his naked chest. It would be effective if his half-limp cock wasn’t hanging out of his pants, covered in purple-pink lipstick smears and glitter.

“It wasn’t a problem when my lips were wrapped around your cock,” I point out.

Said cock twitches like he can hear us and would like to give some input. I gesture to his penis. “I think he agrees.”

“I think you need to see what I’m talking about. It’s pretty distracting right now, and when I’m inside you, like I plan to be very soon, I’d like to able to kiss you without feeling like I’m in some whacked-out sci-fi movie.”

“Fairies are fantasy, not sci-fi.”

Now it’s Bancroft’s turn to roll his eyes. He spins me around, tears my wings off, and pulls me back into his chest.

I know what’s coming. He’s going to take me to the bathroom so I can get this lipstick off. I’m pretty sure he’s overreacting. Bancroft likes to show off just how strong he is and picking me up like I’m an oversized doll and toting me around is one of his favorite pastimes. Okay. That’s untrue, sex is probably one of his favorite pastimes. But I actually quite enjoy throwing down the stubborn card just so he’ll pull this move on me.

Except he doesn’t wrap an arm around my waist and carry me away. Instead he cups me, fingers pressing against my clit through the unfortunate barrier of shorts and panties. He slides his hand farther back. Oh my God, what is he—and then he lifts me up. By my crotch.

“Seriously, Bane?” I cross my arms over my chest.

It does nothing to deter him. In fact, his left palm finds my right breast, presumably to make me more secure. And honestly, the way his palm presses against my clit is rather enticing. As I result, I don’t struggle to walk my own ass to the bathroom.

He uses his shoulder to turn on the light. He’s slow to set me down in front of the vanity, and even when my feet hit the floor, he doesn’t move his hand away. Either one. Although the one between my legs shifts, and the pressure to my clit becomes more direct and purposeful.

“See the problem?” Bancroft’s mouth is right beside my ear, lips brushing my cheek.

I’ve been so caught up in sensation, and the anticipation of what’s coming, that I almost miss the issue. “Oh, wow.” My eyes go comically wide, which with the current eye makeup makes me look rather demonic. Purple-pink lipstick and glitter are smeared all over my chin. It appears I’m a bit of a sloppy dick sucker.

While I get to work on the lipstick smear removal, Bancroft makes a show of getting naked behind me. He’s about to start on clothing removal for me, but I clear my throat, looking pointedly at his black socks.

“I’ll get to those when I’m not standing on a tile floor.”

He hates cold feet almost as much as I loathe socks during sex.

“You should probably do the same to your unicorn horn.” I toss a pad soaked in makeup remover at him and he stands beside me at sink, rubbing it up and down his quickly hardening cock, swiping away glitter and the purple-pink lip prints and smears. After a minute of rubbing and three new cosmetic removal pads apiece it’s better, but I still have all sorts of glitter stuck to my face, and there’s a very distinct pink hue to my chin.

“Do you want me to take off the eye makeup, too?”

“No. Leave it.” Bancroft yanks my panties and shorts down my legs.

“Because it’ll take too long and you’re impatient?”

“That and it’s hot.” He slips his finger between my legs and any snarky comment dies. “Come on, naughty fairy, I’m hungry and you’ve got exactly what I’m starving for.”

*

Two days later I’m sitting in the lobby of the Concord hotel, waiting for Amie. I’m pretty much glitter-free, although I swear there’s still a pink tint to my chin, and I haven’t needed lipstick at all for the past couple of days.

Bancroft hasn’t tried very hard to remove the remaining purple-pink streaks from his dick, proudly wearing the remnant of my lipstick smears. Not that anyone other than me is going to see it, but he seems to think it’s rather funny.

Anyway, the purpose of lunch with Amie today is twofold: we must sample their appetizer selection for the Halloween soirée, and any excuse to hang out in the middle of the week is a good one.

It’s already one in the afternoon, but I’ve only been awake for little more than an hour. My performance schedule means I don’t go to bed at regular hours and I sleep late. Amie, on the other hand, has likely been up for at least seven, if not eight hours. Since five forty-five, I’ve received at least fifteen text messages with thoughts on this party we’ve been given the go-ahead to plan. My fun Halloween get-together is turning into a huge deal. I hadn’t fully considered the implications of what this would become if we were given access to things like the Inception Ballroom, and Armstrong’s apparently endless pocketbook.

Yesterday we were officially given the green light, which means Amie’s already in full-on party planning mode. While the soirée—the official, pretentious label given to this event—is still weeks away, we honestly don’t have a lot of time to get things organized. Typically these events take months of planning. Or so I’m being told by Amie, whose messages have grown increasingly frantic and detailed in the past two hours, but stopped suddenly just over an hour ago.

While I wait for her to arrive, I send messages to Bancroft. Well, not so much messages as emoticon vegetables illustrating what I plan to do to him when I get home from my performance tonight. Often I’m going to bed just as he’s starting his day. It’s been quite an adjustment for both of us. But Bancroft has learned how to appreciate being woken at five in the morning by my vagina alarm most days of the week.

I don’t hear back from him right away, which means he’s probably in a meeting. I check the time. It’s after one. It’s very unusual for Amie to be late for a lunch date. She’s typically waiting for me.

Less than a minute later she comes bustling into the lobby. She’s carrying her purse and a gym bag. Windblown hair frames her face, which is also atypical. Not her face—that’s gorgeous—but her unkempt hair. Amie is usually very polished, and more so since she started dating Armstrong.

“I’m so sorry I’m late.” She drops her gym bag and comes in for a hug.

“It’s fine.” I give her a squeeze. “Is everything okay?”

She releases me from her death grip and adjusts her skirt and blouse as she explains. “I thought I could fit in a yoga session and still be here on time, but two of the showers weren’t working and there’s this woman who always hogs the mirror after the lunch classes, which I don’t understand since she doesn’t even work up a sweat.” She swoops down to reclaim her bag. Slinging it over her shoulder, she nearly takes out a woman carrying her Chihuahua in her purse. The tiny dog expresses its displeasure in yippy barks, scaring her owner and several people close by, including Amie, who skitters behind me.