The hunter becomes the prey—being seen, noticed and caught before willingly giving in and topping the scene. The only question that remains is, who's playing what role when?
If you enjoy this story, please let me know. You can write to me at: firstname.lastname@example.org You can also find out more about me and what I write on my website www.bigbadbutch.com .
As I stood behind the couch, delivering a line that had gotten huge belly laughs from the audience every night the show had played, I glanced about the theatre with a slight grin on my face, and that's when I noticed her...
Our eyes locked for a moment, and under the heat of the powerful stage lights I felt a jolt of energy even greater than the adrenaline I was already experiencing.
Anyone watching would've thought I was merely waiting for the laughing to subside before continuing with my next line, but she and I both knew the truth: I was locked into those gorgeous green orbs, locked in time and place. A slow smile eased its way across her face, and then I knew for sure that she knew, and that she was here for that very reason.
I suddenly realized the laughter had stopped and everyone was hanging on for my next line. I brought my focus back to the stage, and tried to pull my thumping heart back into character...
The first time I heard her voice was during the kind of godawful freezing rainstorm only a Michigan winter can provide. The sort that has your wheels spinning in circles while cars all around you fishtail into curbs, each other, and anything else they can find.
Her voice that day, as she narrated the traffic situation on WGLT, was that deep pitch you feel right in the pit of your stomach—y'know the type I mean, the voice that makes you believe she's thinking of sex. But there was something else to it—an edge of taunting clarity, a certain cockiness, something that makes you know she's as sure of herself as a redneck at a tractor pull.
Since that day three years ago, I've followed her as she moved up the ladder of the Detroit radio market—first a traffic reporter, then her own late night and weekend shows as a DJ, jumping from one station to another, with me always hot on her tail. Now she was back on mornings, during the coveted early morning drive in to work. Who needs coffee when you've got that velvety smooth voice to greet you in the morning?
Because I work in advertising it's never been difficult for me to find her when she moved from one station to another, that information has always been right at my fingertips. So was the location of her very first remote, which I attended, as well as almost every one since. Sometimes I just pop in for a quick donut and glance if she's at a restaurant in the morning, or I pretend to actually go shop if I'm in the mood for a longer look at those beautiful legs, slender build and long curly red hair that frames her face and green eyes so perfectly.
She first caught me with her voice, then got me in deeper with her looks, but, of late, it's become something more...
Going to all these remotes I've gotten to know her, the real her, not just the radio personality her. I like her sense of humor on the radio, when she's teasing the other deejays or playing with a caller, but in real life it's apparent she really does like people and interacting with them, and I love watching her do this. I love watching her smile when she picks up a baby, tousle some gangling youth's hair, reach out and lead someone by the arm up to the microphone, play tough guy to some asshole's snarl.
One day I was following her into a mall and a book dropped from her purse, Wuthering Heights . Another day I watched her place an old woman in the audience whom I later discovered was her grandmother. In all the rumor mills in this town's ad community I've never heard one negative word about Erika Hill, not one.
One of the few things halting the flames of my crush was that I had no reason to even remotely suspect that she was a lesbian, none until now, that is...
Erika Hill hit the button on the control panel, letting out Fred Flintstone's Yabba Dabba Doo all over the city's airwaves. “It's quittin' time in the Motor City,” she purred into the mike. “And we're here to jam you all the way home on our all-request drive at 5.” She hit another button, setting a CD to play yet another song while she checked the settings for the next commercial block. She never should've agreed to take the afternoon drive, but someone had to cover while the normal DJ, or “personality,” as he insisted on being called, took a vacation.
She glanced down at the folded newspaper sitting on the chair next to her and grinned. Miss Jamie McKnight was in for a surprise tonight, that was for sure. If she could ever get out of here and over to the theatre on time.
She had first noticed the cocky little butch just over a year ago at a remote she did for a new grocery store. It was one of those chain megastore thingies, although she couldn't remember just which one anymore. Through her few years in radio, all the remotes were blending together so she couldn't remember one from another.
The one thing she could remember was that drop dead gorgeous woman. Those dark eyes, the near snarling little smile, the short hair neatly brushed back over her ears. Sometimes the eyes, the things that had first caught Erika's attention, were hidden behind the black lenses of expensive Ray Bans, and sometimes the slender, yet obviously muscular, frame was clad in a suitjacket, whereas other times found her donning a black leather and jeans.
Erika could imagine the woman pinning her down, holding her in strong arms while she ripped open Erika's shirt and popped the buttons on her jeans. She could also imagine wrapping her arms around those strong shoulders and biting that tanned neck, exposed in a neckless white silk, or, better yet, black silk pirate shirt.
Erika sat back in her chair, lightly running her tongue over her lips. It had been far too long—far too many days of flirting with guys, pretending to be something other than what she was—selling her soul to the devil for a job, for a way up the ranks to her own morning show. Soon she would be there. That was what she kept telling herself. But surely she could permit herself this one little distraction. After all, what was this woman but a two-bit actress? A gorgeous, absolutely edible one at that, but she was working out of some little theatre regardless.
Erika took another glance at the article in the Detroit News . It spoke of local queer theatre, and contained a photo from one of the plays currently going on. The photo had a group of five people, and, in it, was her little mystery butch with her arms wrapped around another woman. The play was that night at 8.
The lights went down and the curtain music, Sister Sledge doing “We are Family,” came up. Joan and I quickly rushed to kneel upstage of the couch, out of sight of the audience, and waited as the other actors cleared out and the stage lights came back up. The others entered, two by two, and went downstage to take their bows and then it was time for Joan and myself. We walked to the center of the line the others had formed and bowed, then grasped the hands of the others and, as a single unit, bowed again.
I tried to spot her but the bright stage lights were right in my eyes, blinding me. Suddenly, I felt someone touch my leg, and I looked down.
Erika Hill stood there with a dozen red roses.
I suddenly felt as if the stalker had become the stalked.
Erika glanced at her watch. 10:30. She was used to already being in bed by this time. And she wouldn't mind being in bed sometime soon, as long as it wasn't to sleep.
Working the morning drive meant she had to be at the station by 6 am, but it wasn't like her very tightly secured closet left much room for a social life anyway.
Jamie McKnight was obviously a woman used to being in control—her eyes expressed her amazement at being handed the roses. Erika could now either let Jamie reclaim her control, and play into it, or give the woman a bit more of a challenge. In fact, right now, she felt like being aggressive, taking charge. But first, Jamie had to come back out.
She sipped her soda and joined a group that was deep in discussion of the play. Making sure that she could see the door she supposed the actors would come out of when they were done changing costumes, she half-heartedly joined in the discussion of whether the play was a comedy or a farce.
“Well, the first act didn't really even have any farcical elements to it...” one woman began.
“But you've got to admit, the second act was over the top,” another woman countered.
“It seems to me it was two one-act plays, with a common theme and characters,” Erika said.
The first woman stopped and looked at me. “Y'know, I know I don't know you, but your voice sounds so familiar.”
Erika knew things weren't as bad as they once were—after all, WDRQ had an openly gay drag queen on their morning show, but still, anyone in the public's eye had to be careful. “I don't get out much, so tell me, is that the replacement for ‘What's your sign?'”
Fortunately, before the woman could give any sort of outraged reply, Jamie appeared. She came striding across the stage in Doc Martens, ripped blue jeans, and a T-shirt that was torn at the collar just enough to reveal a bit of her collar bone. The roses were in one hand while the other held a simple black leather jacket tossed over her shoulder. The overall effect was of someone who didn't give a damn.
Erika felt a surge of heat rush through her body.
When she noticed me coming at her, her big green eyes belied the cockiness she had had just a few minutes earlier. I had rushed in getting my costume off and dressing in my civvies again, hoping against hope that I wouldn't be too late, that she would still be there when I went back out.
One look into those eyes told me I'd had nothing to worry about.
I had her. Voice and all. Now I just had to reel her in.
I stopped at the edge of the stage, which stood just three feet over the theater's floor, and looked down at her. I leaned toward my left, with my thumb hooked into my pocket, and then realized that probably looked kinda stupid, what with the flowers in that hand. So I jumped down off the stage and walked up to her.
She was a bit taller in person, standing next to her and all. A bit taller than myself, in fact.
“Thanks for the flowers,” I said with a slight grin, turning on the charm.
“Your performance was wonderful.”
Her smell was intoxicating. A light airy scent that hinted at a thought not quite remembered. I had always thought her smile was fabulous, but now it was beyond a doubt that she was wasted on the radio. She needed to be where people could see her. See those long legs, that beautiful hair, slender figure, penetrating eyes, and...
“I've noticed you at some of my remotes...”
...and hear that incredible voice. “Just a few of them. I guess you could call me a fan.”
Several of the women Erika had apparently been talking with gathered around me, asking questions and congratulating me on my performance. She stood back with her arms crossed over her breasts as I spoke briefly with each of them. Her tight blue jeans clung to her shapely legs, tight ass and left little to the imagination.
Fortunately, as an actor, I have a bloody wonderful imagination.
Her top was just loose enough to outline her breasts and arms. The open collar revealed a nice cut of her collar bone and showed off a tiny labrys necklace lying on the soft skin just above her cleavage.
I love collar bones, especially the sort that jut out just enough to be defined from their surroundings—pictures that show too much aren't anywhere near as much of a turn-on as something that just hints and leaves me to fill in the blanks. A woman in an off-the-shoulder dress can just about make me come with a simple smoldering gaze. The softness of her skin, the hints of the full breasts that lay just beyond the top of the dress...
Full soft breasts, hard nipples, trim belly, skin as soft and smooth as the well-cared for leather of a beat-up old biker jacket...
Someone was asking me something... whether the play was a comedy or a farce... but all I knew was that Erika Hill was just a few feet from me, staring right into my eyes...
Erika leaned back against the wall, trying to remember how to flirt, how to be a femme fatale. Trying to remember the days before she got into radio, when she was still free.
Jamie obviously had no trouble flirting. She probably didn't even notice the way the women were looking at her. Didn't know the effect she had on them, was clueless as to how she was flirting back with them: she was who she was, didn't hide it and didn't care.
Erika envied that. Envied and admired it... She enjoyed watching the women around Jamie, enjoyed watching all the women still hanging around the theatre, flocked around the cast. There were even some boys flirting with the male castmembers, but it was the women who interested her, especially the women around Jamie.
It was obvious that Jamie was becoming as impatient with these hangers-on as she was, for she kept looking up at Erika, looking deep inside her with those mysterious, dark eyes.
Their eyes met, and Jamie winked at her before flipping a cocky smile.
Erika allowed her eyes to slowly work their way down Jamie's lean muscular body, from velveteen brown eyes down to polished black boots, pausing at critical places along the way.
It seemed like ages later, but was probably less than fifteen minutes, that she and Jamie were the only ones left in the theatre. Erika had a vague recollection of people talking about going out to the bar, and Jamie saying she'd lock up the theatre, and then it was just the two of them, standing a dozen or so feet from one another. Jamie's back was to the theatre door, which she had just locked behind her, and Erika's back was to the wall—she was leaning against it, with a foot propped up.
My heart was racing, my breath was shallow, I was trying to keep my cool, keep my composure, but I was sure I was gonna lose it.
Here was Erika Hill, the woman I had been listening to for years now. And she had just given me roses and sultry looks all evening long. I couldn't count the number of times I'd been driving down the road, listening to her voice, and considered unzipping my pants and slipping my fingers inside, to caress myself to those tones, to that voice that was already caressing me so much like a touch itself.
She was sizing me up, just like she had so obviously been doing all night long. Taking me in in a slow glance, from boots up my legs, pausing at my crotch, up over my tight stomach, resting at my shoulders, examining my hands, probably imagining how they'd touch her...
I advanced on her, the adrenaline from the show, from being on stage, only increasing with our proximity. I knew I was still a bit sweaty from the heat of the stagelights, from the anxiety of the performance. And I had a feeling she liked it.
Sometimes you know words will only kill the mood. Will only stop what should happen. I had never before seen her in a gay bar, never heard a single rumor about her, never gotten a single indication in any way that she was gay, but everything about her said that she wanted me—from her body language and the way she approached me, to the tone of her voice and the fact she hadn't protested when I locked the two of us alone together in the theatre.
As much as I wanted to hear her voice while I did her, I knew that wasn't possible.
She took a step toward me. I stayed glued to the wall, wanting to go to her, but unable to.
Her lips were against mine, her tongue in my mouth, every inch of her body pressed tightly against mine. I wrapped my legs around her strong waist while she carried me with those strong, rippled arms across the theatre to the stage as if I were simply a prop, some piece of paper she'd use on-stage.
I groaned, and she put a finger against my lips.
“Don't say a word,” she ordered. I wrapped my lips around the finger. She put my ass down on the couch then leapt to her feet. “Stay right there.”
With a few easy strides she crossed the theatre and climbed the ladder to the lighting booth, quickly playing with the switches till the theatre was filled with total darkness and the hard beats of Prince until, out of the darkness, bright lights filled the stage, centering on the couch where I sat.
She came back to me, emerging from the darkness like some sort of ethereal visage, a goddess emerging from the mists of Avalon...
She pushed my legs apart, stretching them wide so she could kneel on the floor between them. I leaned forward while she grabbed both my wrists in one hand, holding them tight behind my back while her mouth blazed a trail from my mouth, down my cheek and chin and down into my shirt, burning wherever it touched.
I groaned, needing more, oh so much more, and squirmed under her grasp, struggling to free my hands. She roughly opened my shirt, then my bra, almost ripping my clothes off, seeming almost as eager as I.
She wouldn't let me get any of her clothes off, but then I was naked, stripped down, lying on the couch with her crouched next to me. Her lips were on mine, her hands burning a trail across my breasts, down my stomach, teasing between my legs.
I was arching up, trying to entice her to take me, to use me. Those dark eyes were watching me, staring at my every breath, taking in every piece and particle of my body under the heat of the bright stage lights.
A slight grin touched her lips as her eyes traveled the length of my body. I stretched out, planting one naked foot on the floor and tossing the other leg up over the back of the couch, laying my arms up over my head, knowing she was enjoying my body and liking that she was.
The lights left nothing hidden, every inch of my body was open and exposed to her. Her fingers went down between my thighs while her teeth clamped onto my nipple.
I knew I was wet, I knew I was greedy, but I couldn't help it, her strong arms and fingers just went where they pleased and I gave up even trying to fight against it. I knew there was no use trying to be coy or playing hard to get. She could take what she wanted and do what she wanted to me.
And I wanted her to do whatever she wanted to.
She arched up, her legs spread as wide as she could get them spread. She couldn't've been spread better if I'd had her tied down. I knelt between her legs and pushed them just a little wider, leaning over her, trailing my tongue down her breasts, over her belly and right into her cunt, which she shoved up into my mouth.
I pulled away from her as she groaned. She reached up and grabbed me by my leather, pulling me down on top of her.
What she didn't know was that when I had changed out of my costume I'd put on a little something extra for her... And now I unzipped my pants to let her see the little gift I had wrapped just for her.
At first she pulled away, her eyes very large, but I grabbed her by the hips and pulled her back onto me, onto it, and I pushed it in all the way.
“Oh, god, Jamie!” she screamed as she took it all. I pulled her onto my lap, my hands on her hips as she rode my cock, as we pushed it in and pulled it out, my mouth clamped onto her breast, whipping my tongue over it. My hands went down to her cunt, rubbing it gently as the tool went in and out and my fingers toyed with her wet pussy, her swollen clit.
“Oh god Jamie, please Jamie!” she screamed as she came. I relished every syllable as it came out of her mouth, passing through those luscious red lips. Loving how my name sounded riding her waves of passion.
I knew whatever reason or motive kept her closeted so thoroughly entrenched in secrecy, wouldn't allow her ever to see me again, so I had to commit each moment of this to memory: the texture of the couch caressing our bodies, the lights that left no secrets, the pounding music that futilely attempted to cover any thoughts except of action. The look of ecstasy on her face as she screamed, the way her hair draped across her features in reckless abandon, the pitch her sensuous voice took as she toppled over the edge of forever... Each detail lodged itself in my brain, even as my mind's eye saw her in each moment of our past, and the two became melded as one.
I couldn't get enough, first her fingers and her mouth, then the dildo, then her mouth again before she used her fist, we went on and on, all night long, throughout the theatre. This was surely what a one-night stand was meant to be.
I used her, needed her, for hours on end. Then, finally, as the dawn began to break, with the taste of her still on my lips, she pulled me up into her strong arms and held me. As I rested my head on her breast I was comfortable for the first time in years.
We began to doze off, but I suddenly knew that I couldn't sleep with her. I leaned up, looking at the eyes that had watched me all night, down the aristocratic nose that was perhaps a little too big and over the mouth that was turned up slightly in a smile.
I looked into those deep eyes, relaxed now, and thought of all the times I had looked into them in the past, remembered how they had first drawn me in, led me on, brought me here, and I knew that if we spoke or slept together, I wouldn't be able to leave, not ever.
I was more relaxed than I had ever been before. I had no idea how wound up I had been. I almost wished I had given her some way of getting back in touch with me again, for yet another night, but that night, under the stage lights, had to remain a fantasy—far removed from anything in my normal life.
Monday morning, after the show, I still had a grin on my face, even though it was off to another unending meeting with yet another ad agency, trying to help our salespeople sell more time to more advertisers... And I was Erika Hill, the morning drive, heterosexual personality again, flirting with all the boys as we walked into the high chrome and glass building and took the elevator up to the media department on the fifth floor...
We entered the conference room, filled with a dozen or so account and media types, all in their nice, professional suits, ties, heels, make-up and uptight smiles...
And looking worse than any drag queen that even Harvey Fierstein could create was Jamie McKnight, without her leather or T-shirt, but with that grin I knew so well slowly spreading across her face, as our eyes met...
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