By Margo Perry  (margo707 AT rogers DOT com)
Copyright 2003 by Margo Perry, all rights reserved.

It was past 11:00 PM when Alvin Thomas stabbed the hold-key in the service elevator lock and twisted it impatiently. He leaned into the heavy cleaner’s trolley, urging its unwieldy and unbalanced wheels through the open door and along the carpeted hall of Fortune 8 Magazine’s 54th floor. His pressured nerve ends had sent increasingly more painful messages to his lower back every time he moved a stick of heavy furniture or bent his six foot four frame to clean under the pieces that were immovable. He wanted to scream; he wanted to go home. Well, one more office to go and he’d be done for the night.

A searing pain streaked across his lower back, down the length of his right leg and stopped him dead in his tracks. He wanted to cry, not from the pain - he was used to that - but from what this chronic sciatica had stolen from him, the ability to dance, really dance. He could feel tears, anxiety and anger building, a bilious ball of unexpressed grief lodging itself in his belly and it grew too big to bear. He breathed deeply, willing himself out of his body and away from the disabling spasms.

I have no pain … I have no pain ...

He repeated the mantra that got him out of his bed every morning …

I have no pain … I have no pain … I have no pain …

Got him through every day …

I have no pain … I have no pain … I have no pain … I have no pain

Soon he felt himself floating ceiling-ward. He looked down at the lean muscled thirty-three year old man, at the prematurely white shock of thick curls and watery blue eyes. Short, raspy grunts were escaping from the man’s loose lips and his face was an emotionally blank wasteland. He felt sorry for him and guilty, like he should be doing something to help him. He felt sorry for himself. He was an angry, but impotent angel, hovering, looking sadly down at himself.

Life had robbed him of his dreams in increments. First, he’d been accepted into a college graphic arts program, just before his father lost his job, making attending impossible. Then, he’d decided to give dance a try. (He’d been taking classes ever since he’d seen ‘A Chorus Line’ as a kid. He loved to dance and besides, he was the only boy and he loved the girls even more than the classes.) He went on endless rounds of auditions only to be told that as good as he was he was too tall. When he finally found a choreographer and company that wanted him, he was ecstatic, but pain had already begun to gnaw at his back. After performing for about six years, he was invited to choreograph his first piece, but the crippling condition forced him out of the company before rehearsals even begun.

Now, his days were built around therapy sessions and his nights around this rent paying janitorial job. He moved the trolley along, vacuuming as he went, and the dual contraption was getting heavier with every step. Loneliness oozed out of those corporate walls, pressing against his chest. He missed his company friends, music and dance. He missed the women, onstage and off. He concentrated on the hum of the machine, the distant drones, the occasional clanks and the muted whirring sounds of the building’s automated maintenance systems. They soothed him somehow.

The pain had eased, as much as it ever did, and Alvin could feel himself settling back into his body. He sighed with relief, pushed open the door to the publisher’s suite and shoved his cart through it.

It was the first time he’d been assigned to these offices. Floor to ceiling windows stretched the length of the space showcasing the city lights beyond them and still reflecting the images inside. The sleek modernity of the desk, cadenza and other furnishings were graceful accents in this minimal, but exciting space. If all the other rooms he’d cleaned with their opulently carved mahogany antiques reminded him of old male money, these sculpted and artful appointments reminded him of new dreams. Alvin left his cart and walked toward the windows. He imagined this was a dance studio. He imagined he was here for a rehearsal. He stood tall and began to move. Stretching his arms above his head, he shifted his weight into one hip, reaching through his back and shoulders and arms to his fingertips. He swayed into the other hip, breathing more deeply, stretching longer, feeling a titillating pleasure flush through him. He bent his legs deeply, moving his arms gracefully downward, feeling the air as he passed through it. He wasn’t wearing a dance belt to contain and protect his balls, so they felt heavy and threateningly free. He imagined a woman close behind him and he pressed his ass back into her waiting crotch, flattening his back forward. And when he recovered, his cock tingled as he imagined pressing it insistently into her waiting, groping hands. God, he loved this. God, he wanted a real woman. It had been so long. He looked into his mirror window, checking his dancer’s form and began the stretch again.

“What a gorgeous sight!”
The velvety voice was as deep and mysterious as the approaching midnight, a sultry accompaniment for movement that rose slowly up from the black leather couch, a black out of black vision, an alluring ghost. She was like hot liquid rising into a stream of erotic steam. Alvin stared, his cock on alert and his heart pounding with shock and stimulated beyond safety.

“I was hoping you were more than a dream. I was waiting for my masseur. I must have fallen asleep.”
How important she must be to have a masseur on call at midnight! Alvin was impressed … and envious.
The woman seemed to drift in front of him. Chiffon flowed over a slender frame and the respectful distance she placed between them was intruded upon by breasts that heaved out of her chest like massive rounds of jellied lava.

“You’re a beautiful dancer,” she whispered, her pretty face flushed with admiration.

She moved away from him and over to an end table. She picked up and punched a remote control. Soon, soft light filtered through a peach lampshade and the band, Chicago, played a pulsing Latin rhythm, a set-up for their delightful version of the Malneck/Mercer tune, “Goody Goody”. Alvin had danced to it once. He liked it.

She stood in front of Alvin again and he could feel an animal magnetism pulling him toward her. The woman stood at least 5’9” in her stocking feet and had the lithe tuned body of a dancer herself except, of course, for her overwhelmingly huge breasts. And Alvin loved them. He spent hours watching videos of women seducing him with their words and attitudes and . . . breasts. Making him touch himself. Making him stop because it felt too good. Making him want more of them, more of their tits. Making him want to squeeze, kiss and fuck them. And he had never been this close to perfection, not in the flesh. And it made his face red; it made his knees weak.

Her cat-grey eyes held his as she spread her legs wide, matching his stance. What he had thought was a skirt turned out to be a pair of very loose fitting pants, topped off by a scoop-necked matching blouse. He loved the soft drape that set off the exquisite creamy expanse of her breasts and the intricate lacy design of her bra. He could see her defined torso beneath the diaphanous material, and the toned muscles of her legs were outlined under her filmy bottoms.

“Ready? Let’s do it, then,” she said. “Let’s start at the beginning. And a 5-6-7-8…” She counted them in.
Alvin was blown away. She was a trained dancer. He stretched his arms high and looked down at the woman who was matching his movements perfectly in placement and rhythm. He watched the tempting shift of her shoulders and tits as she moved her arms; he watched the pendulous droop of her breasts as she bent over; he watched as they continued to sway seconds after she was erect again and still. And all the while he marvelled. She was a jungle beast, moving with the primitive beauty of an animal that accepted its perfect relationship with the earth, its subsequent sureness of foot and breath. Its power over all it surveyed. She moved as though the great Jazz Master, Luigi, had developed his warm-up just for her, and Alvin absorbed her every nuance until the two of them were moving as one. I was like they were fucking and the large bulge in his jogging pants extended itself lewdly, tenting itself against the folds of his overalls. Alvin was embarrassed, but there was nothing he could do about it. Maybe she wouldn’t notice.

“Oh my,” the woman said, staring at his cock. “I’m very impressed.” She kept dancing, rotating her shoulders, making her cleavage deep enough for Alvin to lose himself in when she circled forward. Making her breasts lift in great waves of flesh as she stretched her shoulders up and back. She dropped one hand to casually feel her crotch. “Hotly and wetly impressed,” she said. “Dancing with you is making me crazy.”

“Me, too,” Alvin panted. “Me, too.”
The section ended with the two of them stretching to one side and then swooping down to the floor in a glorious arc and back up again. Alvin twisted his neck back and forth as he went, hypnotized by the sweeping scope of her magnificent bosom, and heard himself laughing hysterically when a large gob of pre-cum spurted out of him. He was worried that she would think he was laughing at her, but he needn’t have. She was laughing, too, silvery peals that tinkled out of a perfect smile between gleaming white teeth.

“Wow,” she said, moving toward the couch and plopping down on it like an excited child. “Who the hell are you? That white hair, you look familiar.”

“My name is Alvin Thomas . . . ”
“Destiny Dance Company,” she exclaimed, “I’ve seen you dance. You’re amazing! What are you doing here?!”
“Night cleaning crew,” he said.

“My name is Marianne Wootten and I’m publisher of this magazine. Now that we’ve gotten the basics out of the way, who are you really? Tell me about your dancing.” Alvin hadn’t moved. “Look if you’re worried about getting your work done, I’ll take care of that.”

Marianne bounced off the couch, ran across the room to her desk, grabbed a trash basket and rushed to empty it into the large trash-bag that was mounted on Alvin’s trolley frame. “There, all done,” she announced emphatically. “Now come sit and tell me about yourself.”

In one quick movement, she grabbed Alvin’s hand and pulled him after her toward the couch. The movement took him by surprise and he stumbled as a sharp pain knifed across his buttocks.
“Oh,” he groaned, before he could stop himself.

“What’s the matter,” Marianne asked, releasing his hand and looking back at him with concern.
“It’s my back. No big thing,” he said, following her and eased himself onto the couch.
“Is that why you’re not dancing now?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s a big thing. Talk to me,” she said, turning to face him. “How long have you been away from the company? What’s the prognosis?”

“I’ve been off for four months and no one will commit to a prognosis. I don’t have much hope of performing again, but I would like to choreograph, teach company classes, something … ”
“I guess you’re doing therapy?”

“Something just about every day: massage, yoga, acupuncture. Classes when I can.”
“I can’t imagine that your back likes janitorial work. Why are you doing that?”

“My dad’s friend is head of maintenance here and was willing to give me the job knowing that I’d make it as temporary as I could. Not something I should be telling the magazine’s publisher,” Alvin laughed, “but dancers don’t make enough money to save and I have to pay my rent.”

“Most artists are taken completely for granted. It’s a damn shame! Look, I’m starving. I went to a work-related cocktail affair tonight and came back to here to work, or sleep as it turned out. Are you hungry? I haven’t had a thing to eat since lunch. I’ll squeeze in my massage. Pizza alright? Feel like a bite?”

She spoke her mind like a song in progress, rushing from one lyric notion to the next. Alvin was charmed. She had a soprano face and a sexy alto voice. She had the sleek, disciplined body of an athlete and the voluptuous gargantuan breasts and deep alluring cleavage of a courtesan. She was obviously a trained dancer and the publisher of an ultra-successful financial journal. And she was kind and completely without guile. Alvin was bewitched.

“Alvin?”
“Sure. In fact, I am. Pizza would be good.”
“Any favorites, any no-no’s.”
“Anything. I like everything. You choose.”
“Okay and while I order, why don’t you get rid of that damn trolley and sign out.”
“Okay,” Alvin said, already heading toward his equipment and the door.

His back ached, but through a haze of giddy excitement that completely numbed its effect. It had been a long time since life had thrown him a curve and he threw himself into the spin of it with all his heart and mind. Marianne’s tits were enough to thrill him, but she danced like the partner he’d always wanted and she was a person of such intoxicating enthusiasm that there was no room for ordinary emotions or reactions. In the world she created, it was perfectly normal for a publisher and a janitor to meet for the first time, dance and order pizza. In the world she created it was inevitable that Alvin would feel immediate lust and already love, before their first bite.

It took forever for the elevator to reach the 54th. floor and ride back down to the basement. Alvin shoved his supply trolley and vacuum into their slot, climbed out of his overalls and hung them in his locker. He wished he had something other than his jogging suit to wear, but part of his therapy was to power walk the few blocks to work. Besides, to look like he was worthy of Marianne, he would have had to have worn his tux. No, he was completely out-classed here and he looked like the janitor he was. That was as it should be, he scolded himself. Stop dreaming.

All of a sudden he was in front of Marianne’s office. He didn’t remember climbing the stairs to the first floor or signing himself out. Time had lost its rhythm. The Swiss had left the watch, taken Alvin’s head with it, and all he felt was good.

“Follow me,” Marianne said as he came through the door. “Let me show you the rest of the suite.”
The rest of the suite extended the entire length of the floor and included a bathroom right off the office, a hall leading to a kitchen, a small living room / dining room area, a bedroom with en suite bath and a small dance studio with a Wall Barre, mirrors, treadmill and massage table. “I’m a workaholic. I spend a great deal of time here,” she explained. “Don’t worry, you wouldn’t have had to clean all this,” she said laughing. “This convenience was my idea and I pay for it.” Alvin believed her. “Please sit,” she said, gesturing him toward a living room couch.

The dining room table was covered with a maroon linen cloth. Matching wine glasses sparkled in wait for the opened bottle of Merlot that breathed all kinds of possibilities into the air. Chocolate brown plates, maroon napkins, and smooth gold plated utensils gave Alvin a glimpse of Marianne’s sensuality. Was she a spider luring him into her seductive web? Alvin surely hoped so.

She poured wine, offered Alvin a glass and toasted to ‘meetings that were meant to be’. They sipped and chatted and he discovered that she’d auditioned and been accepted into Destiny years before he even knew the company existed, when she was only fifteen. The only ‘problem’ had been her overly large breasts, and the condition for her joining was that she would consent to an immediate radical chest reduction. She’d refused and, accepting the inevitable, had relegated dance to the ranks of a passionate hobby. She studied both economics and journalism at university and conceived the idea of this bio-based magazine before graduation. She would name the eight most interesting financial personalities of the year and write in-depth features about them, their lives, their accomplishments and plans for the future. It had become a list that people would bribe, seduce and kill to be included in. Her focus was less about how much money was made and more about how it was made and spent. Some people on the list were billionaires. Others had yet to see their first million. And all were people she liked. Before they finished their second glass, they’d shared sketches of their whole lives. The phone rang, interrupting their chatter, and Marianne answered.

“Send him up. I’m also expecting some food in forty-five minutes or so. Thanks. Yeah, very late night.” She hung up, left the room and came back with a robe and a towel. “Jeff’s on his way up. I want you to enjoy the massage. You need it more than I do and Jeff has magic hands. Grab a shower if you like.”

Ten minutes later, Alvin was naked under a towel that was draped modesty across his backside and he was being worked on by the best masseur he’d ever experienced. He was almost asleep when he was asked to turn over. He turned over to see Marianne standing at the foot of the table. She had changed into a one-piece cat suit that clung to her curves, cinched her small waist and stretched over her massive breasts like a second skin. One look at her and six months worth of hunger and downright horniness filled Alvin’s cock past its capacity. Pre-cum oozed from its tip and it stood ramrod erect, making a joke of the towel that covered him. He was embarrassed and had no idea what to expect. Marianne was just standing there, smiling. And the longer she stood doing nothing and saying nothing, just smiling that seductive sly smile, the longer Alvin’s cock grew. The more it spit into the towel.

“I’ll take it from here,” Marianne said.
“Okay,” Jeff said. “I’ll wait around if you want me to do you.”
“I can wait till tomorrow and thanks for coming out at this ungodly hour. Call it triple time,” she laughed.
“See you tomorrow,” Jeff said hurriedly, already heading for the door.

“I’ll walk you out.”

When Marianne came back, she stood at the foot of the table. “Just close your eyes and enjoy. Have I mentioned that I love your white hair. How long has it been so white?”
“Since I was about twenty-one. Seemed like it changed overnight. It’s in the genes. My father’s turned white in his teens and … ”

Marianne was manipulating Alvin’s toes, massaging his foot and he was lost in that pleasure and in his own daydreams.

…His imagination wrapped his right foot in Marianne’s breasts, like a little baby, and she caressed it and planted little kisses on it. She sucked his toes. He closed his eyes tighter. Only in the dark could he imagine the exact warmth and wetness of the mouth that was making love to him. Only in the dark could he concentrate on his desperate prayer that this night might never end. His left foot twitched in jealous, vicarious greed. Alvin squeezed his nipple because he had to, because he had never felt such an itching, raging pleasure before, had never noticed the length to which horniness could make his nipple grow long and sensitive. He wanted Marianne to nibble and suckle it. He wanted to bend his head and suck his own nipple, leaving Marianne to crawl and kiss her way along his leg. Leave her nibbling at his knee.
“How does that feel?” Alvin looked at Marianne in surprise. She was lightly touching his upper thigh. Her fingers innocently grazed his balls. Damn, she was gone, back down to his other knee. Massaging it gently. Alvin wanted more. Alvin wanted his fantasy.

. . . Alvin closed his eyes again and Marianne began to tickle his knee cap, her breasts resting heavily on his leg. He hadn’t known that his knee was an erogenous zone. He felt like his whole body had been attached to some intricate whole body horny-making machine. Every inch of his skin she touched made every other inch feel good. His whole body was on an erotic high that put him right at the edge of that orgasmic cliff and he was about to fall. He could no longer differentiate from what she was really touching and what he imagined.
She seemed to sense how dangerously horny he was though, when to back off, how to save him. God, he grabbed a breath, willing his dick to get smaller. Just a little. Feel just a little less. Just for a minute.
“Are you enjoying your massage?” she asked coyly.

Alvin opened his eyes and nodded. She was massaging his torso, passing too quickly over his nipples.

. . . He closed his eyes again and Marianne climbed onto the table and sat back on her heels between his knees. Grabbing the edges of her top, she slowly pulled it up over her waist and ribs. Alvin guessed that the material had some elastic properties, the way it clung as it struggled up and over her gargantuan breasts and over her head. Her bra was a lacy strapless concern that could barely hold her. Her tan and pebbled areole peeped into view. She folded her arms under them, rocking them, making Alvin crazy with their sway. She reached back as though to undo it, set the girls free, but she changed her mind. Instead, she ran her fingers teasingly over Alvin’s torso, stopping to trace his nipples with her fingernails, to scratch and then bend over and suckle them wetly and loudly. She then straddled him locking his pulsing cock beneath her pussy and began t to rub, roll over and hump him. The feel of chiffon, drenched in her heat and wetness, was driving him crazy. He wanted to fuck her. Real bad.

“Please, Marianne, I can’t take much more. I ….” He hadn’t meant to speak.
“Much more of what, Alvin? Do you want me to stop?”
“No,” Alvin said, almost harshly. “Please keep touching me.”
“Okay,” she said, rubbing his shoulders and neck.

. . . In the dark silence that followed, Alvin felt her lips. They were soft and wet and loose, opening softly, the lips a man falls into without any intention of ever crawling out. Alvin felt her tongue dart across his lips and then it was gone. He felt her tongue on his cock. He felt her shoving herself against his hardness, heard her excited groans. She was using him for her pleasure and he loved it. He thrust back at her, felt pressure building in his balls. And still he was falling inside her mouth with his lips and his teeth and his tongue. His tongue was getting longer and thicker as it probed inside her mouth like his cock was getting longer and thicker as it sought her pussy, and he wanted more. He wanted to remove her cat-suit, plunge into her. Passion was building inside his balls, stretching his legs long and hard and taking his breath away. He wanted to fuck, Marianne. He had to fuck Marianne.

The phone rang. Alvin couldn’t believe it. The phone was ringing.
“Oh God,” Alvin groaned, opening his bleary eyes into a present that he resented more than he could say.
“It’s our food,” Marianne said, kissing his forehead playfully. “I have to get it.”

Alvin lay there stunned after she left the room. He had never been so horny, so left hanging in his life. He listened to his own breathing, drifting painfully out of his fantasy. After a few moments he looked down at himself. His cock was limping toward normalcy, but his mind was as horny as ever. He managed to dress and join Marianne in the living room.

“That seemed pretty intense. I could feel it.” That’s all she said.

The pizza and Caesar salad was the best Alvin had ever tasted. Or was it the company? They had another glass of wine and talked and talked. Finally, Marianne looked at her watch and said, “Oh my goodness, it’s ten past three. I have a tough meeting at eight and I need to get home and prepare. Can I give you a lift?”

“That would be nice. I’m about four blocks south of here. 34 Canyon,” he said. Anything to spend a few more minutes with her.

“Let’s leave this,” she said gesturing. “My darling Molly will take care of it in the morning.”

Alvin assumed that Molly was her maid and would have cleaned up himself if it would have made him her darling.

She called for her car and it was waiting at the front door when they left the building. She gave the driver Alvin’s address as they climbed into the back seat and sat close enough for their arms to touch. Alvin wanted to grab her, to kiss her, but he couldn’t face rejection. He wanted the car to break down. He was counting the blocks in a panic only three, two to go.

“Well, tomorrow’s Saturday. I have a massage scheduled. He could do us both. Want to work out and then do the massage thing?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice shaking. “What time?”

Well, he’s scheduled for three. I’ll let him know there’ll be two of us. How about you meet me at the office about one.”

“One it is, then.”

They were short minutes from his apartment and only the thought of meeting her later kept Alvin from begging her to take him home.

“Goodnight, Alvin,” Marianne said, leaning into him.
Her breast pressed against his arm. “Whew,” Marianne said breathlessly. “I had a wonderful time. You are very special.” She held Alvin at arm’s length, looking at him quizzically. “You’re a lovely, lovely surprise and I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

The car had stopped and the driver had opened the door. “I look forward to seeing you, too,” Alvin said.
Marianne touched his cheek and then put her hand around his neck and crawled into him. Her lips were soft, wet and loose, the lips a man falls into without a safety net. Alvin felt her tongue dart across his lips and then it was gone. He felt her leg climb over his, heard her intense breathing. Her kiss became more open, looser, more demanding. Finally she pulled away.

“Don’t make any other plans for tomorrow,” Marianne said. “I might never let you go.”
“Promise?” Alvin asked.

He stepped out into the early morning chill. He was shivering as he crossed the street to his apartment, and he was still shivering later in bed as he pulled his knees toward his chest and his blanket up over him. But it wasn’t from the cold. It was from the excitement that had been growing inside him since the first moment he danced with Marianne. He remembered the pain that was his constant companion, but for the first time in many months, it wasn’t registering. He fell asleep like a happy child on Christmas eve. He couldn’t wait for tomorrow!