Best Women's Erotica(34)

I heard things. I saw the bruises, the smudges of red over fists. People told me to stay away from them; teachers grew concerned that I would try to exact some kind of childish revenge for the way the white boys treated the black ones. I was a tiny girl. What could I do? Besides, the way the skinheads treated the black boys was no different from how the black boys treated most black girls.

As an adult I still found myself craving skinheads. I’m no longer a little girl—even barefoot, I’m as tall as most guys I know. I soon discovered gay men who wore outfits identical to those that the fascists sported back in North London. I saw people reclaim the look, the tight lines, the shaven heads and the tattoos. But to me, it was always about the white boys strutting around as if they owned the whole bloody world.

My desire led me to Camden, to a warehouse where I had arranged to meet a friend of a friend, called Stuart. I was also to meet his “boy,” which was the real reason I was hanging around with the tramps and tourists on a hot Saturday afternoon.

Stuart, a tall solid man, met me by the stairs as I sheltered in what little shade I could find. He wore a black leather kilt, and boots the color of blood. He looked me up and down before he held out his hand. I gave him the agreed upon money—a clutch of notes in an envelope that he counted quickly in the shadow of the stairs.

He turned to me, speaking in a low voice. “I’ll not have my boy marked in any way.”

I sighed. “Is this little talk necessary?”

“I know what you women are like with all that cutting business.”

“I’ve got no interest in that.”

Stuart looked at me a moment longer before he inclined his head. I followed him. I could see up his kilt as he walked ahead of me, but it was his boots that held my attention.

Stuart’s boy stood in a corner of a large dusty room. He looked nervous. Like Stuart, he was tall with a shaven head; in his early twenties, I assumed. But unlike Stuart, this boy wore bleached denim trousers that stretched tight over his thighs. Stress lines in the fabric crossed this way and that.

“He’ll do just fine.” I put my large bag down.

“I’ll be over here if you need me.” Stuart pointed to a single chair against the wall near the door.

“You’re staying?” That wasn’t part of the agreement. I blew out an annoyed puff of air. I wasn’t going to start arguing about it now. “He got a name?”

“I’m Darren.” Stuart’s boy looked less nervous now, more pissed-off at being addressed like that by a black woman.

I smiled, took a step closer to the young man. He swallowed, looked away for a moment. I ran a hand over his thin belt; I would have preferred him to wear braces, but it would have to do. I hooked my fingers around the leather, pulled him to me. Darren grunted, but said nothing. I held his hand, pressed it to my jeans, to where the harness I wore beneath sat snug against my skin. I knew he could feel the buckles and rings when he smirked at me.

“Are you one of them chicks with dicks?”

He barely said the words before I smacked him hard across the mouth. “Excuse me?” I asked politely.

“Shit!” Darren touched his lip, which was already starting to swell.

I raised my hand once more. Darren flinched, looked to the corner where Stuart was. I felt a stir behind me, saw a shadow move on the dusty floor, but it retreated after a moment. I’d learnt this little dance from years of watching older boys intimidate younger ones. I’d memorized the way that force could be used—not in excess, so as to attract unwanted attention, but just enough to get your point across.

“Take them off.” I stroked down his torso for a brief moment before I stepped away. I watched as Darren peeled off his tight top.

All the times I risked life and limb by creeping into the boys’ changing rooms at school had finally paid off. I was no longer a little girl peeking around corners to see glimpses of flesh. Today, I was getting the whole damn show.

Darren had a smattering of hair over his tiny nipples. Blond wisps collected in a line down the center of his stomach, down to the tops of his pants where it got darker. He reached for the laces on his boots.

“Keep those on.”

“I can’t get my pants off if I keep them on,” he complained.

“Do yer best, Darren,” Stuart called out. I could have done without his input. I wanted the boy to concentrate on me, not his old man.

I unzipped my jeans and then bent to my bag where my black dildo lay among a variety of toys and tools. It only took a moment to fasten it to the harness I wore.

Darren took several steps away when he caught sight of my silicone erection. “You’re never going to put that thing in me!”