Date: Fri, 08 Apr 2011 18:36:50 +0800 From: Marten Weber Subject: Elevator Man (m/m, encounters with strangers) The embassy is on the 13th floor, my office on the 6th. We meet daily, now that I have the timing right -- perfectly right, to be sure. I can now get off the bus, walk towards my building, and meet him at the elevators each morning at 9:20 with absolute certainty. I wonder though if it is only I who wants to be on time. Or is it mutual -- we practically meet every day! It's been a month -- a whole month. We first met when he looked frazzled and new here, when I caught him reading the names on the floor directory. Now he's already so familiar with his surroundings, he has his eyes glued to a smart phone most of the time, and walks like the rest of us -- inattentive, self-absorbed -- through the corridors, into the elevator, out of the elevator, out of the building, into a taxi or towards the bus station, without greeting, without nodding, except at the friendly guard, or the occasional acquaintance. He's turned into one of us so quickly. Somehow I thought he would hold out longer -- he looked the rugged type. He is tall, well built, with a narrow waist -- it's this which attracted me at first. All the other men in this building are in their forties and spend so many hours sitting on chairs, their bodies have fully adapted: slumping shoulders, thick thighs, bulging stomachs. He doesn't fit in yet: like me, he's too young, and still has the figure of an athlete. Maybe that's why we clicked. But did we 'click?' What exactly happened between us -- is happening between us? We are now waiting for each other in the morning, which you can still put down to coincidence. But then two elevators arrived at the same time, and he would have been much closer to the right one, and flanked by two young Asian women. But he jerked away from them, literally jumped, and joined me, stood again with his back to the wall, and looked straight ahead, and then, just before I got out on the sixth, looked at me, smiled -- held my gaze. It was a strange look -- too long for a silent acknowledgment. Too long to just mean, 'your floor, have a nice day.' So what is it? Is he so shy? Or just so friendly. Some straight men are, I thought then, politely smiling when they think you are coming on to them -- an embarrassment of attractions. In the second week, I started preempting him. I looked at him before he looked at me. I gave him the 'that's my floor look.' He recognized it, and now we are smiling at each other all the way. We get in, and we look at each other, all six floors long. It's not what you think -- it's not normal. We should have got to the point where one of us speaks, and says, 'Hi, I am Mark, I work for Intel,' and we are past the guessing phase -- does he speak English at all? -- if he works for the embassy he should, but you can't be sure. He looks well-educated, there's no reason to assume he doesn't. Is his English so bad he doesn't dare talk to me? Is that why he is shy? I don't know, as I said, didn't then, and now we are beyond this. We reached that point, he had his mouth open, and then... something happened: he noticed my hard-on. He stood there, wanting to speak to me, and saw the tent in my trousers. So he shut up, and we've stayed silent since. But not without communicating: now we dance. I tell you how we dance, because it is magical: we get in, and both lean against the wall. I lower my hand, just next to my cock, and show him how long it is, and how hard, and that it's outside the briefs. I put it there, each morning now, on the bus -- I come prepared. He responds. He licks his lips, or he reaches forward with the hand, never touching, but hinting at it. Last week he turned around, and showed me his ass; he smiled friendly afterwards -- but still, we didn't speak. Sometimes there are people in the elevator, and our game is more subdued. Sometimes we are alone, and we are more daring. I dream of the things I want to do to him. I dream about being naked with him, about fucking him: in the elevator cabin, on my desk, in my car. I wonder how hairy his ass is, how hard his abs. I wonder if he has that 'V' shape -- I don't think so, he's too much the intellectual type -- but he is thin enough. Last week we were in a crowded car, with four other people. We stood both pressed against the back wall, and then our fingers touched -- cautiously, as if by mistake. My floor came to soon; I was so close to grabbing his whole hand and never let go. On Friday, then, yesterday, we met again. There was the usual crowd around us: two women who work for the tobacco company, the white-haired lawyer from the ninth floor. We thought just then we were out of luck: too many people. No chance for privacy. The leftmost elevator arrived. Everybody got in, everybody jumping forward, hurrying, pushing even, elbowing their way in, until the car was full, and we were left standing there, just the two of us. He turned sideways and smiled. I wanted to say 'we'll get the next one' -- it would have been so natural. But it seemed so wrong to break the spell. Yes, we were under the spell, only to touch, to feel, to covet with our eyes, and never to talk. The next elevator came quickly. Nobody else had arrived to wait. We stepped in. I could see on his face how happy he was, how the initial frustration had turned into joy -- we would be alone again. The doors closed. The cabin moved. He took his position even before, pressed against the wall, standing so close to me I could smell him -- and I did. I leaned into him, I let my nose run over his shoulder, to his neck. It was a fresh perfume, very light, barely there in fact, and mingled with his own body odor. He smelled of young man, of sweat. I wondered if he worked out in the morning before he came here. I wondered if he'd just been running, or to the gym, exercised his muscles there, trained hard, then showered -- naked, I had him naked again before my eyes and he was beautiful. My silent partner moaned and his frame sagged a little. He pushed out his hips. His eyes were closed and his head raised. I kissed his jaw, again his neck -- the faint trace of a of shower gel. His hand found my waist. he pulled me closer -- then he sighed; he opened his eyes. They glinted. But before I could enjoy him more, before I could kiss him, finally, on the lips, his beautiful pale lips -- I saw him looking at the floor display, the numbers changing from four to five. I saw the disappointment. One more floor, and we would be apart again, for another day. (Wasn't it time we spoke? Wasn't it time we gave each other's names? I asked myself.) And then it went dark. The cabin stopped suddenly. It was such a soft and smooth halt, we did not immediately understand that we were stuck. The emergency light flickered briefly, then died down, leaving only a faint green glow. There was but a sliver of light coming in from the under the door a sharp white line which fell right into his eyes. I observed him: he looked at the now dark display, the light, the ceiling, then the door. Surely now, I thought, we would talk. We will finally get to know each other. People do that, in emergency situations, when oddness intrudes and the rhythm of everyday life is broken. We will surely... His lips were suddenly on mine. I looked into his eyes: there was a hurricane of lust. We parted and he wiped his mouth: his mouth was contorted, quivering wildly. The sweet, expressionless face, the courteous smile was gone. It was a grin now, a lascivious, demanded grin: he wanted me. His mind was working differently, he wasn't thinking of talking at all. He moved fast: knelt down, tore open my fly, fished out my hard cock, and swallowed it. He held it in his hand, squeezed it hard, looked up at me with hungry eyes, and sighed again: the wait, the tension, the desire of all these weeks, it surged out of him. And then he said his first word. The first time I heard him speak. He took my cock again, all the way down, swallowed it, holding onto my buttocks, impaling himself till I I could feel the tip of my cock reach down into his throat. His eyes watered up, his face grew dark, until he pulled out, looked up at me, and said after a little cough to clear his throat, --Finally! The dam had broken: now we were together. I pulled him up, kissed him, reached for his belt and struggled to undo it. --I want you... he said, but our mouths wouldn't let go of each other, or tongues wanted to be together. --All this time. --What's your... --Fuck you are... We talked simultaneously, venting all the pent-up questions of the last month, but not one sentence was finished. Language wasn't enough, it wasn't quick enough to meet our needs; we had to be together, skin on skin, we had to feel, in this strange twilight. --God I hope we are stuck long enough... I managed to undo his belt and his pants dropped to the floor with a thud. --I don't even know your... I wanted to know his name, I wanted to find out everything about this gorgeous man who'd been teasing me so long... I wanted to stop, sit down, talk, know him --- but not now. He stripped down his briefs, and I felt both for his manhood and for his asshole, sticking in a finger with such urgency to assert myself: this is me, this is my finger inside you, where it belongs. I've wanted to see that ass for so long. It was nearly as hairy as I expected. --Oh, fuck yeah... I wanted him to know how much I desired him. How often I had dreamed of being inside him, how deep I wanted to fuck him. He let out a groan, spat in his hand, and turned around. I wanted to do so much more! I wanted to kiss him, touch him, lick him, but now his ass was here, naked, round, firm -- his pink hole spread as he pulled it apart. In the beam of light, I saw precum on my cock, glistening, shimmering green. I watched myself in the mirror wall, wondering how long it would take them to fix the problem with the elevator. He sensed my hesitation, he turned to look at me, kiss me and whisper, --Quick! Fuck me! I plunged in. There is no other word; I didn't waste any time. He screamed briefly, there must have been some pain: I saw him bite his lips. But he wanted me. His hands reached back to pull me closer, and I couldn't stop. I fucked him, hard, and without any more pauses. I stopped thinking... around me the cabin dissolved into a shapeless black space. We were floating together in mid-air, free of gravity, my cock all the way up his ass, deep inside his softness, and the only sound was that of him moaning, sighing, pleading with me. --Please, yes, fuck me. --I've wanted this so badly. --Why didn't you? --Why didn't I what? --Why didn't you just take me? --Take you where, how? I pumped harder and harder, faster and faster. He had his hands high up against the wall and worked with me: his ass pushing back, gyrating, welcoming my cock and playing with it. I was close. I didn't know what to do. I let him know that I was about to cum, and he bent round, grabbed my neck, pulled my mouth towards his, and before we kissed, whispered, --Come inside me. Don't pull out. Come inside me. We stayed like this, our mouths locked, he jerking his cock, mine inside him, bursting its seed deep into his bowels. I felt the wetness spread. He had shot his load up the wall. The very same moment, the lights came on and the elevator moved. I was so startled, I reached down to pull up my pants only after a pause, barely managing to fasten the belt when the doors opened at the sixth floor. I stepped out and turned, holding the doors apart with my foot. He was trying to bring up his own pants. His cum was running down the wall in four thick streaks. I knew where mine was, and I looked there: It was such a beautiful ass. He saw me, leaned forward, and kissed me. He reached for my jacket pocket and slipped in a name card. Then the doors closed. --- You may also enjoy /nifty/gay/authoritarian/public-procurement/ More about my writing on www.martenweber.com Books available on amazon and through smashwords. 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