Elevator Man

March 2023 - Nellskitchen. All rights reserved. This story or any portion thereof may not be reproduced without the writer's express (written) permission. All characters appearing in "ELEVATOR MAN" are over eighteen.

*

She was late. Fortunately, the elevator was not. Empty, it sat there, doors open, ready to take her to the hotel's swank Apollo Room. There, the office party was well underway.

Having stepped quickly through the hotel lobby and with her thoughts steeped in this morning's disillusionment, she mechanically strode to the vacant stainless steel box. Upon entering and about to press button number twelve, she heard a deep male voice say, "Eleven."

Looking up, she hoped that her eyes would not betray the slender alarm his unanticipated presence aroused. She wondered just how noiseless a man could be to have entered the elevator undetected.

Concluding he had to have been right behind her in the hotel hallway, she set the question aside, veiled her surprise with a counterfeit smile, and politely pressed number eleven for him and twelve for herself. After that, and in keeping with elevator protocol, she pretended distraction.

Through the following moments, she stared at the advancing floor numbers as they lighted in ascending order above the door. Feeling the man's eyes on her, she sensed she was being imbibed, then, half-reluctantly conceded the feeling was probably her overly-charged imagination.

The awkwardness of the commonplace elevator setting lasted through the next few seconds it took to reach the man's eleventh-floor destination.

She wondered if he noticed she had dressed alluringly in preparation for the evening's event. Perhaps the man's attention, if it was real, meant she had achieved her goal, that the emerald green, sleeveless halter evening gown, whose selection, facilitated by the three pounds she shed to fit into it, had done the trick.

Chosen to highlight her laser-green eyes, she lectured herself that any hint of sexiness was unintended, that attracting some random stranger was beyond her. Instead, she was dressed for business, a display of authority through the next three hours designed to keep her staff in line for the next six months. There was nothing more, or that is what she told herself.

Three floors into the ride, curiosity got the better of her, and she glanced his way. His eyes, fixed below the 'Wall Street Journal,' fold, stayed fixed. Disappointingly, he projected harmlessness, though the furtive moment allowed her the chance to get a good look at him.

Standing six feet and more, he appeared athletic. He was slender, his broad shoulders accentuated by the black dinner jacket he sported like a tight-fitting glove. Some men just look good in formal clothes; he was one. He was about her age and modeled a sharp Vandyke; his hair was black with a sprinkling of gray, and his features chiseled, distinct. Besides the goatee and his apparent physical fitness, he reminded her of Nick, her husband. Her inspection complete, she speedily looked away.

Seconds later, the elevator stopped, its doors whooshed open, and, without comment, he stepped out. As the doors closed behind him, she indulged herself and, pursing her lips, drew a long deep nasal breath. Like a feminist thief, she scarfed his retreating fragrance; as with any good cigarette, he was both pleasurable to inhale and bad for you. Absent cologne, he left a singular maleness in his wake.

Her mind returned to her immediate concern, the twelfth-floor office party. She hated such things, not traversing floors with handsome, stealthy men but appearing at parties like the one to which the elevator was about to deliver her.

More than hating them, she loathed that her husband, away at one of his things, had left her obligated to attend on her own. Love him though she did; at times, Nick was inconsiderate. He should know, for instance, how self-conscious showing up alone at hospital-related functions made her feel. He should have canceled his outing to be with her. She hated office politics. Nick knew she was duty-bound to make believe she relished projecting enjoyment through every sickening moment. Worse, her supervisory responsibilities required it.

Dr. Belinda Burke, a general practitioner affectionately nicknamed 'Billie' by her husband, had twenty years of experience in medicine. Her husband, Nicholas Faught, M.D., was a surgeon and practiced for twenty-one years. Their two children, honor students Daniel and Margarete, attended private school and were the couple's pride and joy.

The family lived as such families do, in a gated community, in a sprawling white house. The ultra-private backyard was made to order for naked swims on hot summer nights, occasionally topped off by a hot fuck, Belinda's definition of family fun.

On occasion, Dr. Fought chained his wife to a patio pole where he beat her with his belt, leaving her bruised and swollen before retreating to the family room to watch the Guardians lose to the Yankees. Belinda did not complain. She not only accepted Nick's discipline, she understood her emotional well-being, and lust for attention demanded it. Following one of his 'treatments,' she uncomplainingly admired her bruising. She patiently waited for her body to heal while yearning for the painful, fulfilling measure's inevitable repetition.

To the casual observer, Belinda Burke's life was every woman's envy. Yet a measure of emptiness came with it and stalked the couple's relationship. An inexplicable thing, it dwelled deep inside her and never entirely went away.

Therapist Emily Ellison, Ph.D., M.D., thought the issue simple and conjectured the beautiful physician suffered from a poverty of abundance, that she had accomplished too much, and that accomplishing too much might have been too much. The thought unsettled her patient, who dismissed the shrink's diagnosis as laughable.

The elevator suddenly stopped, and upon exiting, Belinda slipped into the cocktail party where, subduing her innate nervousness, she wandered about the room, in the process, clinging to the sidelines. In so doing, she touched superficial base after superficial base, her destination, the bartender to whom she motioned for her drug of choice, a margarita, straight up.

Once accomplished, she worked her way to the opposite side of the lounge, far from the insufferable multitude known as her colleagues. Once apart, she skirted the small talk typical of half-looped doctors in bunches.

Three-quarters of an hour into the annual happening, Belinda, bored, annoyed, and nursing her drink, nodded here, lifted her glass there, nursed more, then trained her eyes on Case Western's newest, snobbiest, most self-assured and fashionably late medical staff addition. An eye-batting rookie, she was quick to manipulate the department's stupid, mostly married, elder statesmen, several of whom she had already wrapped around her finger.

Tallish, long-legged, striking, the newbie moved poetically about the gathering. She made her way through the merriment from one to the next and the next, attracting the attention of the men but, above all, of the women, who, like Belinda, eyed her suspiciously.

Though it was neither the time nor the place, Belinda knew she would eventually need to address the neophyte's escapades. Now, however, Dr. Malixa Mal continued in her direction and, annoyed at the thought of making chitchat with the approaching phony, Belinda further separated herself from the swirling crowd of pandering physicians. She sought additional inconspicuousness and gravitated to what looked like perfect apartness near the fire exit.

There, appropriately present but less exposed, Belinda set her drink on a countertop upon which several vases bursting with fragrant, long-stemmed roses rested. Disinterested, she leaned forward on her elbows and watched the comings and goings.

Among the flowers was an imposing marble statue of the demure Greek goddess, Daphne, and her pursuer, Apollo. Hinting at the thrill of the chase and feminine surrender, Belinda discreetly raised her glass to the impassioned lovers from classical antiquity.

Taking advantage of her out-of-the-way place, she savored her drink through its slim straw, felt her tension subside, and thought back to the man she encountered in the elevator.

Something about it, about him, his aroma, his fetching features, stubbornly clung to her. As a married woman, she did her best to make the memory cease, and closing her eyes; she refocused by breathing in the sweet smell of the exquisite flower sprays, hoping their perfume might distract her enough to put him out of her mind. However, he proved stubbornly erotic, and their fleeting non-encounter refused to budge.

To counter it, Belinda reflected on her success, thinking the lofty administrative position she attained in medicine might subdue recollections of 'elevator man.' It did not. Next, she returned to the noxious Malixa, smoothly flitting and flirting through the revelry, displaying a level of surety other women love to hate. Casting friendly eyes about the place, Belinda whispered to herself, "Egotistical cunt."

Irritated, Belinda retreated to the private world of her inner self, the shelter to which she withdrew whenever boredom, annoyance, threat, or all three, compromised her surroundings. It served her well, and shutting her eyes, she blacked out the man and, in his place, conjured something safe: this morning's non-encounter with her husband.

Since it was Saturday, she had followed their customary ritual by intentionally awakening Nick in the usual way; by carefully disengaging the stainless steel ball stretcher she made him wear on weekends. Its purpose was to loosen his sack in anticipation of their early morning romp before the kids came bounding down the stairs demanding breakfast. With skilled fingers, she gently stretched her husband's scrotum and, as he awakened, took a single, loosened testicle into her mouth. Rolling it with her tongue, she gently engulfed the second one. Sucking it hard, she watched his lazy eyes brighten.

From that awkward, chock-full o'nuts position, she surveilled him and carefully, but not too carefully, mouthed the delicate objects. Looking up over his tummy, she sought what women seek, a welcoming smile, a clue to husbandly desire. Like a drug, Belinda craved Nick's sperm, just as she did back in medical school, where, pampering him, she played alarm clock by sucking him to completion every morning before class.

Today, Nick's smile, though appropriately instant, instantly faded, meaning Belinda's instant objective, an instant fuck, instantly faltered. Even with a mouthful of testicles, she knew sex was off the table. It was half past six, and Nick's morning jog, a daily fixation, was two hours overdue. Frustratingly, after glancing at the clock, the driven man reached down with both hands and expertly disengaged his spit-covered scrotum from the heat of his wife's zealous mouth.

"I've got to run," he said, adding, "literally." Off he went, leaving Belinda to herself. Moments later, with the kids noisily descending the stairs, she quietly brought herself to an empty orgasm. That afternoon, Nick flew off to a conference in St. Louis. He kissed her goodbye as she preened to attend the evening's party, the one from which she now needed to quietly remove herself.

Belinda had done what was required of her, and the time had come to escape the menagerie of gossipy chatterboxes. As the thought took root, the impossible jarred her. Her eyes shot open; startlingly, her ass cheeks knotted.

"Don't spoil it," a male voice calmly commanded as his hand glided over her shapely buttocks. "Just act normal; do what you're doing."

"I'm not doing anything," she insisted. "And keep those hands to yourself."

Ignoring her order, he briskly added, "Bullshit, you're doing plenty. I've been watching you; you're inspecting the party like you examine a patient. You're sizing up that perky new Resident, the one fawning over the dimwitted guys you work with. Forget all that. Act as if I'm not behind you. I'll see to the rest."

His familiar yet unfamiliar voice promptly brought to mind a handsome face, his haunting features tethered to a single word, eleven. With split-second precision, her outrage lighted like a glittering marquee. Belinda faced a hideous question: how is it that she, a physician, head of her unit, mother, wife, and lover, stood shamelessly frozen instead of turning to slap the man's face? She needed to, but the ligature her body had knotted itself into stayed knotted, icing her brain and puzzlingly crippling her otherwise iron will. She should have reacted to his uninvited touch like any married woman; inexplicably, she hesitated.

Though only having heard a single word from him in the elevator, she remembered his tone. It was firm, forceful, terrifyingly tempting. The rest had been eleven floors of deafening silence. Belinda knew what to do, but after suffering the embarrassment that accompanies hesitation, the best she could come up with was indignation. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

"You haven't smacked my face, doctor, so I assume you already know the answer to your question. You're a woman; you need to be touched. I'm the man doing it."

She hissed at him but did not turn about; instead, she eyed her staff, which, she determined, had not picked up on the moment's outrageous happening. "You have a lot of nerve. Why are you even at this party? It's private." Drawing a long sip from her drink, the startled but rapidly calming doctor shifted her bottom. He noticed and construed it as consent.

By then, he had run his palm over both cheeks of her ass. Absent protest, he grew emboldened and moved his hand further down. Hoisting her gown and slip, he raised them to the band of her panties. Deftly, he snaked his fingers into no man's land.

Halfway through a sip and appalled that she was not appalled, Billie choked and nearly dropped her drink. She brought her free hand to her face and muffled an anxious cough. Miraculously, she maintained her balance, even waving to the detestable Malixa, who, just then employing her signature fake smile, forced herself to acknowledge her supervisor's presence.

Belinda clutched her margarita but remained in place. Yet again, she did the inconceivable; she did not turn to face him. She ridiculously thought that her disgraceful behavior might be happening for a reason: payback for her husband's indifference that morning. Just as suddenly, and jump-started by her training, sanity kicked in. It had gone too far, and it was time to fire both barrels of feminine authority, to meet him eye to eye; instead, she vacillated.

"I should call security," she threatened, shifting her bottom again to accommodate his arrogant touch. "Tell me who you are," she demanded, "and, for the last time, stop, or I'll make a scene."

"No, you won't," he calmly asserted. "If you had bigger balls, you would have done it already."

Inching closer, he thrust his fingers downwards into the furrow of her curvaceous behind. Her anus, still swollen from indulging her husband's recent inclination to backdoor pleasure, tightened. Finding no resistance, he thrust his hand more firmly and, with his index finger, systematically circled the tingling hole, prompting her to constrict. Belinda's eyes, scarcely slits, riveted to her oblivious staff.

Leaning forward, she pushed her drink out of reach, nervously clutched the counter's surface linen, spread wide her fingers, eyed her wedding band, and whispered, "Stop it, please!"

He did not, and she gasped as he forced his index finger into her orifice. He pressed triple digits between her butt cheeks, then into the off-limits cavity reserved for Nick, the man golfing with his buddies, who should be there protecting her from herself. The moment screamed of nerve, arrogance, and misogyny.

Belinda's nipples hardened; her education, independence, medical skill, and faithfulness to Nick faltered. She was an open book and knew any attempt to stop him would prove ineffectual, that slapping him amid the party meant scandal, that letting him have his way meant admitting she wanted more. It was a thoroughly exasperating circumstance for a highly trained woman used to being in control.

Why permit it? The question taunted her. Devoid of a suitable answer, she stared straight ahead and focused on the new Resident just then wading through a doting crowd of male naiveté. Her mind went blank. His fingers, aggressive, drove deeper into her bottom. He leaned against her and pressed his legs to the backs of hers, his strength overcoming her willowy form.

Belinda's muscular thighs tensed as the man whispered into her ear. "Don't disappoint me. I need you. Don't make this more than it is. Here's the key to room 1111. Take the elevator and come to me. You're going to suck my cock."

Belinda had spent the last sixty seconds allowing this man to shred her common sense; to prove it, she insisted, "You're out of your fucking mind! What man fingers a girl in the ass without introducing himself?"

"What woman allows herself to be ass-fingered without insisting a man introduce himself?" He replied.

In a quandary of bafflement, Belinda nervously added to the mess, insisting, "I...I can't just go to your room. I need to ask my husband first. He's...he's..."

"...he's at a conference," the man finished. "He's wrapped up in his own thing: golf. Fuck that. When was the last time you sucked off a guy who wasn't Nick? Do it for me. Give me a blow job."

Disregarding the golf comment, Belinda uneasily returned him to her primary concern. "I told you, I'm married. Going to your room involves my husband's consent. If he agrees, then maybe I'll do it. I'll text him."

He forced his stiff fingers deeper into her rectum, and Belinda, outraged at her own behavior, squirmed. She drew a breath, held it, exhaled, and managed to eke out a final, desperate urge. "Yes," she acknowledged, "I'll do it. I need to text Nick."

Having succeeded, the man extracted his fingers from the doctor's anus, slipped his hand from her panties, smoothed her gown in an oddly polite gesture, then put his pungently scented fingers just under Belinda's nose. This final humiliation made her stand straight, and turning away, she fumbled with her purse and pulled out her iPhone.

"I can't do anything until...well, don't expect anything from me if Nick..." Stopping, she finally turned to face him, but he had gone. The hallway leading back to the elevator was empty.

"Don't expect," she whispered into the nothingness. "Not not...anything...from...except...for...except for one blowjob, one."

Setting aside her bewildering conduct, Belinda dropped the man's room key into her pocket and, double-checking on her staff, realized that Malixa Mal had been watching. Ignoring the younger woman's piercing glare, Belinda nervously texted her husband. To her surprise, he texted back:

Belinda: 'Hey'

⸎⸎⸎⸎⸎NICK: 'Hey. How's the party?'

Belinda: 'Boring. You should have fucked me today.'

⸎⸎⸎⸎⸎NICK: 'How about a raincheck?

Belinda: 'Sounds nice, still disappointed, no, pissed off!

⸎⸎⸎⸎⸎NICK: Sorry, but I need to run. The guys are waiting.

Belinda: 'You needed to "run" this morning, too!"

⸎⸎⸎⸎⸎Nick: That was different. Still need to run.

Belinda: 'Wait...there's this guy...'

⸎⸎⸎⸎⸎NICK: 'So?'

Belinda: 'I don't know him.'

⸎⸎⸎⸎⸎NICK: 'And?'

Belinda: 'He's cute...looks like Apollo...wants me to suck his cock.'

⸎⸎⸎⸎⸎NICK: 'Very funny.'

Belinda: 'No, really...gave me his room key.'

⸎⸎⸎⸎⸎NICK: 'Ha Ha—that's it? Just a BJ?'

Belinda: 'That's it!!!??'

⸎⸎⸎⸎⸎NICK: 'Gotta run. Golf outing in five.'

Belinda: 'What about the blowjob?'

⸎⸎⸎⸎⸎NICK: 'OK with me, if OK with you, hon. No swallowing, though.'