Page 84 of The Dommes

“What’s wrong with me paying it? Not like I can’t afford it.”

Here’s the scoop: the Mathisons and the Allens have a similar net worth when you put us together, but I’m sure Ira’s fortune is larger than mine. She works more high-profile jobs while I run around doing charity. I’ve made quite a bit of money on my own thanks to my family, but I admit, a lot of my fortune does come from my trusts. So does hers. We’re pretty even no matter how you slice it.

Sometimes I want to buy my date dinner.

“You’re taking me to the symphony.” My smile is so terse that I must look sarcastic. “So I’ll pay for dinner.” When she still won’t release the check, I growl, “Give it.”

She drops the check, hands in the air as if I’ve raised a gun.

The air is tense as I open my purse, pull out my wallet, and fish for a credit card to give to the server. It’s a motion I go through often enough. But with Ira sitting there, watching me, it feels somehow… dirty.

In our world, gender roles are fairly solid. I’m an outlier in that I’m a femme who wants to work as hard as the men in her family and can pay her way – and pay for her dates. Most of the women people like Ira date are either too poor to even think about it, or they’re coming from that state of mind that says “the masc pays for everything.” I don’t like it when anyone at my level pays for me. Not if I can afford it.

As I said. She’s taking me to the symphony. That makes us even.

Except I need her to stop looking at me like that. As if I’ve insulted her and threatened her self-perceived masculinity in a world where that trumps all. Maybe we should talk about that soon. Her. Me. What gender means to us, since we’re hardly the most cut-and-dry queer couple to ever prance around in front of other people, especially the hetero-normies.

We leave disconnected, thanks to trying to keep a low profile from people who may recognize us… and because the mood between us has changed. We’re no longer flirty. She doesn’t act like she’s itching to touch me as we get into a cab. In fact, we’re pretty quiet as the taxi rolls down the street and takes us to the concert hall on the other side of town.

The show has already started when we arrive. The usher recognizes Ira and escorts us to the private balcony right away. My family was never much into music. I was the strange child buying up MP3s and subscribing to every streaming service online. So, unlike the Mathisons, we don’t have anything named after us here. Sometimes even this rich bitch can have a new thrill.

The balcony is small. Seats maybe five people. So it’s plenty cozy for two people sitting next to one another and enjoying the darkness as the lights focus on the orchestra below.

The moment I sit down, I feel Ira’s hands on me. She touches me under the guise of removing my coat, but her hands linger – right on my breasts, her mouth in my ear.

“When we’re done here, we’re going back to my place. I have plans for you.”

Bristling, I play her coy game. “Sit your ass down, Mathison. I’ve got plans for you first.”

Chapter 33

Kathleen

This is the most talented orchestra in the region. The conductor has won several awards over the years. He’s so famous that he headlines the entire event.

I don’t care. I only care about Ira.

She’s even more attractive in this lack of light. There are a couple of nightlights on the floor so we can see our way in and out of the balcony, but for the most part, it’s so dark that I can barely make out her profile in the shadows. Something mysterious surrounds Ira, and I can’t tell what she’s thinking if I can’t see her expressions.

This is a date, Kathleen. No need to keep your hands to yourself.

If we were a sweet couple, I would hold her hand between our seats. Except I have to admit the thought of holding her hand makes me laugh. Who am I? Some virgin? No. Hell no.

At first, there’s no reaction as I slip my hand between her legs and feel her thighs. Her trousers are hot, full of her body heat and so luxurious that I get caught up in the feel of the fabric as opposed to my mission at, uh, hand.

Namely grazing my fingers against her lower stomach, which isn’t tense… yet.

“Kathleen,” Ira mutters, loud enough for me to hear above the music. “This is a sophisticated place. What you’re doing does not carry a lot of propriety.”

I’m searching for treasure. While it would be much easier to pleasure her if she had worn any of her prosthetics, I can work without it. Not like I’m unfamiliar with surreptitiously fingering someone in public. Why, it’s practically my favorite pastime when I take some darling doll out to dinner. Except Ira is hardly a doll. And she might protest, although I don’t get the impression that touching her pussy directly is a boundary for her girlfriends.

If only she could see the grin on my face…

“Fuck propriety,” I coo into her ear. “I’m on a date with a looker and want to spoil her. Doesn’t she want me to spoil her?”

“I’m supposed to be doing the spoiling.”

“You’re not supposed to be doing anything.” My fingers find her zipper before she can protest. She’s definitely not protesting when I tuck my longest finger beneath her underwear. “Besides enjoying yourself.”

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