Lindsay Lohan and Me in an Elevator

Her hair was back to the ginger color that I think is her natural shade. Hell, I don't know. I've seen her as a redhead, a blonde and something closer to a brown/ginger. It was Lindsay Lohan and she looked as stunning as ever. After bumping into her on the same elevator ride once a week for the last six weeks, you'd think she might offer me a smile, a nod or some acknowledgement that she had seen me before. Whatever. I didn't bother her. I never did. She deserved her space. I did, however, smile as we rose silently inside the plush elevator. I thought about the reasons for our once a week meetings. She was heading upstairs as part of her court ordered counseling. I was heading two stories higher to make my weekly donation to for science.

I was being paid good money to abstain from sex six out of seven days. On the seventh day, I visited the researchers two floors above Lindsay's court ordered therapist to rub out a location. Tuesdays became my favorite day of the week. Once I handed over my "specimen," I was allowed to have as many additional orgasms as I pleased. The contract stipulated that I would abstain from purposely ejaculating from 11 p.m. on Tuesday until after I produced my next specimen at 11 a.m. Those twelve hours were mine to enjoy however I saw fit.

The private cubicle I used for producing my specimen was equipped with a wide variety of adult magazines. The material ranged from barely legal teens with perfectly airbrushed bodies to older MILFs shown in all their well-earned glory. There was explicit material, too, along with a couple muscle magazines, a few gay centric magazines, and even a Playboy magazine for those who like their nudity a bit calmer. The first week I visited, I landed a double jackpot. After sharing the elevator ride with Miss Lohan for twenty-three floors, the Playboy edition in the cubicle featured her homage to Marilyn Monroe. I didn't spend much time inside the cubicle that day. Hell, the true is, I seldom do. Aside from carrying a week's backlog of need with me, the elevator ride with Lindsay was enough to put me on edge. I did my business, answered their questionnaire, picked up my check and was on my way.

After the third week, I wondered how Lindsay would feel if she knew why I was there. While she was pouring her heart out to her shrink, I was jerking off to my mental comparison of Lindsay in real life versus Lindsay in the pages of Playboy or in the tabloids or the upskirt paparazzi shots of her bald pussy as she got out of a car. Yeah, that was good, very good!

I think it's a stretch to call me a fan of hers. The only movie of hers I had watched from beginning to end was "Machete," where she appears topless. A buddy of mine tried to tell me those were stunt titties, but I don't believe him. Where's the fun in knowing that? It didn't matter. It was all her in Playboy. Well, her and an airbrush, I'm sure.

No, I'm not star struck. In fact, her unwillingness to recognize me as a familiar face after six weeks of elevator rides was getting on my nerves. Would it hurt her to offer me a smile? And what was up with the big sunglasses she wore? Did she think that would hide her identity to anyone? No, in my book, Lindsay Lohan was a spoiled, rich bitch whose biggest problem was thinking she should get her way in every situation. That was my conclusion after being snubbed by her for the sixth week in a row.

I guess everyone knows Los Angelos is prone to earthquakes. The skyscrapers we have are built to handle them. I don't think much about it. None of us do. Sometimes, the earth shakes for a bit and that's that. I've slept through earthquakes. I think most of us have. But it's different when you're inside an elevator and you feel that rolling shudder. You recognize it immediately. The building swayed. The elevator ground to a halt. The building shuddered again.

"Oh fuck!" Lindsay cried out. Her first words. She looked at me. I don't know if she was giving me a wide eyed look because her sunglasses hid her eyes. The shudder last longer than usual. "Oh fuck," she said again.

"Yeah," I agreed and I wondered what the protocol was for being inside an elevator. If we had been anywhere else, I'm sure we both knew what to do. If you can get to a doorway, you do it. If not, you get beneath a desk or a table or outside. But inside an elevator car? We were stuck on stupid. It got scarier when we heard an alarm sounding, too.

"What should we do?" she asked.

"Fuck if I know."

"Damn it, I don't want to die like this. This was my last appointment!"

"We should be safe in here."

"How do you know?" she asked.

"We haven't died yet."

"What's that alarm?"

"Beats me," I said. All of this was as new to me as it was for her. We pulled out our cell phones, but stuck inside the metal coffin, getting a signal was impossible. "4G my ass," I muttered as I waved my phone over my head. Lindsay couldn't find a signal either. We were stuck. "At least the lights are still on," I offered. I pressed the button for the intercom. "Hey, anyone there?" There wasn't an answer.

The alarm sounded for fifteen minutes. I was surprised. Miss Lohan seemed to accept her fate. Maybe her court ordered therapy sessions were paying off. Five minutes later, the intercom came to life. "Occupants of elevator number three, are you okay?"

"Yes," I responded since I was standing closest to the control panel.

"Good. Do not panic," the man's voice said. I gave Lindsay a "good grief" look. She smirked. "There has been an earthquake."

"Ya think?" Lindsay said.

"You are in no immediate danger. I repeat: you are NOT in danger. Do you understand?"

"Gotcha," I replied.

"Rescue teams are on their way. Your estimated time of rescue is under four hours."

"Oh hell it isn't," Lindsay said. She stepped in front of the control panel, pressed the button and played the celebrity card. The man on the other end didn't sound impressed.

"We're sorry, Miss Lohan. We're doing the best we can. Please be patient."

I sank to the floor on my side of the elevator. Why not? There wasn't nothing else to do. The floor was carpeted and sitting beats standing. I glanced at the clock on my phone. It was just after 11 a.m. Standing across from me was the personification of the images I had used to pleasure myself for science. She adjusted her hair in the mirror that filled the back wall of the elevator. It didn't help my need. While she was distracted, I adjusted my man parts. "Might as well make yourself comfortable," I suggested.

"I guess," she sighed, leaning against the wall on her side of the elevator and sliding down until she sat. Her short skirt rode up as she slid down. She wasn't wearing panties. I was glad I had adjusted myself while she was distracted as my prick began filling its extra room. Lindsey crossed her ankles in front of her and hugged her knees. Not seeing anything didn't change the knowledge of knowing. She smiled at me. It was a pretty smile. "So what brings you here every Tuesday?"

"Ah, so you do remember me."

She shrugged and gave another little smile. "Yeah, I noticed. You work for the court?"

"Not even close," I promised. I was out of work and had been for the last year and half. This research project helped pay my bills. "What makes you say that?"

"I don't know. You never hassled me, figured you had to be here." She shrugged again. "Guess you're not a fan?"

"I liked Machete."

Lindsay rolled her eyes. "You know that wasn't me in the pool. I mean, I was really in the pool, but that wasn't me they showed."

"Doesn't change anything."

"What does that mean?"

"What do you think?" I asked and smirked as it dawned on her. "Here's what I don't get. Why use stunt titties for Machete and then pose nude in Playboy?" The "stunt titties" line fell of my tongue before I could clean it up. Screw it, I said it and that was that.

"Body double," she corrected.

"Same thing."

"Yeah, I guess so," she said. She smiled. "It was my manager's idea. Both were."

I nodded. What else did I have to say? What did I know about her, aside from her legal troubles and her crappy acting career? I felt on edge. Six weeks of holding off for Tuesday had programmed me more than I realized. I didn't need to be a fan to use her as a fantasy. Knowing she wasn't wearing panties didn't help. I looked around the elevator car. There wasn't anything to see.

"You never said what brings you here," she said.

"You don't want to know," I laughed.

"Please," she said with a sarcastic frown. "Try having your every mistake plastered in every tabloid."

"I'm part of a study," I hedged. "Research project. Nothing special."

"What kind of project?"

"That's just it, I don't know. I show up every Tuesday, give them a sample and they pay me."

"Like a blood sample?"

"Something like that."

"But not blood," she said. She smirked again. "I know a little something about those kinds of samples."

It took me a moment to realize what she meant. She was guessing a urine sample. I laughed. "Close, but not quite." She looked confused and that struck me as funny, too.

"Not blood and no peeing in a cup..." she said as she tried to reason it out. "What's left?"

"Trust me, you don't want to know," I reminded her. She insisted and I tried saying it as gently as I could, "It's the sort of sample only a man can give." She shook her head. She still wasn't getting it. "It involves a cup, but it's not pee?" I offered. Still a blank look. I rolled my eyes. "A semen sample, okay?" She blinked twice as if she needed the time to decipher the words. Her eyes went wide as it dawned on her.

"You mean cum?"

"Yeah," I said and watched her blush before she started laughing.

"I'm sorry," she said, hiding her smile behind her hand. "It's not funny, but it is, you know?" I nodded. It was funny. "So how do they do it? Do they use a needle or something?"

"Really?"

"Well, I don't know. Maybe they use a needle in your balls or something?"

"Have you even been with a man?" I asked. She gave me a pissed off look.

"Yes," she said as her word added a layer of frost between us.

"Sorry. I just do it. In a cup."

"Do they have to watch you do it?"

She was thinking about urine samples. My last employer required drug testing. I knew the routine. You had to pee in a cup in front of someone so they knew it was your urine. "No, I go into a little room. They have a few magazines lying around and I do it." Talking about what I did every Tuesday for science wasn't helping my condition.

Lindsay stared at me for a long moment before she blinked hard as if she was trying to process what I had said. "You're kidding me, right?"

"Does that sound like something someone would make up?" I asked. She smiled.

"I guess not. They pay you for it?" she asked. I nodded. After thinking about it for a while longer, she asked, "What kind of magazines do they give you?"

"Porn. There's a Playboy, too. The one with you in it," I said before I realized how creepy that sounded. "Sorry," I quickly mumbled. I wasn't trying to make her feel uncomfortable. Before the words left my mouth, I thought it might be a nice thing to say, a way of confirming her fame or something.

"It's okay. I have friends, you know. They tease me about doing that. That guys would, you know..."

I nodded, feeling in over my head.

"Did you look at it?" she asked.

"Yes. You looked pretty. It was a rip-off of Marilyn, but a nice homage."

"Were you..." she started, stopped, giggled and shook her head. "Never mind."

"You know guys do, right? I'm not saying I did, but come on."

"I know."

"It's to be expected, isn't it?"

"That's not why I did it."

"I know. Your career, manager and all that. You posed nude and I jerk off in a cup for money."

"I thought you said it was for science."

I laughed. "If science didn't pay, I don't think I would do it."

"You've done it to me, haven't you?"

I tried to ignore the question, which isn't easy when you're stuck in an elevator with someone. It's not as if I didn't hear her. Why would she ask that? Was she that vain? Did it matter to her? Did she really want to know? What if I told her the truth? Would that creep her out or would she be flattered? What if I lied and said I didn't? Would she feel slighted? It was a no-win question. I decided to deflect. "Why not show it all when you did your Playboy shoot?"

"Why? Is that what you wanted to see while you were jerking off to me?"

Oops, that backfired. "Sure, why not?" I shot back. "It's not as if we haven't seen it."

"Trust me, I've heard. Can I help it if I hate panty lines?" Her voice softened and she smiled. "I hardly ever wear them. But what right does that give the paparazzi to take pictures of it?"

"Because you're famous, pretty and it's scandalous. Good girls don't forget their panties. Look what happened to Kate Middleton." My prick strained inside my pants. I needed to adjust again but there wasn't a way for me to do it, not with her sitting directly across from me. How the hell did we get on this topic?

"Do you think I'm as pretty as her?"

I rolled my eyes. Could this get more awkward? "Truth? I think you're prettier. I'm not into flat chested brunettes."

Lindsay beamed at the compliment. "You did it, didn't you?"

"Did what?" I asked, afraid I already knew.

"To me. Well, to my pictures."

"In my mind it was to you," I said. Why should I let things be awkward for just me? "To you and with you."

Lindsay giggled. "Was I any good?"

"I got off"

"What did we do?"

"Really?" I asked, staring at her. "You know I was jerking off, right? You don't really want the details."

"Come on, I'm curious. What do guys think about when they jerk off to me? It's not as if we're going anywhere."

"Do you ever do it?" I deflected. When she gave me a blank look, I clarified it for her. "Play with yourself."

"I have people who do that for me," she said, waited a moment and then laughed. Her comedic timing was perfect. "What do you think? Do I?"

"In my fantasizes, you do," I admitted.

"Not just in your fantasies," she offered. "I'm human and it's natural, right?" I nodded and a quiet moment passed between us, I guess we were both pondering how strange the conversation had become. "I can't believe I just admitted that."

"Tell me about it," I said and I squirmed. I had to do something to ease the kink inside my pants.

"Problem?" she asked with half a smile on her full lips. Damn, she was cute. Her heavy eyebrows, high cheekbones, pert nose and full lips were killing me.

"We should talk about something else."

"I've always wondered what it's like to use a vibrator."

"Seriously, we need to talk about something else," I repeated. She shrugged and fell silent as she looked around the elevator car. I sighed. "Okay, I'll bite. Why don't you just buy one?"

"Please," she said with an eye roll. "How? Imagine the field day the press would have with someone finding my vibrator."

"You could have one of your assistants buy it for you."

"Uh-huh, that works. 'Hey Gavin, can you pick me up a vibrator on your way into work today?'" Lindsay laughed hard. "Besides, she's more a handler than an assistant. They all are. I don't hire any of them. My manager does, to keep me out of trouble." I ignored the easy joke about how well that had worked out for her. Besides, I had bigger problems. I was in need and it wasn't getting any softer. I wondered if the office would be open when they got the elevator working. Did they expect me to hold off until tomorrow or the next day? I didn't want to violate the rules of the project. I needed the money. But my body had been programmed. I wouldn't be able to wait an extra day or two. What if they wanted me to wait until next Tuesday? No way. "What are you thinking about?" Lindsay asked.

"It's hard," I said before I noticed the pun. She didn't miss it. She laughed. "I mean, it's this study. I'm supposed to abstain for a week at time, so Tuesdays are sort of my days to shake hands with Mr. Happy."

"God, I LOVE Robin Williams!" she said, catching the reference. I was impressed. Leveling her gaze at me again she smiled. "So is it really?"

"Is what?"

"Is it really hard?"

"Why? You want to see?" I shot back; annoyed that she was having fun at my expense.

"You could sit differently," she suggested.

"Uncross your heels and I will," I said. Two could play at this game.

"What if I did? It wouldn't be anything you haven't seen before."

"Then do it," I insisted without realizing I had just told Lindsay Lohan, "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

"You mean like this?" she asked. She uncrossed her heels and planted her heels in front of her thighs. Her tight, short skirt couldn't cover her private parts, but her skirt did add enough shadow that it wasn't a clear view. She squeezed her knees together, but kept her heels apart. I could still see. She stared at me, watching me look and grinning. "Well?"

"You mean like this?" I asked. I parted my legs and glanced down to see what she could see. My hard on was a long, tube-like shape running down my pant leg. The change in positions gave my hard on more room. It crept up my thigh until it pressed against the inside of my pant leg. I wanted to reach inside my pants and pull it upwards to a more comfortable position. Instead, I allowed Lindsay to see it as it was.

She smiled and didn't stop staring between my legs. Instead, she relaxed her knees and my view improved. "It's not really fair. You get to see more than me."

"How much more do you want to see?"

"Good question," she asked. She closed her legs a bit. "What about you?"

"You're teasing me."

"So?"

"So maybe I'll do it."

"Do what?" she asked with false innocence.

"Show it to you. That's what you want me to do, isn't it?"

"Is that what you want to do?"

"Look at me," I snapped. I grabbed my prick, pulling it upwards and giving it the extra room it so desperately wanted. "What do you think?"

"Then do it," she said, her eyes flickering up to mine. She held my gaze. "Show it to me. Let me see."

"And then what?"

"I don't know. I just want to see it."

"If I pull it out, maybe I'll want to do something with it."

"As long as you stay on your side of the elevator, okay."

I stared her down. "I'll really do it," I warned. She kept staring. "I mean it." Her eyes moved back to my hard on. "I'm not kidding." She smirked. I stood up and her eyes followed me crotch. Screw it. What the fuck, you know? I needed this and she wasn't trying to stop me, so I guess she wanted it, right? I kicked off my shoes and worked my belt. She didn't object. I undid the front of my pants. She didn't stop staring. I hooked my thumbs inside the sides of my shorts and my pants. If I was going to do this, I was going to do it all at once. "Last chance," I said. She glanced at my face and when her eyes returned to my waist, I pushed down my pants and underwear in a single push.

I know I'm well-hung. I didn't always know that, but it's something I've come to learn through the years. My prick is fat, smooth and longer than most. When I get hard, I get really hard. My cock stands up straight and nearly reaches my navel. It can create problems for me. Not every woman can take call of it. A few women I've been with have tried to deep throat me and it seldom works. When I'm hard, it sticks up too straight and won't bend down most women's throats. Maybe it's them. Maybe they don't know how to get at the right angle, I don't know. All I know is that I gag girls who try.

"Nice," she said and she licked her lips. "Take off your pants and stay like that for a bit, okay?"

"I think I'm showing more than you now," I pointed out.

"Maybe," she said. She sat cross-legged in a way we used to call "criss-cross-applesauce" and her skirt rode farther up her hips. I could see it all. Her pussy lips were bare. I'm guessing she was waxed instead of shaved. Her pussy looked puffy. "Better?" My cock throbbed. She giggled. "I guess so." She stared at me as I paced the elevator car on my side and wondered what I should do. "You're bigger than Matt Dillon," she said. "Mark Harmon is a bit bigger, but not much."