I paused the moment I entered there; perhaps I was already changed.
The light was subdued so that details were reluctant to emerge, though the chandeliers themselves sparkled, hanging high from the coffered ceiling. My gaze rose from the expanse of marble floor to take in the grand stairs that rose in wide extravagance from the centre of the lobby.
The steps seemed brittle and cracked, aged skin and bone. But upon them, at alternating intervals, stood the porcelain women.
“Can I get you anything?”
Sandy glanced up at the attendant and mouthed, ‘no thank you’.
“You’re low maintenance,” the woman laughed, subtly flicking her eyes aft, where a privacy curtain failed to hide ongoing sounds of tipsy merriment.
In the end, the kiss was all they had.
They kissed with their whole bodies, these two lovers, in the final act of their story.
They stood face to face, naked, beside the bed where they no longer made love. Nose swapping with nose, lips embattled, tongues yearning. Breasts pressed to breasts, navel to navel, soft against soft. Hands constantly seeking purchase, to tighten their embrace, so that pubic hair entwined and rubbed with pubic hair, surely enough to invoke sensation in other places below.
The first physical thing that Josie Heller noticed, since leaving the hospital a mile or so ago, was the cold — or rather, the lack of it. As she stepped out onto Waterloo Bridge she habitually clutched together the lapels of her tweed overcoat; but neither the back of her hand nor her face felt anything of the January chill.
“Gus, you darling, you made me these!”
Krista crushed one of the pastries into her mouth, simultaneously thrusting a thumbs-up over the buffet table. It came so close to the Petty Officer’s face, as he was laying out other canapés, that he flinched to one side.
He eyed her ill-humouredly, taking in the wings on her dress shirt, as she continued to beam at him around the messily disintegrating delicacy.
You can be anything you want to be.
Jess thumped her palm on the steering wheel. In the replay in her head, she spat back: sure, but what I am right now, is fired.
But that’s not what she’d really said. She had muttered, thanks.
Thanks! She shook her head, staring emptily into the stationary traffic ahead. Why can’t I stand up for myself?
Dear Reader,
I wonder if you’re still out there.
Do you still read? Do you still dream, and dance in your mind, and share secrets with strangers? Are you still strong?
If I wrote, would you come back to me? Because I want to tell you — show you — that I still love you.
I’ve always had a bit of a thing about older women. So when I started my first job, I had a string of crushes on senior colleagues. And that’s not the only fetish of mine you’ll find here… see if you can spot them all. I hope you enjoy this fantasy as much as I have, over the years.
This story came to me, almost fully formed, in a dream a few years ago. Well, I say dream; I should rightly say nightmare. If, like me, you’re easily scared by things that go bump in the night, maybe treat this one with caution. Otherwise, enjoy.
For a moment I pause, my fingers and eyes resting on her abdomen’s light dusting of freckles.
I’m panting, my mouth wide; and I can feel shreds of some recent ecstasy drifting over my consciousness. But I remember nothing of the orgasm, or even whether she gave it to me.
I think violence is a horrible thing, and yet it is still portrayed in the stories of our culture as the only way to fight evil. If we are to rise above this, perhaps it will be to supplant pain, with pleasure. I hope you like the story—it was great fun to write!
This is an episode of llust, a present-day erotic fantasy. To start at the beginning, visit the home page.
They were kissing before they knew it, before even a word was spoken.
Perhaps there were no words to say. Whether she had come to the airport to beg Rachel to stay, or for a final farewell before she left forever, did not seem to matter much. She was there, suddenly, out of nowhere; and Rachel had fallen instantly into the depths of her eyes, so vibrantly rich after four lifeless days in Los Angeles. And then their lips were together as though they had never been apart, could never be parted again.
The westering sun had already dried the storm-water from the bare earth as Rachel pushed through the screen door once more. Dust stirred from rain-pounded craters as she stepped down, then swirled tetchily aside as the hem of her borrowed bathrobe followed to drag listlessly about her bare feet.
Rachel slowed to a stop, unable to follow the sharply tuxedoed maître-d’ while her mind was coming to terms with the incredible place into which she was being led.
The restaurant was dimly lit, but each chandelier and candle seemed to sparkle as though the scene were dusted with glitter. The décor was mostly browns and blacks with hints of opulent cream, and the furnishings elegantly tasteful, bringing to mind a Parisian hotel, or perhaps, a palace.
Rachel was so wrapped in her thoughts that she did not register the familiar baritone rumble of the bike until it was right beside her. She jumped at the startling clatter of its disengaged clutch as Syn guided it to a halt: sharply angular, pillar-box red fairings like armour on an insectile steed.
The social nuances of greeting were beyond Rachel, so she contented herself with an ambiguous smile while Syn dismounted. The beautiful biker was an acquaintance of only one day; but that day had included several hours of boisterous sex. So what was she: a friend? Hardly. A lover? Perhaps physically: but Rachel’s heart was elsewhere.
‘Kim!’
Rachel’s eyes flicked open. The dream was right there with her; and so was Susan, lying beside her, eyebrows raised, head on hand, twinge of a smile.
For a second Rachel was paralysed, filled with the image of Kim’s perfectly taut body that had been above her: the mound bridging the tendons of her thighs, the blown-glass curves of her abdomen, the slight outward hang of her nipples.
‘C’mere,’ Rachel growled, as she pulled Kristen’s hips back down to her face.
Her neck was beginning to tighten from thrusting her tongue upward. It seemed that every time she managed to begin a rhythm Kristen would pull herself away, kneeling up until Rachel had to lift her head ever higher to maintain contact. To make matters worse, Rachel was beginning to be annoyed by the girl’s almost desperate gasping.
Rachel jumped at the demonic bark that resounded from the enclosed space of the garage. It sounded both feral and musical; but died quickly to a high, gravelly idle as something edged into sight. A sharp white point, diminishing either side to gaping air intakes beneath and rounded headlights above.
Rachel fairly skipped up Susan’s short drive for the second time. The air was already shimmering with heat and the dry rushing of the wind in the palm trees easily dominated the sounds of the lazy Woodland Hills suburb, like reality was overlaid with a strange and blurred waking dream. Rachel’s world too, had a long-awaited extra dimension, and she was eager, almost desperate, to share it. As to the form of the sharing: she knew now that the journey was to be savoured; but that had not stopped her imagination, this morning in the early hours after waking; nor her fingers.
The cab ride was like a nightmare. Rachel had been torn from heaven, and forced to sit alone in the dark and the grime, with only the harsh red and white streaks of passing vehicle lights to gaze at.
And what was worse: it was an angel that had cast her out.
There was something about that moment, when the taxi wallowed away from the kerb leaving Rachel standing alone, that would stay with her. The sun was setting behind hills glimpsed at the end of the street, and while the air would be warm all night, Rachel felt a shiver — as though she stood on a precipice.
