Posts Tagged ‘erotic short story’


Pure Pleasure

In the dark, she reached for his hair, soft and short in her fingers. His face was hidden, lit from the street by dimly illuminated curtains, his shoulders loomed broadly over her, supported by lean arms that gripped the sheets beneath her. Sometimes he moved to her head, or her back, or her hips, to pull her fiercely against him.

She didn’t need to see his face. She knew that he gazed intently at her, as he moved his hips into her, then out and back again. She moaned and threw her pillow in one swooping motion, from behind her head, onto the floor.

He was an enthusiastic lover, and in fact, the term lover was more appropriate than she ever could have dreamed. He loved. He loved everything about her, and this was something that she was coming to realize, slowly. Sloooowly. Concealed within the dark room, within her enveloping bed, her thoughts occasionally strayed from his body and what he was doing to her, or with her, to a wonderment, an amazement. ‘So this is what making love is’, she thought. Quite different from having sex, even great sex.

He was enthusiastic, yes, and came equipped with the endurance of an athlete trained to paddle for many miles, to race bikes, to swim. He had mind-over-body stamina, older, more experienced, not the wam-bam of youth followed by the deepest of sleeps.

Not this man.

And they laughed. She laughed as hard as she’d ever laughed. As hard as the top five memorable laughs of her life.

One sunny afternoon, they’d stretched out in a room full of books, on a bed next to windows that looked out over sky and trees. Squirrels, butterflies and wind, the sun danced in warm air.

She suggested a game. She wasn’t sure, she said, that she knew where her g-spot was, if she had one in fact. They looked online for information as to where this mysterious spot might be, and he laughed when they found the best information on Men’s Health, in an article titled, “How to Find your Girl’s G-spot.” He noted the use of the term “girl.”

Two inches in and on the top side closer to the belly button, palm up, curious fingers curled, exploring. That’s the spot, the article said, that sometimes makes a woman feel like peeing. Or wait, maybe not there. Maybe farther in, just about where that rough patch is. He patiently, she thoughtfully. Until she was so filled with mirth at the humor of it all that laughter exploded in great gales. Swells of laughter that wouldn’t stop, and he with her, laughing.

Perhaps a man’s partner might not have one at all. It wasn’t something that had been defined and documented. It was too ethereal. Perhaps it was all something like an urban myth. A rumor that certainly demanded some serious (since he was a scientist) scientific and methodical investigation. A taking of notes.

Finally she admitted, breathless between laughter, that she’d known all along where it was. Well, at least she thought she knew where it was but wasn’t quite sure and maybe could use some more exploring. He, looking directly into her eyes, she gazing back, gasping, unabashed at the frank and honest pleasure that passed between them.

And with that, they watched the sun set gently behind trees until nothing was left of the day, nothing left but the night stretching before them.

‘Is this what it feels like to be in love?’ she asked herself. She rolled the word around on her tongue. She’d asked a friend, “How do you know when you’re in love?” The friend answered, “If you ask the question, then you probably are.”

She thought about how she’d felt when he’d returned from a five-day trip to the east coast, how something had changed when he walked into her kitchen. She’d always been more of a pragmatist, a little cynical, more than a little short on romance.

Now she wrapped her arms around this very sweet man, a man who missed her, who couldn’t wait to see her, had rushed over as soon as he could, had pressed he mouth to hers and held her like he never wanted to let go. With more than a little disbelief, she relented. Yes, this was a possibility.

About the author: Daphne Devina is an essayist and artist with an irrepressible curiosity about life, adventure, and especially men. Join her as she explores a new world of irresponsibility after many years of juggling career, kids and marriage. Can she finally “have it all?” Can she reawaken passion in a body long dormant?

  • This is the third and last installment in a series written for Madison Lake Pages. Read here Part 1 and Part 2.

The fourth of four short erotic fiction stories for Madison Lake’s Titillating Tuesdays.

A much better S&M story than Shades of GreyBOUDOIR STORY #4 – FLOYD

Floyd sold insurance. House insurance, car insurance, life insurance, disability insurance, you name it, Floyd sold it.
Floyd lived alone in a beige stucco duplex on a quiet cul-de-sac in Reno, Nevada. He had two cats, two goldfish, and a praying mantis that hung out atop a frond on his indoor Areca palm tree. Most of Floyd’s time was spent working, not a nine to five schedule, but a lot of random hours throughout a twenty-four hour period. The rest of his time was spent watching Showtime and HBO movies, or, when someone from the league needed another player, and he was available, he went bowling. Floyd’s wardrobe consisted of two pair of khaki pants, two pair of brown polyester slacks, two white golf shirts, two plaid flannel shirts, two pair of Rockport men’s walking shoes, one chocolate nubuck, one black, and two suits that he alternated during the work week, then had dry cleaned on the weekend. Floyd liked pairs.
A routine kind of guy, every Tuesday night, even if there was work to finish or a client to contact, Floyd went out. He waited until darkness fell, got dressed up, and drove to a part of town that most folks didn’t frequent. He parked in his usual spot, under an overpass where the drunks and hookers huddled in small groups, paid the same guy two bucks to keep an eye on his car, and walked the two blocks to his destination. Every week the sign on the front door read: No Costume, No Entry, like glow-sticks, in flashing purple neon letters. Floyd paid his admission with a laminated card for members only.
“Hey, Baby Butt,” the cashier said to Floyd as he handed her his membership card. She was dressed like Little Bo Peep, the Peep being a hole in her pink stockings just where someone would want to ‘peep’. Floyd also peeped at her two full breasts spilling out of the corseted cotton blouse she wore. He didn’t know the cashier’s name, even though he had been going there for five years, but he liked that she wore a different costume every week. Last week she had dressed as a baby bear, and wore only ears and paws because she was bare. He thought that was a very clever idea.
He unbuttoned his trench coat and handed it to Bo Peep to hang in the coat room, then stepped into the dark, cavernous room. The buff bouncer, who called himself Thor, and wore an armor of beautifully crafted chain mail, lowered his head as he passed.
“Your highness, Baby Butt, Zaria awaits your arrival. He bowed, and with a low sweep of his armored arm, banging and clashing with every move, he ushered Baby inside. Then he stood and held his post at the curtained entryway to ensure no riffraff got in.
No sooner than Baby had entered than he heard a sharp, irritated voice call his name.
“Baby! You’re late you fucking piece of…”
“I’m sorry, master,” Baby said meekly, falling to his knees. A sharp leather whip came down hard on his backside, that could be felt even through the thick cotton diaper he wore. Baby got hard at once.
“I’m not happy with you, Baby, and you don’t want to displease Mama Zaria now, do you?” The whip cracked against the concrete floor, creating sparks. No one in the crowded room paid any attention. Only Baby, who jumped up and ran into Zaria’s embrace.
“There, there,” she said, rubbing the top of his balding head. “That’s better now, isn’t it?” Baby nodded and stuck his thumb in his mouth.
“Oh, take that stupid thing out of your mouth, you idiot.” She unfastened the clasp of her tight leather vest, and one large breast popped out, as if it were a spring. “Here,” she said, shoving her nipple in his mouth. “You want to suckle? Then suckle.”
Baby immediately began to suck on her breast while she patted his head and rubbed his groin. He moaned like a contented infant.
The volume of heavy techno beats picked up, crashing through the room in a frenzy. There were couples, threesomes, and larger groups of guests, all exploring each other’s fetishes like tasting a new piece of candy, but Baby dared not look around, for fear of what Zaria might do to him if he did. Instead, she perused the crowd from above, until she found who she wanted to play with.
“Enough!” she suddenly snapped, and yanked Baby’s mouth off of her bosom. She did not fasten herself back into her leather corset as she moved away from Baby toward her prey, completely unfettered.
“Don’t be such a lag, you ninny”, she called after Baby. “Come along.” Zaria pulled on his ear, dragging him behind her. He stumbled, but managed to regain his balance just in time. When Zaria stopped, they were in front of the DJ on a dance floor, in a well lit part of the room. Baby knew from previous visits that on either side of them, where in the early hours some of the braver folks performed their fetishes, there were two private rooms. He had been in those rooms on a few occasions, and found he enjoyed the peaceful solitude they provided away from the fray. He longed for that now. He wanted Zaria to whip him and yell at him. He wanted her to strip him of his clothing and his manhood, and take him down to his most vulnerable self, but he knew this was not his night for that pleasure. Zaria was in charge, and it was she who was to be pleasured this night.
“Hello, you big, handsome hunk,” Zaria said, rubbing her exposed breast up and down the bare, hairless chest of, Nino. Nino was six five, muscular, and a drop dead gorgeous transvestite, who Zaria had a thing for. Everybody had a thing for Nino. He was sweet and kind, and seemed to take care of everybody’s needs. He was very versatile.
“Get away from me, Baby,” Zaria yelled, letting go of his ear. Baby fell to the floor squirming, trying to hang on to Zaria’s ankles. His thumb shot back in his mouth, and he was soothed back to a temporary state of calm. This jealously he had for Zaria made him want to screw her hard, but he enjoyed the toying she did with him more. Whether she finished him off at the end of the night, or whether he did it himself when he got home, it didn’t much matter. He came to the club to be pushed to all levels of arousal, and that included not always getting what he wanted. For Baby, that was his climax.
Zaria shook free of Baby’s grasp, and shimmied up to a gyrating Nino who was dancing to the disco music now being pumped out from the Bose speakers. Nino was doing some classic John Travolta moves from the movie Saturday Night Fever. A crowd was gathering and Zaria was in her glory, shaking her bootie with Nino in front of everybody, because everybody wanted to be Zaria at that moment, even Baby. The music got louder and faster, and other people started dancing with them. They were all touching Nino’s body, rubbing up against Zaria’s tight leather skin-suit, fondling and kissing each other. Baby sat in a dark corner watching all this go on around him, his thumb in his mouth, and his other hand down the front of his diaper. Suddenly, Zaria dashed out from the crowd, and stood before him.
“What are you doing, Baby?” she said, in a gentle voice. Baby cowered further into the corner, her sugary sweet tone disturbing. “Take that thumb out of your mouth and come to Mama Zaria.” Baby immediately obeyed, removing his other hand from his pants before she saw him, but it was too late.
“I saw what you were doing, Baby,” she bellowed through the din of music. “What? You think you can hide from me?” she asked. “Do you?” Baby shook his head. “I think you do. I think you were trying to get off without me, that’s what I think. Is that what you were trying to do? Was it?” Zaria cracked her whip again, striking Baby in the leg. A sharp stinging sensation ran through his entire body, and his penis got hard. He reached for his groin.
“Mmmm, does Baby like getting punished? Does he?” Zaria pulled Baby in against her soft flesh and shoved his face into the fullness of her breasts, where they both rocked to Staying Alive until they were done, and the early morning dawned.
* * * * *
The next morning, Floyd decided to wear his brown checkered polyester slacks with one of his clean, white golf shirts, not because he had a special meeting that afternoon, or because he was going bowling after his last client of the day, but because he was feeling rather frisky.