Posts Tagged ‘sexy 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.

Babette the Burlesque Dancer


Babette walked through the Montmartre district of Paris one morning. Rain poured down in sheets, but Babette did not care. Exhausted, she was on her way home after a night at the burlesque club where she worked. Her hair, once curled and piled in a classy up-do, fell in wet clumps down her back, heavy with water, her coal-painted eyes ran black down her glistening cheeks. The damp cold was evident in the dark, hardened nipples that poked out from her drenched white blouse, her coat left hanging on the hook in her dressing room due to a hurried exit.

Babette filled her lungs with the fresh, spring air. Despite the unpleasant ending to what had otherwise been a good evening, with a responsive crowd and good tips, she felt good, relieved even. She was so done with the petulant Jean Claude, bartender/bouncer at Tres Burlesque, and now, finally, her ex-boyfriend. Done.

She picked up her step, almost skipping along the puddled sidewalk, the weight of love gone wrong lifted from her narrow shoulders. A car splashed by, then another, throwing water against her bare legs and onto her skimpy clothing. She wrapped her shivering arms around her torso, hugging warmth into herself. Home was not far now.

Just then a car pulled up close to the curb, driving slowly beside her as she walked. It was a police car. She looked through the rain splattered window and stared directly into the electrifying eyes of a male police officer, the woman officer driving, hidden behind him. The male officer was wearing his uniform jacket but not a formal hat, and his dark hair fell tousled around his handsome, roguish face. The car stopped and slowly the window came down, emitting heat that hit her even from the eight feet distance that separated them.

“Are you Mademoiselle Babette Rousseau?” The handsome officer asked, his voice pleasantly deep.

“Yes, that is me,” replied Babette, shivering now that she had stopped walking. The gentleman officer looked her up and down. Babette was not sure if he felt sorry for her, standing there all wet and cold, or if he was trying to seduce her with his eyes. If it was the latter, it was working because a flush of warmth ran through her body. The female driver kept her gaze on the road ahead, even though the car was not moving.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us, Mademoiselle Rousseau,” the officer said flatly.

“But why?” Babette asked, confused by his request. Her mind raced through the events of the past twenty-four hours.

“Do you work at the Tres Burlesque club, Mademoiselle?” he asked. Babette nodded, rain falling from her hair down the front of her, adding to the puddle in her black patent heels.

“There’s been an incident. We need to ask you a few questions.” He paused. “Please…get in.” The officer twisted around and, reaching his long arms behind him, opened the door for her. She shook herself like a wet puppy before climbing into the heated vehicle. The female officer took off, sirens blaring. The male officer turned to his partner.

“Is that necessary?” She ignored him, pressing her foot onto the gas pedal as they forged their way through the rain swept streets toward Police Headquarters in the Montmartre district of gay Paris.


* * * *


Inside headquarters, the police chief had been kind enough to provide Babette with dry clothes. He gave her a uniform shirt that hung down to her knees, and a warm, dry blanket to dry her hair with, and wrap around her chilled body. Her shoes were ruined from the rain, so she abandoned them in the change room, along with her dripping clothes, and walked back out into the main room of the building.

Offices lined one wall, most of which had their doors closed and blinds drawn. What went on behind those closed doors? she asked herself, wondering if she would end up in one of those. Uniformed men and woman came and went, phones rang incessantly, and a few deadbeats were dragged in, handcuffed and in no mood to behave.

Babette looked around but didn’t see her escorts anywhere, the driver or the handsome officer. No one seemed to pay much attention to her, so she wandered over to an empty bench beside a water cooler, and sat down. There was a small table with magazines on it, so she found one and began to leaf through the glossy pages, glancing up now and then to see if anybody made eye contact with her, or gave her some signal that she was to be called upon for questioning. Tired and hungry, she wanted to get this silly business over with so she could climb into a hot bath and go sleep for at least a few hours before her next shift.

Across the room a door opened, and out walked the female driver of the cruiser that had picked her up. Following behind was the attractive male officer. He glanced her way and she noticed a slight smile cross his face. His long strides caught up with the woman, who had already reached the bench where Babette sat, magazine open in her lap.

“You’re up, Rousseau,” the young woman said sharply, glaring at her. Seeing her for the first time, Babette took note of her exquisitely fine facial features, although they were hidden under a mask of a stern demeanor. Her hair, loosely tied back in a hairband, fell in golden waves just past her shoulders. Dark eyes, slightly inset, seemed automatically wary, and her mouth, although full-lipped, was pursed, which created wrinkles in the corners that were not the friendly sort. Her arms folded across her flat chest suggested she was guarded and shut-off. Babette felt sorry for this woman, and although she was likely working at a job that suited her disposition, Babette thought how she might be different given another profession. She watched her turn and walk away, and wondered if they could ever be friends.

“My name is Officer Benoit,” the handsome officer suddenly piped in. “I will be taking you in for questioning now, Mademoiselle Rousseau. Please come with me.”

Babette followed Officer Benoit down a long corridor away from the rest of the precinct chaos. The interrogation room was classic cop show drama; dimly lit, a table in the middle of an otherwise empty room, with only a lamp, notepad and pencil on it, with two folding chairs facing  one another. Not saying a word, Babette sat across from where the notepad and pencil were, and Officer Benoit took the other seat. He smiled at her. She noticed a large blank window behind him, which she supposed was the ‘observatory’, where the other officers and guards would be watching the interrogation.

“Shall we begin, Mademoiselle?” Officer Benoit’s voice was smooth and calming.

“Yes, that is fine,” Babette said. “But I do feel it is my right to know what the hell is going on, don’t you, officer?” Officer Benoit held her gaze, and the corners of his full lips turned up into a slight smirk.

“I don’t see what’s so funny about that,” Babette said, with a snippy tone. She pulled the blanket around her shoulders more securely, as if that would give her strength – strength not to be seduced by this mans charm. Benoit suppressed smiling with a cough.

“Yes, you are absolutely correct, Mademoiselle. Let me tell you that, I know you are not guilty, however, we must interview everyone who last saw Mr. Jean Claude Perrot before they found his slaughtered body beside the dumpster in the alleyway outside Tres Burlesque.” He looked at his watch, then wrote on the blank sheet of paper in the notepad in front of him. “I believe you would fit into that category, no?” He looked up at her again, this time stone-faced. Babette’s mouth dropped. Blood rushed from her cheeks to her feet in a matter of seconds. She felt dizzy, and her mouth suddenly went dry as cotton. She closed her eyes, grabbing onto the edge of the table to brace herself from keeling over right there on the spot.

“Are you alright, Mademoiselle Rousseau? Can I get you some water?” Babette’s eyes opened slightly.

“Water? Yes, water would be nice, thank you.” She closed her eyes again, and rested her head on her arms on the desk. Within minutes the door opened and in walked an older gentleman in street clothes, carrying a glass of water. He set it down on the table in front of her, then left the room. Not a word was exchanged. After a minute or two, Officer Benoit continued.

“So, I take it from your reaction that either, A) this is the first you’ve heard this news, or B) you had something to do with his death?” Very slowly Babette raised her weary head. The dizziness had subsided a little, but she felt woozy, partly from shock, and partly from not having eaten.

“You were his girl, were you not?” the officer queried.

“I was his girl.” She waited, trying to formulate the right words. “It was an on again, off again relationship – very dysfunctional.” She looked at her hands, now resting in her lap. “I had just left him for good, I had just walked out on him, just this very morning, when you stopped me. I had just left him.” She stopped. Officer Benoit kept his gaze steady.

“I see. That must have been difficult, no?” She looked at him.

“No, not difficult. I…I hated Jean Claude. I’d tried to leave him so many times but…” she broke off. “I was afraid of him, afraid of what he might do to me. He was a monster, Officer Benoit. I despised the man.” She sat back in her chair and sighed. “There, I said it. Now, are you going to implicate me?”

“Do I have reason to, Mademoiselle?” Benoit asked, somewhat playfully.

“No. None at all. But you must know, Jean Claude and I were over long ago. It just wasn’t easy to extricate myself from him, until now, that is.”

“So, why now? Did something happen to help you, or should I say did someone help you?”

“Officer Benoit,” she said, laughing out loud.

“Call me Denis.” Babette looked slightly surprised, but continued.

“Denis, there were many people who wanted Jean Claude dead, but nobody I know would actually do anything about it. Seriously, Tres Burlesque may seem to you to be a ‘house of ill repute’ so to speak, but it’s a classy club, and everybody that works there, or frequents the place, is decent. I mean it.” Babette was pleading with her eyes for his approval.

“I believe you, Babette. May I call you, Babette?” Surprised again, she nodded.

“I don’t know what happened, Officer…I mean, Denis,” she corrected. “I’m not sure I want to know. The last time I saw that creep he was about to hit me over the head with an iron pipe. I ran.” She looked down at the blanket wrapped around her near naked body. “That’s why you found me walking home in the state I was in. I ran,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.

Denis stood up, motioned to the blank window and mimed a few words that Babette could not figure out. Then he walked over to a switch on the wall by the door and flipped it down.

“There,” he said, pleased with himself as he sauntered back to his seat. “Now we can talk, completely unencumbered. They have what they need,” he said, motioning to the blank window. “If they have any more questions, you can be sure they will contact you. Meanwhile,” he stared at her with his deep, dark eyes. “Meanwhile, now we can talk.

Babette looked stunned, not entirely sure what he was getting at.

“You said the clientele at Tres Burlesque are decent. You know why I believe you?”

“No,” she stuttered. “Why?”

“Because I’m one of them.” His dreamy eyes pooled of softness and seduction, and Babette didn’t know what to make of it. Was this a ruse, to catch her in the act, or was he for real? She had no way of knowing.

“You don’t have to worry, Babette. You are safe with me. I promise.” Denis nodded again toward the vacant window behind him. “They are gone, or if anyone is still there, they can’t hear a word we are saying, so don’t worry. I flipped the switch.” Babette glanced over to the door, putting two and two together.

“So, why are you holding me then?” she asked.

“I wish I was holding you,” Denis said, eyes smoldering. Babette quivered as warmth encompassed her body.

“What are you talking about, Off…I mean, Denis. What are you doing?” Denis shifted in his seat.

“Listen, you may think I’m some sort of shady cop, but I’m not. It’s just that when I heard they were after you as a prime suspect in the killing of that creep, I not only had to get on the task force to investigate, but I had to see you, to meet you.”

“Meet me, but why?” Denis reached out to her with his gaze, and she blushed, feeling his imaginary touch on her. Her skin suddenly prickled, her groin awakened.

“Eh, hem,” she cleared her throat so she could speak. “Denis, what do you want? If you know I’m innocent, what more do you want from me?”

“Everything,” he answered bluntly. “I want to touch you. Right now. If I could, I’d rip…” He thought for a moment and retracted his phrasing. “I’d gently peel off the blanket that covers your sleek, bare shoulders until it fell away, leaving you searingly naked.”

“I have a uniform shirt on,” she said, a twinkle in her eye. He laughed.

“Ooh, I love a girl in uniform.”

“So, is that why your partner is so jealous of me? Because you love her?” Denis bit his lip and turned crimson.

“Lara? No, but she’s in love with me.”

“I see.” Babette looked down.

“We’ve been partners for years, and she’s been in love with me for years. What can I say?”

“I guess not much,” Babette said, smiling.

“While I’ve been in love with you,” he said off the cuff. Now he was smiling. “I remember the first time I saw you. You had just started at the club. I knew all the burlesque dancers there, and suddenly one night the stage lit up. Literally, it lit up with your exotic, sexy presence. That hair, the way it falls down your back, and flips in your eyes when you toss your head, giving you that mysterious allure. Your big, brown eyes, those red, pouty lips, and then…the way your body sways and shimmies and moves. Your strip tease is by far the best the place offers. No wonder it’s packed Wednesday through Sunday from ten till midnight.” Denis beamed. Babette was in shock.

“Wow, I’m speechless.”

“Well, maybe that’s even better, because then I can do all the talking and you can listen. Do you want to know why?”

She shook her head. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to continue to undress you right here in this room, then make passionate, erotic love to you, right here in this room, and I won’t even lay a finger on you. When we’re finished, we’ll walk out of here, I’ll offer to take you home, and then we’ll finish what we started.” He grinned at her teasingly. She sat silent.

“So, I’m now removing that big bulky blanket.” His eyes began to peel the blanket off her shoulders. “You’re shivering, but you are not cold, because I’m caressing your silky skin, and my touch sends shivers up and down your spine, making you warm and wet.” Babette shuddered with excitement, and a flush of warmth ran through her. “Now I’m unbuttoning the uniform shirt, exposing first your lovely collarbones, then your voluptuous breasts.” His eyes were riveted to her. “I’ve seen those breasts from afar, during your burlesque show, and I’ve always wanted to touch them, fondle them, put them in my mouth and play with your firm erect nipples, suck your soft, fullness.” Babette noticed his mouth was soft, and his tongue was pretending to lick something ever so gently. She found herself getting very aroused. Seeing her shift in her seat made his eyes glisten with enjoyment.

Just then the door opened and in walked Constable Germain from crime division.

“You done yet, Benoit?” he asked, looking over at Babette rather lewdly. “I’ve got a few questions for her myself.” He tossed his notebook onto the table and took out his pen, waiting. Denis looked over and Babette, who seemed a bit flustered.

“Actually, Germain, I’ve got this covered. Michele, down at Precinct Two gave me this one. Besides, haven’t you heard?” Constable Germain looked confused. “You should head on over to Precinct Four. They’ve got a live one over there. I think they can use some help.” Germain scooped up his notebook and was gone before he could be missed.

“So, where were we?”

“I think you were licking my breasts,” answered Babette, playing along with Benoit.

“I was, wasn’t I? And they are delicious too.” He smiled coyly. “Now down I go. Mmm, your skin is so smooth,” he says as if he’s really feeling it. “And you smell so good, like,” he pauses. “L’eau d’Issey. That is your scent, isn’t it?” Her eyes gleaned approval. “I’m running my tongue along your legs now, kissing and tasting your salty goodness. The backs of your knees are the best – so soft and tender. I might have to bite – oops, sorry – that might have been a little hard.” His eyes laughed. “Now to your feet, ah, delicious. Each toe has its own sensual flavor. You may find it difficult to tear me away from your toes, Mademoiselle,” he said with a wink. “Now, the time has come where I must find the pot of gold. Mmm, I know it’s around here somewhere, I can smell it, I can almost taste it.” He closed his eyes, and for a fleeting moment, Babette looked up to the blank window, feeling eyes on them, other eyes. “A ha, I have found you,” he said, opening his eyes, licking his lips fervently, and her moment of fear dissipated.

“Oh my god, you are exquisite. Better than all these years of fantasizing about you,” he said. “But now, Mademoiselle, we must go. I am eager, hard and oozing with expectation, and if I’m not mistaken, you too, are anxious to get home, no?”

“I am, Officer Benoit. I need a bath and I am suddenly ravenous. I’d hoped that you could give me a lift home, if it’s not too much trouble. I am so wet,” she said, emphasizing the word with a moan.“With this rain and all, and I haven’t eaten in ages.” She reached her hand up, as if adjusting the blanket around her neck, but instead, rubbed her breasts seductively, letting out a pleasurable sigh. “Don’t you know my skin is crawling,” she continued as she lowered her hands to her lap. “And nothing but a hot bath and a little rub can help me,” she said, pretending to rub herself.

Denis’ face was flushed with excitement. He hadn’t known what to expect when he concocted this plan of his. He knew he could easily be fired for this, even worse, prosecuted and put in jail for behavior unbefitting an officer of the force. Yet, somehow he had a feeling Babette would be responsive.

“Ooh, I think we are speaking the same language, here,” Benoit said. “I want you so badly. If I could, I would take you right here on the table. To hell with anyone watching. In fact, the more eyes, perhaps the more pleasure, no? But not now, not today, and certainly not here.” He stood up. “Come, we must go now. Let me take you to get your things. I will get a car and take you home.”

Babette stood, feeling a little shaky on her feet, partly from being so cold, tired, and hungry, and partly from being unnerved by this man, from this supposed interrogation.

Benoit politely opened the door for her and led her down the corridor to the main hall. It was difficult suddenly being thrown into a bustling room full of ringing telephones, loud conversation, and people coming and going. Benoit guided her through the din, keeping a gentle hand on the lower part of her back. It felt good to Babette, to have someone touch her like that. She felt safe, and she felt aroused. When they arrived at the room, Benoit let her in, then stepped in behind her and closed the door. Before she had time to realize what was happening, her blanket was off, and the uniform shirt was being unbuttoned, his deft hands cupping her ample breasts, then sliding down to the wetness between her legs. His hungry mouth found hers and soon they were locked in a dizzying tangle of fondling that was making them drunk with pleasure. He pushed her against the wall passionately and, unzipping his fly, found her warmth. Her legs spread wider for him as he scooted her up the wall. Continuing their rhythmical motion, he plunged deeper, feeling the fullness of her swell around him, throbbing, throbbing, until they collapsed in a moment of ecstasy.

He leaned in on her, pressing his hot body to hers as she slid down the wall, landing in his arms. He nuzzled into her neck, licked behind her ears, and found her full lips, coming down on them with his own until she could barely catch breath.

“Well, Mademoiselle Rousseau,” he mumbled in a sexy, hoarse voice as he nibbled her ear. “I suppose you will be wanting that ride home now?”

“That would be very helpful, Officer Benoit. I hope you can spare the time. It might take longer than you think.”


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.


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


“I can’t believe she did that,” cried Dharma in outrage. “She’s never done that.” Dharma pulled her pink cashmere sweater off and tossed it over the back of the green overstuffed chair in the living room. She grabbed her mail from the side table and began to open it.
“Did what?” asked Kyle nonchalantly, not letting on that he enjoyed it when Dharma walked around the house in her skivvies. Her breasts, although not large, over-filled her petite red lace bra, and then he couldn’t help fantasize about her firm, round butt protruding from a red lace thong underneath that skirt she was wearing, or wondering whether she wore a pair of bikini panties that didn’t match, or nothing at all.
“What was that you said?” Kyle asked her, startled out of his daydream by Dharma’s voice.
“I said, she left the door unlocked. Penelope left the god damn door unlocked. My laptop is in here, along with my hard drives and all my old vinyls…”
“Was anything stolen?”
“Uh, no, but…”
“Well then,” Kyle said, getting back to his work. “No need to get in a panic, is there? Nothing’s missing. All is well.”
“Kyyyle,” Dharma lamented. She hated when he called her on things.
“Oh, come on,” Kyle went on. “You know you like having her here. She fits in, helps out with the chores and errands, and we all seem to get along well. Besides, she’s cute.”
Dharma looked up from her mail. “Oh, I see where this is going. You have a big fat crush on her.” Kyle chuckled.
“I think you’re cute too, Dharma. Especially when you’re jealous.” Kyle kept typing as if he didn’t know her eyes were boring into him.
“I’m not jealous. We’ve been roommates for, how long now, almost a year? Haven’t we gotten past all this?”
“Past all what, the fact that you’re fucking hot?” he said, point blank. Dharma blushed, and hoped that with her head down, her brunette bangs hid her embarrassment.
“New York summer is what’s fucking hot,” she said, and he laughed at her quick wit.
“Kyle,” Dharma said looking up again, her cheeks still flushed. “You’re my brother’s best friend.”
“What does your brother have to do with the fact that you’re fucking hot?” Kyle loved annoying her. He thought she was even sexier when she got revved up.
Dharma threw the stack of mail on the uncluttered coffee table and walked into the kitchen for some water. Kyle watched her go. “Want some?” she asked as she filled two glasses from the cooler. Kyle nodded, turning back to the graphic designs he was editing on his iMac. Dharma brought his water over to him and, reaching over his shoulder, placed it on the table beside the computer.
“Whatcha working on?” she asked, leaning in. He felt a wisp of lace graze his neck.
“Mmm, you smell good.”
“Me? Oh, that must be eau de office,” she said. “It tends to linger.” He laughed again, leaning back to feel her body against his.
“I’m working on a presentation for a lecture I’m giving tonight at the college,” he explained. “I’m almost finished.” He looked at his watch. “Oh, shit, gotta run. I forgot I’m supposed to be there early. Fuck, where does the time go?”
“When you’re having fun, right?” She pulled away from the desk and sauntered over to the sofa where she flopped down to resume reading her mail. He glanced over and noticed one tender nipple was peeking out from underneath the low-cut of the bra. It was firm and brown, and made him hard just seeing it.
He and Dharma walked around the apartment half naked a lot of the time. They were used to each other, comfortable. Both had had long term live-in relationships that ended badly, so when, Frankie, Dharma’s brother, suggested they share his old apartment while he took a year long sabbatical in Spain, that turned into two, they both agreed, knowing neither of them was interested in getting involved again for a long time. This living arrangement had been working well for both of them. They found each other to be tidy, dependable, they loved the same moves, liked cooking and, aside from Dharma’s occasional mood swings, they were both easy going, thanks in part to the fact that they both had a sense of humor. It was platonic bliss up until a few weeks ago when Penelope had arrived.
Penelope was an old high school classmate of Kyle’s. They had never dated – she was not his type – but they had friends in common and so had kept in touch via Facebook and email over the years. When Penelope contacted him a month ago looking for a place to stay for a couple of weeks during some modeling auditions in New York, he and Dharma both agreed it would be fine. After all, both of them worked all day, and she said she would be out on the town most nights. But things didn’t turn out that way. Although they all found Penelope a helpful, quiet houseguest, after her first night, she did not go out clubbing, choosing instead to stay at home and watch indie movies and eat popcorn with them, which was their thing to do. She made a point of wearing skimpy clothes whenever Kyle was around, and made sure to sit beside him – almost on top of him – when they were on the couch together. Dharma didn’t know why all this bothered her. Kyle was not her boyfriend, nor did she want him to be. All she knew was she didn’t take well to Penelope getting so comfortable with him in their home. That aside, Dharma liked Penelope. She thought she was fucking hot too.
That night, when Kyle got home from his lecture, he found the apartment extraordinarily quiet.
“Hello,” he called. “Anybody home?”
“We’re in here,” he heard Penelope call back from Dharma’s bedroom. The door was ajar, and candlelight flickered out into the dimly lit living room. He dropped his briefcase by the front door and hung his jacket on the coat tree.
“You girls want a beer? What’s on TV?” Kyle walked to the fridge and grabbed three bottles of Fat Tire Pale Ale, opened them, and walked to the bedroom. There, lying in bed together, were two gorgeous, lingerie clad women. Penelope and Dharma were snuggled together on top of a bed stripped of all bedding other than a satin fitted sheet. Their long, smooth legs were intertwined, their arms were around one another. Kyle was amazed to see that as they watched the TV they fondled and stroked each other’s delicate skin and touched one another in places he had only dreamed of. He also noticed that Dharma looked a little nervous, or was she shy? He couldn’t tell.
“Join us,” Penelope urged. Without hesitation, Kyle disrobed while both women watched with delight. He climbed into bed and he too began to fondle and caress them, taking care to give each woman equal attention. Don Draper could be heard explaining to Peggy how to present her ingenious ad to their current client in a Mad Men rerun that played in the background, but no one paid any attention. All they were aware of was touching each other’s bare skin, exchanging wet kisses, and groping unexplored orifices.
Penelope, it seemed was well versed in the ménage à trois. She directed the other two in what to do and who to do it with, making sure she was well taken care of. It wasn’t just Dharma who noticed, so when Kyle was getting a hand job from Penelope, who of course hoped it would lead to much more, Kyle had another idea. Wiggling out of her clutch, which was no easy task, he turned her onto her stomach. She moaned, lifting her butt into the air and placing her own hands underneath to pleasure herself while waiting for Kyle to make his move. Kyle continued to rub her buttocks, keeping her satiated so he could look at Dharma, because she was who he really wanted. He had to admit that Dharma was even more desirable than he had imagined, or was it that he was fondling another woman while fantasizing about Dharma that was the turn-on? Whatever it was, his throbbing manhood was saying take her now.
Dharma watched as Kyle moved closer to her, leaving Penelope to her own devices. He spread her legs and came down on her, licking and sucking her deliciousness until she forgot where she was and what they had been doing. She arched her back and pressed herself into his wanting mouth until she came in a rush of liquid heat, the only thing wetter being the ultimate release of Kyle’s engorged member.
Kyle stayed down there for a while, enjoying his pleasure, and hers. He had forgotten about Penelope, who seemed to have created her own orgasm and now lay listless at the head of the queen sized bed. Finally Kyle crept out from between Dharma’s legs and inched his way up until they were face to face. They kissed.
“I love eating you,” he said to her. “You’re the only woman I think of, or want to taste for the rest of my life.”
And so, thanks to his old high school classmate, Penelope, from that night forward, Kyle had Dharma for dessert.

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

Boudoir Story #2 – FREDERICO


Frederico was a vagabond. He was not homeless, nor poor, but he couldn’t stay in one place long enough to keep more than a six pack of Pacifico and left over Chinese take-out containers in the fridge, or hook up a telephone in the house he rented. Not long enough to leave a trail, just long enough to have some fun, make a little money, live till it was time to move on, and he never knew when that would be.
One of the things Frederico loved to do was dance. When he was six years old his mother had signed him up with the local boys soccer team, and later t-ball. After witnessing her son doing pirouettes in the middle of the field as balls whizzed past him, she pulled him out and enrolled him in ballet classes. He never looked back. Needless to say, Club 36, where he currently worked, was delighted to have such a classically trained dancer perform in their display window. Frederico was who the young, hip crowd watched as they waited patiently in the long line-up to get into the dark, seedy looking after-hours club. Around midnight he moved from the window to the stage, where he entertained the crowd with semi-erotic strip tease moves while the metal house band, who played at the club every weekend, blasted tunes up to the rafters. Pay was crap, but tips were good, especially on Friday and Saturday nights. The job paid the rent, kept him in great physical shape, while he did what he loved to do – dance. What more could anyone want in life?
Frederico had a best friend in Tucson, his current pit stop. Her name was Angela, but he called her Ange. Ange also danced at the club, and stripped from midnight to 2 am. Ange was tall, full figured, and very fit. Her best feature, she thought, was her butt – firm, round, and perky. Frederico had to agree, so most of the dances the two of them choreographed for her shows used her finest feature, and often included tassels, dangling balls and thongs. You get the picture.
Other than his handsome square-jawed face, thick dark hair, and steel blue eyes, Frederico’s best quality was his entire body, which included a gigantic penis. At first sight, Ange had been mortified, then curious, then in awe. She wanted to check it out, so they jumped in the sack and she tried it, the sack being a top-of-the-line Tempur-Pedic mattress in a frame on the floor. The floor was tongue and groove oak laminate that had pee stains from a dog the previous renters had probably kept indoors all day while they worked. To cover the stains, Frederico had thrown down a small, beige shag carpet he bought at Crate & Barrel. It served its purpose not only to cover the soiled wood, but to provide a soft cushion for Ange to kneel on.
Since the bedroom window was south facing, the room filled with afternoon light and Arizona warmth, even though the day was overcast. Ange didn’t bother to remove all of her clothes, but she did toss her t-shirt onto the nearby dresser, a white antique deco piece Frederico had picked up at an estate auction. He hadn’t meant to make a purchase when he walked through the door of ‘The Girls’ Estate Sales, especially one of home furnishings, but the gorgeous design was so unique he couldn’t resist. When he was ready to move on he would put whatever he had accumulated on Craigslist or eBay. Without fail, he’d make enough money for gas, food, and lodging to get him to his next destination.
Kneeling on the shag carpet from Crate & Barrel, Ange filled her mouth with Frederico’s enlarged member until it made her gag, but she didn’t stop, the enjoyment filled her more. Her large breasts bounced awkwardly as her mouth moved up and down the long shaft. Frederico lay on top of the bed on a feather duvet with his eyes closed. He had seen those same breasts bounce around when she danced on Friday and Saturday nights at Club 36, but this was different, if he had opened his eyes to notice. After she was finished, Ange had him enter her from on top. She climbed on the bed beside him, spread her legs and lifted them over her head, because she was a flexible girl. He entered slowly, filling her in that position too, his erect organ growing even more when inside her, or at least that’s what it felt like to her. It stretched her opening, then reached deep inside her so when her orgasm came, it was as if he had found a button and pushed it. Wham. Finally, she had him mount her from behind, and she arched up to meet his enormity.
Frederico enjoyed their sex, although he knew it wasn’t lovemaking. He did love Ange, he just did not love her. He had actually never really developed a strong enough attachment to anyone at any one place before he met Ange at the club in Tucson. For now it seemed to work for both of them, tumbleweeds that they were.