Digressions Into Erotica

Phaedra Torres Digressions Into Erotica

The Four O’Clock Set

Stiletto is a dancer, stuck with the early afternoon shift. She makes the best of it, butis it really worth it?

Dead stares through acrid haze-I hate this place in the afternoon; clinking, sweat-soaked long necks, gin- soaked businessmen leaning on the rail or laying back in their chairs, legs spread like they have something to offer.

Gentlemen, I give you Stiletto!

I burst through the curtain and strut to center stage, daring them to look at me.

Cupping the pole between cool palms, I sway my hips in time with the base line that pounds the air and let my gaze circle the room. Searching faces, selecting my prey.

Only a few are focused-eyes traveling up and down my body as I slither around the pole. There you are. I see you with your wad of bills and poorly veiled anticipation all but dribbling down your chin. Let me just slide the straps of my bra down my shoulders, holding my arms close to my body while I finger the clasp between my breasts.

I pause, asking with my eyes, ‘shall I let it fall?’ I press in and up, so that when the hook is released, my nipples spring into liberation.

See how the pole fits between my glittery tits? Watch me now, when I slide down to the floor. I’ll squat, knees bent and thrown wide, and bounce, bounce, bounce, slap my ass against the stage.

Is that you underneath me? Feel my skin smacking against your soft belly? Your six pack? Your jutting hipbones? Is your cock straining to pummel me? Oh yes, I can feel it, and I close my eyes.

Shall I throw my head back and let my hair trail up my vinyl coated calves? Let your eyes follow my thigh; let your mind wander over the shimmer of my boots, glistening red with oil and sweat.

Here. I’ll bend back, place my shoulders on the floor, arch my belly into the air, grasp the six-inch spikes of my heels like handle bars and grind my clit against the cold steel.

I’ll sit up then, and dare you to throw your money on the stage so I can belly crawl your way, slinking like a panther. I gather the wadded bills in my teeth, grasp them between my fingers and run them down my body. Your gaze is glued to my fingers as they delve into that little sequined triangle of fabric-a flimsy barrier between you and paradise.

Watch my hand linger there, fingers fluttering over what surely must be wet just from looking at you. You’re all man, and I’m all shudders and sighs at the thought of what you would do, what you could do, if only you could reach out and lay your hands on me, plant your lips against my flesh.

But not today, not right now. Right now, as the music fades, I’ll stand with pouting lips and apologetic eyes, and back slowly away until I disappear behind the heavy curtains.

Forty bucks. I hate this place in the afternoon.

Sleep Well, My Love

Do you ever wonder just how well you know the person sleeping next to you? It’snot always sex that makes a scene erotic.

It’s cold, my steel-though I caress it lovingly, cup it to my cheek. While holding it so, I can hear the succulent screams longing for release, and I savor them with eyes closed. I know every nick, every crevice, each millimeter of the paper-thin edge. The handle has worn to fit my fingers and no others. This is my blade. This is my mighty dagger. And you will know it, too-more intimately than me, and I am envious of you.

I’ll lay its full coolness against your chest and watch the ebb and flow of each breath; rise, fall, rise…fall. So peaceful, so quiet, so precious you are to me. I’ll trace the soft underside of your jaw with my blade’s exquisitely pointed tip. As you turn away, I am compelled to connect the dots from freckle to freckle on your shoulder-but lightly-just a spider’s web bejeweled with crimson dew. I am overwhelmed with visions of the luscious parting of your skin in the singing wake of my beloved razor’s edge.

But tonight is not for you, lover. Tonight, I will lay my steel aside and watch you for a while, let the heat of your body soothe my pains, quiet my visions, and carry me to join your slumber. There will be other nights. Sleep well, my love.

Crime of Passion

A hasty trip to a quiet hall at a party can be murder.

Look at you, all sleek and cool. Your image slices through the crowd-the only crisp visage in the blur of cocktail-soaked minglers.

I can’t help but gravitate toward you-your pointed gaze pulls me in. I step forward.

You step back, urge me to follow without saying a word, and I tremble when you slip into the shadowed hall.

So awestruck am I that I glide after you, craving your darkness.

Your hand wraps around my throat and snatches me away from the safety of the crowd.

We swivel, and I am back against the wall, my knees on your hips, one of your hands cupping my ass. You devour me, leaning in to pin me with your weight.

Your other hand drops from my throat and skitters down my flank. Your forearm hooks beneath my knee and you hoist me higher. Rigid fingers delve between my thighs, which your searing hips have forced wide.

Ah! I cry out as your fingers drive into my clenching pussy, while your thumb surrounds my clit in tiny, agonizing circles. Your ministrations release a cloud of pheromones, and my nostrils flair to savor our mingled scents. You inhale deeply and your knees buckle, forcing a hiss from between your clenched teeth.

I feel the heat long before you stab me and plunge again and again. I’m gasping and screaming and crying out for mercy- please! Oh, please! There is no mercy in you. You power into me, every thrust raking textured wallpaper across my spine.

My fingers fumble through your hair, down the back of your neck, and clutch at your collar, struggling for purchase, fighting a losing battle.

We slip down the wall, tangled together, shoving, lurching into one another; our sole focus the point of connection. We are both sticky and slick, and each thrust comes with a squelch and a smack.

My neck is bent, chin tight to my chest, hips thrust into the air. We grunt like the carnal creatures we are, and hold our bodies taught and still, save for our pelvises; grinding against each other, pulling apart with harmonized groans, drawing together with deliberate precision. Oh! Oh, just… right… there…

My whimpers quicken, sharpen, deepen, as if each breath is coming from further down inside me, gathering strength, rolling up my core and filling the back of my throat to overflowing. They boil out of me. My lips open wide