Woman of His Dreams – Part XXVII

Welcome to Part 27 of “Woman of His Dreams”!  If you’re new to my dark little erotic tale, you can find the start here!

Enjoy, and remember, dreams often have a life of their own…

~A.C.~

“Woman of His Dreams”
Part 27
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010


The rough hands of big men pulled at Anthony’s clothing – no, George’s clothing — making short work of his garments and tossing them aside. As he was being stripped, he looked wildly around the room, realizing that some of the robed and hooded people were women and that some of them were already being groped and fucked in anticipation of what lay ahead.

He watched Sir Geoffrey and the enormous goat with sidelong glances, afraid to look too closely at the animal. Did they really mean for it to bugger him?

Cassie’s hands worked inside Anthony’s scrubs, pulling him hard.  He smelled skunky weed and spilled beer as he rode the rising scream of the synthesized Strad, the jerks and spasms binding them all, entwined with the crowd, all lost in the crazy music.

“L’ias!” Sir Geoffrey intoned, as George’s last garment was removed. “Ez’kule, l’ias elihu.” He held aloft a phallic wand, the bulbous head glistening wetly in the candlelight. “Join in the ecstasy,” he commanded the little crowd, and they obeyed with gleeful madness, robes lifted to bare erect cocks and waiting orifices, no desk or chair safe from the sudden orgy.

On the floor, Brigitte looked back over her shoulder, at George, at Anthony, her eyes wide and warm, her butt and quim elevated to receive him, but the time-slip of consciousness and the acute angst over the role of the goat, rendered George limp.

The synthesized violin multiplied into an orchestra of dysphonic noise. The trio on stage thrashed, frenzied and wild, the drummer transcending the limits of his flesh, his arms moving too fast to see as the music screamed and begged and demanded. The crowd writhed and whipped, all flesh, all one. Outside, sirens devoured the night, and Anthony knew that monsters were loose in the city. He wanted their embrace, the worm and the band, and most of all Cassie, who offered the gash between her legs to his cock, longer and thicker than any man’s had ever been, ready to fuck  the world.

The wound in his side opened and began to leak oily fluid down his side.

“Have you no faith?” Sir Geoffrey asked him. “No desire for the beauty who offers herself to you?”

George looked again at Brigitte, saw the animal hunger in her eyes. Sir Geoffrey took hold of his cock and it jumped in the lord’s hand. “Do you need help?” he asked in a tone of utter contempt.

“No,” George managed and Sir Geoffrey’s expert touch began to ignite his loins, the violin silent now, and the only sound in the chamber the combined breath of the orgy, quickening. A woman screamed in her release and the room pulsed with her orgasm, the walls throbbing, as space itself began to contract in climax.

He positioned himself, the head of his bloated purple cock-head nestled at the bud of Brigitte’s asshole, then lower to slide between the slippery lips of her sex, as wet as any woman he had ever entered. She pushed back against him and he moved with her, the rhythm building between them, matching the unspent lust of the others in the room.

The woman who had screamed out one climax cried again, a desperate, breathless sound and others grunted as they came, but the growing mass of primal force did not diminish.

The sounds of the room called across time and space, the sabbat in its eldest form, the surrender of flesh to desires more brutal and pure than beasts’. George rode her, his cock slipping in and out of the wet sheath of her cunt, gripping her now, grinding against her, heedless of what might be happening behind him.

Almost.

“You must not be weak,” Cassie whispered in his ear, inhuman, metallic. They lay on the floor together, and Anthony recognized the sensation of being inside her, his magical phallus enclosed like a caterpillar within its cocoon, the wand in the chalice. Someone played with his balls and another cock battered at his mouth, pushed past his lips, the hot weight on his tongue feeding his hunger.

“You know the price of weakness.”

He felt the goat, its huge, furry weight on his back, its rank smell cloaking him, and he wavered, missed a stroke as Brigitte pushed back, her cry of pleasure turning to one of disappointment. The goat had grown arms, thin boneless arms, and it held him around his waist, even as it pressed down on him. He looked back over his shoulder, lust running from him like the white of a pierced egg, as he watched what it become – no longer a goat, no longer anything he could name.

He saw too many sides of it at once, as though he looked upon it in a prism mirror, scattered and incomplete, and he realized that if he saw it all together, his mind would snap completely.

“Fuck her, you mouse,” Sir Geoffrey screamed. “Our lord demands it!”

He had no chance. All he wanted was to escape the room, to escape the memory of the thing that held him, the thing that penetrated his flesh and his soul, tearing him apart.

Anthony would not weaken. Empowered, engorged, he fucked Cassie hard, trying to hurt her, the cock in his mouth pulsing, gushing. He swallowed and let it go, his teeth seeking Cassie’s ivory skin, biting her savagely even as he ground into her, the music shattering the walls, the crowd coming together, a paean to the cosmos, a celebration of the darkest mysteries of sex and death.

Even as he came inside her and she clenched around him in frenzied climax, she put her hand on his side, on the wound, and reached inside him, touching his soul.

#

“Not bad, bookworm,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “They really did pick a winner.” Xabaret Xulu had closed for the night, the crowd dressed and emptied into the alley. Cassie had donned her Goth gear, hanging on Anthony’s arm as they strolled down the street, just another pair of early morning lovers. She had found him a pair of jeans and a faded Mötley Crüe t-shirt somewhere.

 “You’re in now. You know that, right? No changing your mind.”

He felt numb but transformed. He had a vague sense of unease and realized he was worried about Cynthia. Maybe Cassie felt his steps falter.

“Uh,” she said. “You’re in, and the next thing you’re going to do is find that cunt of yours. She has something we need.”

The book, he knew.

“And you’re going to get it back, even if you have to kill her.”

Continued in Part 28.

Copyright 2010 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved.  Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Best Bondage Erotica 2011



I’ve been fortunate to have many great covers on the anthologies I’ve
contributed to, and I could never pick a favorite, but I have to admit,
the cover of Best Bondage Erotica 2011 definitely ranks as one of the best.  It’s sexy and smart – two of my favorite cover qualities.

My story in this year’s Best Bondage is “The Cartographer”.  It’s
about a woman and a man who embrace a journey of submission, charted in
skin and ink.  Take the trip.  You won’t regret it.

If you like the cover and would like a post card of it (US mailing
addresses only), email my fabulous editor Rachel Kramer Bussel at bestbondage2011 at gmail.com and put “Postcard”
in the subject.

Forgotten Fear in Four Colors

Four Color Fear: Forgotten Horror Comics of the 1950s , edited by Greg Sadowski
Fantagraphics Books
320 pages. softcover
$29.99

Drake here again. First up in the horror review queue is this wonderful collection of vintage horror comics, an unrefined ore of grisly graphics presented in glorious, restored color, looking better than they did almost 60 years ago. Beautifully designed, the book is a bloody treasure.

Four Color Fear reprints 40 entire stories from the goriest of the forbidden comics of the late 1940s and early 1950s, as well as a selection of mind-blowing covers from legendary titles like Mister Mystery, Web of Evil, and Weird Thrillers. The choice and presentation of covers and stories is superb, a real aficionado’s smorgasbord of utterly depraved entertainment.

By design, this is not a comprehensive collection. There are literally thousands of horror stories from the era and Four Color Fear avoids the comics published by EC, Marvel, DC, and other well-known houses in favor of obscure imprints that are not likely ever to be reprinted in any other format. The original material is extensively annotated with regard to artist, writer (where the writer is known – writing credits were evasive in this era), and publisher. The historical material will be of interest to hardcore fans of these comics but may not catch the attention of a casual reader. Little attempt is made to frame these stories in the social or larger historical context of their times, or to analyze them beyond the mechanical details of art and production. They stand garishly on their own.

I was certainly struck by how really awful much of the writing in these old comics is, by any objective modern standard, but I was also impressed by how effective some of the stories are in their imagery and imaginative, nightmarish power, in spite of the quality of the prose. The plotting often feels like a child’s narration of a more complex story, one perhaps not clearly understood by the narrator. Character motivations are bizarre and frequently silly, and the effect is almost expressionistic, as though the characters are there to act as emblems of sensations and demonstrate the outcome of morality plays rather than as portrayals of real people in horrendous situations.

But one doesn’t read these comics for their stories, really, but rather for an insight into what entertained the youth of the time, while outraging authority. They are, in every sense of the word, dark and subversive of conventional values, something that must have been intolerable to the enforcers of crushing conformity in postwar America.

And then there is the art, crazy exercises in style and mastery by artists like Basil Wolverton, Jack Cole, and Howard Nostrand, comic art from a time when styles were far more varied than in today’s comics, with traditions of illustration and Sunday comics that brought diversity and vitality to the form. The art will probably strike readers who only know modern comics as grotesque and cartoonish, but there is no denying its power.

Roots of later horrors are evident all through these comics, a topic I will get into more in the review of another book, but the conventions of modern spook stories like True Blood and The Walking Dead crawl through these old tales like veins in the arm of a resurrected corpse.

For someone newly interested in pre-Comics Code horror, I would recommend one of the EC volumes over this book – the writing is much more accessible and the art overall better – but, as an introduction to the genre, and as a glimpse into a lost world of terrors, Four Color Fear is a superb second step and, for a fan, the collection is like a breath of ghastly air issuing from the recesses of a time-rotted tomb.

Woman of His Dreams – Part XXVI

Welcome to Part 26 of “Woman of His Dreams”!  If you’re new to my dark little erotic tale, you can find the start here!

Enjoy, and remember, dreams often have a life of their own…

~A.C.

“Woman of His Dreams”
Part 26
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010


On a couch in the office where Stephen left her, Cynthia slept lightly and she dreamed of a room.

Naked under a black robe, she waited with other robed men and women for something to begin. She had a sense of anticipation and excitement. The robed man behind her pressed against her and the hard line of his cock teased her back, an exquisite promise even through the thin robes they wore. At the center of the chamber, a woman waited on her knees, half-bare, suppliant.

Cynthia knew her.

“Brigitte,” she whispered, the edge of dream tattering as she struggled with new fears.

A violin screamed, Stradivarius being flayed and a tall figure led a goat into the room. Cynthia knew the man too. Sir Geoffrey was his name and he presided here, at the rite. Sir Geoffrey gestured and the worshippers led a man out of the little crowd and began to undress him. Cynthia looked into his face and sudden dizziness tightened her stomach to the size of a pea.

“Anthony!” she cried, dream turning to darkness and then to light as someone shook her awake.

“Get up,” Stephen said forcefully. He thrust a jacket at her. “Wear this. We have to hurry before the real police arrive.” She resisted his hands, his words, but he pulled her off the sofa and draped the coat around her shoulders. “Come on,” he growled. “Or I’ll drag you out of here naked.”

She started to protest, to ask him what had happened with Derrick, with the EMS, but he stopped her. “No time now. Move it!”

Stephen carried a briefcase and held the stone ankh. His exasperation puffed out of him as he handed the artifact to her. “Take this,” he said. “It will help.”

As soon as her fingers closed around the stone base of the looped cross, a coolness slid over her, the imminent menace of the dream faded, and her purpose came into clearer focus.

She let him lead her out of the room and into the night.

##

“I know it’s not exactly your area,” Stephen said to her, setting a cup of tea on the low table by Cynthia’s chair, “But have you ever heard of Merry Mount?”

She shook her head. The ankh lay on the table, comfortingly near.  They had driven to Stephen’s apartment, miles from the university and, while he drove, he had answered her questions. The EMS guys had taken Derrick away and the campus cops had asked Stephen a lot of questions. They didn’t seem satisfied with his answers but were reluctant to take him in. City police had been called but apparently all officers were busy with some big disturbance downtown, so the campus officers told Stephen that someone would call him. When they let him go, he’d come for her.   In his apartment, he’d sat her down and asked her to tell him everything that had happened.  She didn’t hesitate. Everything that had happened, the book, Anthony, Brigitte, the dreams and visions, all of it spewed out of her, bile to be purged so recovery could begin.

He only stared at her, then shook his head, raw regret circling his eyes. “I’m sorry I left Derrick with you.  I misunderstood the nature of the book,” he said.  Panic rushed back into her.  The book!
 
“Don’t worry, Cynthia.  The book’s in my briefcase, safe for now. Neither of us should touch it unless we absolutely have to.”

She still wore only the coat Stephen had given her back at the university. She considered asking if he had trousers she might borrow, but she could not hide the truth from herself. She was still pleasantly, warmly horny, and knew that soon she and Stephen would fuck again. Pants would only be in the way.

“So, have you?  Heard of Merry Mount?”

“No,” she answered. “I don’t think so.”

“It was an early colony in Massachusetts, in the 1600s” he explained as he sipped his own tea. “Founded by a heretical Puritan named Thomas Morton. Hard to say what really went on there – the orthodox citizens of Plymouth made a lot of allegations…orgies, sexual congress with the local natives, paganism, the usual witchcraft. After one particularly wild May Day revel, old Miles Standish himself led a band of outraged pilgrims into Merry Mount, arrested Morton, and chopped down the Maypole. Hawthorne wrote a story about it. That was pretty much the end of neo-paganism in the colonies.”

She listened to him, but her attention fragmented as the distant scream of sirens triggered a growing wetness in her pussy. She touched the ankh and, when Stephen didn’t stop her, she picked it back up.

“Before the end, some of Morton’s followers left Merry Mount to move further west, out to what was then the frontier. The little we have from Morton’s papers says they were the ‘wyldest’ of his folk and they sought a new paradise farther from the authorities in Plymouth. They were wise enough, I suppose, considering what happened to Merry Mount. They called their settlement Elyssium.”

The ankh warmed in her hand, its shaft almost like flesh. She rested it in her lap, the stone lying between the buttons of her coat, almost searing her. She was having trouble focusing on what Stephen said.

“No one really knows what happened in Elyssium. There were problems with the natives and there is some indication that the Plymouth folks intended to do something about the ‘wyld’ escapees, but there is no record of any arrests, or of any official action. Until ten years ago, no one was even sure of the original site of the colony.”

She touched the warm stone to her clit and bit her lip.

“The man and woman who led Elyssium were named Octavian and Juliette St. Clair.”

She startled a little, surprise chasing away the seductive pulse of the artifact between her legs. “That’s Anthony’s last name!”

“I thought so.” Stephen sat his cup down. “Might just be a coincidence, but then again, it might not. I don’t know what your book is, but I feel sure it’s somehow related to that cross.” He gestured at the ankh, his eyes widening a little as he realized what she was doing with it, but he didn’t stop her. “The book and the cross are both part of something …very old and very powerful.”

She slipped the stone over her clit and between the lips of her pussy, fumbling with the bottom buttons of the coat to improve access.

“Ten years ago,” Stephen said, standing up and unfastening his belt. “I was part of a five person team that located the site of Elyssium and we spent a week there. That week changed my life forever, my view of the universe, everything.”

 A surge of pure lust swamped her when his erect cock jumped at his touch as he removed his pants. She spread her legs and reached for him.

“That’s where I found the ankh,” he said, taking it from her, his cock brushing against her cheek.  He took the matter in hand, stroked it, and offered her seven inches of hard flesh in recompense for the ankh.  Cynthia parted her lips and savored the sliding heat he gave her.  

Stephen let out a shuddered breath.  “Yeah, that’s where I found it.”  His hips began to move as he fucked her face.

“In the buried ruins of the town clutched in the skeletal hand of Juliette St. Clair.”

Continued in Part 27.

Copyright 2010 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Forbidden Comic Books

Drake here. In retro publishing, this fall has turned out to be the season of the horror comic, with a veritable dark and stormy flood of books reprinting classics from the great era of horror comics in the early 1950s. Since I have a deep affection for this material, and since Angela is wonderfully indulgent of my vices, she is allowing me to occupy a few inches of her blog to review some of these books. This topic is timely too, because a modern horror comic has just become the basis for  hit TV series The Walking Dead.

Arguably the most important book ever written about comic books was the one that almost put an end to them. In 1954, psychiatrist Fredric Wertham published Seduction of the Innocent: the Influence of Comic Books on Today’s Youth. The book was the culmination of years of effort by the well-meaning doctor, who had spent years counseling severely troubled inner city youngsters and who had been, perhaps, driven into a kind of narrowly focused fanaticism by his work. Dr. Wertham blamed horror and crime comics for everything from juvenile crime to sexual fetishes.

In 1955, American comic book publishers were pretty much compelled to submit to a production code – similar to the Hay’s Code that cleaned up movies in the 30s. Among other things, the Comics Code Authority forbade the use of words like “horror” and “terror” in comic titles, banned vampires and werewolves, and ensured that good always triumphed over evil. For the next 15 years, comic would be paragons of innocence and goodness until cracks in the structure began to form around 1970. The Code still exists, but I doubt Dr. Wertham would be amused by some of the material published today with its approval.

Before 1955, there were dozens of companies producing horror and crime comics. The best known of the bunch was the Entertaining Comics company (EC), which imploded after the mid-50s to the single, massively popular Mad magazine. EC’s comics have been acclaimed for the literary ambitions of their writers and the quality of their art and are regarded as some of the best comic books anyone ever published. Widely reprinted in a variety of cheap and expensive formats (although the most recent attempt to archive them in classy hardcover editions ran into the churning blades of economic reality and seems to have ended), EC editions are easy to find for anyone willing to spend a little time on eBay.

But ECs were only the tip of a big, bloody iceberg and several book publishers this fall have begun to mine the vast, all but unknown, trove of scary comics produced before the advent of the Code, the very books that drove Dr. W to his crusade. Besides reprinting rare material, these retrospectives raise some interesting points about the nature of horror comics, their place in the times that produced them, and the importance of forbidden texts in an open society.

Next: Four Color Fear

Woman of His Dreams – Part XXV

Welcome to Part 25 of “Woman of His Dreams”!  If you’re new to my dark little erotic tale, you can find the start here!

Enjoy, and remember, dreams often have a life of their own…

~AC

“Woman of His Dreams”
Part 25
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010

All around the club, which had shrunken considerably, men and women, still mostly naked, milled about, some looking for their clothes, others off to the bar bobbing, dripping, and jiggling. On stage, the singer languidly butt-fucked the keyboard player, in what Anthony guessed must be some kind of musician’s afterglow, a little between-set sodomy.

He looked back at Cassie, perfect breasts with little nipples adorned with silver pins. A drop of sweat ran down her tight stomach and into her shaved, wet slit. He remembered tasting her.

Cassie’s eyes widened a little when she noticed his growing erection. “Ready again so soon? They picked a real stud this time.”

“Who?” he asked, almost desperate. “Who picked?”

“We’ll get to that.” She took him by his cock and squeezed. “But I don’t want to waste this. Come on, buy me a drink.” She picked up a black lace scarf and tied it around her narrow hips so it made a skirt that danced like thin smoke.

Tony pulled his scrubs on, glad when his hard-on subsided some. He followed her to the bar, a make-shift affair of stools and boards. To his shock, Cassie handed him his own wallet. So the cops hadn’t found it back at the store.  Relief lasted half a breath before he shivered, remembering what had happened there, vivid as a fresh nightmare.

He remembered the worm, how it stretched, with no end to it as it emerged from behind the shelves, rising in a dripping column. His hand returned to the wound in his side, felt the puckered seam closed, healed, not even sore.

He bought Cassie the ale of her choice, Innsmouth Pale, and got a Shiner for himself. They leaned against one of the walls at the back of the stage room and drank without talking. He watched the room, the patrons, all ages and shapes as they slowly collected around the stage again, some of them dressing, others naked and sweaty. The band members had apparently finished fucking and gone elsewhere. The room smelled like jiz and sulfur.

“This isn’t real,” Anthony said to Cassie. “Is it?”

She looked sideways at him. Was that a little smile? She reached over and cupped his cock under the thin scrubs, rubbed one perfect, silver-adorned breast against his arm, the nipple stiffening as she kissed his throat. “You’ll see,” she said.

“What is that book? Tales. What is it?” he asked, his hand under the wisp of silk, cradling the hard curve of her butt. His growing cock and the rough Texas beer emboldened him.

“It’s nothing,” she answered, laughing. “It’s just a way in that you were lucky enough to find.  There are plenty of others. Like the right art or the holy music – anything that opens you up to the Old Ones. This world is full of the pleasures he gives.”

“Who? Who gives?”

She said something that sounded like she was talking with a mouth full of molasses and marbles.

“What?”

“They call him The Procurer.”

“Is he like a gangster?”

“No, silly. He’s like a god.”

His cock shrank a little as he heard and believed her.

“Listen to The Word,” she said, reaching into his trousers to wiggle his shriveled dick back to life.

“What Word?”

“These guys,” she said. “That’s the band’s name.” She nodded at the stage where the trio had re-emerged, wearing leather and latex strap-ons and nothing else. “Listen to them, bookworm, and be enlightened.”

The guy at the synth bank punched keys and digitized violins filled the room as the lights dimmed, a mimicry of the tone and style of old wood, scratching the edges of discord. His head began to swim and he remembered being somewhere a long time ago, in a room of music, his brain seething with pleasant intoxicants.

Long ago.

His name was George, only a cousin away from royalty, and the beastly violin player inspired in him an urgent anxiety. Only the chloral hydrate he had ingested and the duke’s good wine kept him in his seat, along with the promise of a performance to inspire the most intense feelings, the most divine sensations. Sir Geoffrey had promised nothing less.

At the center of his lordship’s dark-paneled study, among shelves that held the finest library ever assembled on the arts of dark sorcery, a girl waited on her knees.

Anthony knew her.

Sir Geoffrey had dressed her in a cotton shift too short to cover her cunny, try as she might. The girl appeared terrified and George grew hard watching her. Sir Geoffrey, robed in black, his garment decorated with gilt signs to summon and bind devils, entered from the hall, leading a big black goat, the biggest animal of its sort that George had ever seen.  A dozen men in similar robes formed a circle around the girl, breaking to admit Geoffrey and his immense caprine companion.

The girl was named Brigitte. George knew her name somehow. Had someone told him?

Sir Geoffrey moved with acrobat’s grace to stand over the girl, over Brigitte. He caught her neck in the merciless ring of his hand. George’s breath quickened as Sir Geoffrey half lifted her, raising her so that her shift fell forward and left her ass and quim bare and exposed.

George realized that Sir Geoffrey intended for the goat to fuck the girl. He was not sure he wanted to watch, but the spell of chloral hydrate held him, and he could not think of a way to gracefully decline the exhibition.

“Pardon, your lordship, but I don’t fancy bestiality,” seemed timid. The others would laugh at him.

Sir Geoffrey looked directly at him, as though sensing his weakness.

“Come on up here, Georgie. It will be good for you.”

He felt two pairs of hands on him, tugging at his coat and breeches, heard the boisterous laughter of the lodge brothers as they began to undress him.

“What?” he managed. “What do you want me to do?”

“Why mount this girl, of course.”

“But, the goat…”

“You goose! The goat’s for you.”

Continued in Part 26

Copyright 2010 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Dear in the Headlights – Passion: Erotic Romance for Women

I am very proud to have my story “Dear in the Headlights” in Passion: Erotic Romance for Women, edited by the incomparable Rachel Kramer Bussel.   When I first saw the call for this collection I suffered several days of performance anxiety – there were so many possibilities for plots.  I can’t tell you how many ideas half formed in my brain before they evaporated under the intense scrutiny of a cliché lens – or the realization that the story I wanted to tell wouldn’t fit within 4.000 words.  I wasn’t quite fretting, but I was preoccupied by the need to find a theme. My partner Drake helped me by reminding me that if I would just stop thinking about it, stop worrying, the story would present itself.

And it did, on a pre-dawn drive to work.  In a slow-motion moment, I experienced awe, amazement, and a slice of fear as two does crossed the road well ahead of me.  I saw them in my headlights and caught the flash of their eyes before they slid gracefully back into the woods.  

Deer in the headlights.

The phrase stuck with me all the way to work, germinated, and, by the time I reached my office, the outline for “Dear in the Headlights” was clear.

Below is an excerpt from my story.  I hope you enjoy it. If you do, trust me, the other stories in Passion will definitely please!

Stay Sexy!

Excerpt from
“Dear in the Headlights”
By Angela Caperton
in
Passion: Erotic Romance for Women
Published by Cleis, 2010


Low beams bathed me, and I felt every lumen glitter on the lacy black bra and garter belt I wore under an open trench coat.  The cool autumn air brushed my cheeks and tickled my bare belly, but it couldn’t cool me. Daniel stood beside his car, illuminated by the dome light inside it, and his expression turned from stunned surprise to primal lust when he saw what I wore.

My hips swayed as I walked toward him. The coattails floated around my long legs, the coat’s wide lapels slapped against the swell of my breasts, and in that moment, I was Aphrodite and Anita Berber, Mae West and Ishtar.

My pussy, shaved and bare between the garter bands, shamelessly drawing his gaze, creamed with desire as I made the little journey, stopping just beyond his reach, spotlighted. I smiled, inviting him to do whatever he wanted with me, and felt the night quicken with blood calling to blood, deferred ecstasy anticipating fulfillment.

In the moment before he touched me, I knew the night would be everything we wanted it to be, when only an hour earlier, Fate seemed determined to keep us apart.

Earlier that evening, as I leaned close to the mirror to paint wine-colored lipstick on my lips, all I could think about was the plan.  The lip color was yummy – and a perfect complement to the black-plum satin of the obscenely short cocktail dress I wore.  I never dreamed I’d spend so much on a piece of clothing that barely qualified as covering, but tonight demanded it – and wearing the tight, sexy dress, the silk stockings and the burgundy-accented black garter and bra hit all the right buttons in me.  Tonight was about seduction and romance, a deliberate exploitation of all the things Daniel enjoyed. I wanted to have him panting before he ever opened a car door for me.

Yes, seduction to the point of mutual madness, then crazed, hungry – no, starving – fucking.

Five months.  I’m almost embarrassed to say it.  Five months since Daniel and I had done the dirty.  Sure, we’ve been married for ten years, but that hasn’t diminished our desire for sex.  If anything, we’ve gotten a lot better at finding that magical common ground where pleasure reaches a whole new plateau, mind blowing orgasms that are the end point of delightful little odysseys. Given how good we were at reducing each other to mutually spent, happy goo, it was a tragedy how rarely we had the opportunity.

Daniel was a software engineer with major clients on both coasts and I worked as a consulting nutritionist for a medical firm serving hospitals and businesses across the country. We both traveled constantly, like comets in wide orbit, and on those lucky occasions when our paths intersected, we tried not to kill each other from the sheer frenzy of our need. This was nothing either of us had wanted, but it had happened all the same.

This separation had been uncommonly long and, until tonight, when I was putting myself together, I hadn’t realized how much I missed him and wanted him.