I’m currently working on the cover for a new erotic short story that was previously published in Excite Books anthology, Ultimate Sex 2. I’ll be offering this short erotic tale for the bargain price of $0.99 on Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes and Noble, and Kobo. Expect it out either Thursday of this week or Tuesday of next week, depending on how smoothly things go!
Below is an excerpt:
I’d seen them a few times at Dracula’s, a local Gothic/fetish club, where they liked to strut around and tease the men, giving them a flash of thigh, of pierced navels and tongues, of honey cream cleavage. The guys both loved and hated them. Look, but don’t touch, was their motto.
Meanwhile I was just getting back into the night life. Tried the normal marriage, the jealous husband, the American Dream. It sucked. I’d left it, because in the end, I’d faced a few hard facts. I liked women as much as I liked men. And at the moment, perhaps even more. Nice girls in my family weren’t supposed to have such thoughts.
Now I consider myself to be attractive–auburn hair, hazel eyes, a few freckles, petite, and with what guys call ‘a great ass’. But these girls were beautiful. Their leader, a dark olive-skinned amazon with black hair falling over her perfect breasts (natural of course) and dark eyes done up with eyeliner to look like Cleopatra; well, she was a goddess. She called herself Yves. How appropriate. Young, not more than twenty-five, I was certain, which meant that I was probably too old for her, probably ten years her senior. And yet when she looked at me, I felt as if our ages were reversed. I was a wide-eyed girl, with an anxious burning between my legs.
She was sitting in the courtyard outside the club with four of her friends (all beautiful, all dressed in black: silk, leather, lace, vinyl), sipping a drink. She looked relaxed and in her element, legs crossed, showing off the fishnet hose, making her vinyl skirt ride up just enough to reveal a garter strap. She caught me staring at her. I knew I should look away, that I was only going to make a fool of myself if I continued staring, but there didn’t seem to be any malice in her face, no disdain. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I would say she was looking me over as well. She turned and glanced at the girl sitting next to her, as if considering, and then waved me over.
I’d dressed well for the evening–black satin pants so soft they felt like they were airbrushed on, red silk corset with a Japanese print, and eyes done up in flames, matching the flame of my hair. I walked up–now with guys, I’ve always been a flirt, outgoing, assertive. I know my way around the bedroom and a man’s body. But women now . . . this was a whole new language. I didn’t know how to flirt, what to say, what worked. I smiled. When in doubt, compliment. “That is an amazing outfit.” Translation: you are amazing.
“Thank you,” she replied graciously–and then she did something I’d never expect. “Those look so soft,” she said in a low voice, and began to caress my leg, and then my ass, through the satin pants. I was only wearing a thong; she ran her finger down the strap. My eyes widened. My face burned.
She licked her lips, seeing my reaction, and turned to her friends. “Oh my God, her pants! You have to feel them.” And just like that, two of the girls with her reached over. The first was a brunette with a heart-shaped face wearing a lacy corset and the other a tall blond in latex. Now I had three pairs of hands rubbing me. I stifled a moan.
The blond stopped after a moment, going back to her drink, but Yves kept going, moving her hand deliberately around to the front. She found my clit with amazing accuracy and speed. I clutched her chair. “You know,” she said, looking at me, “Now that I’ve started, I’m not going to be able to stop.”
I had no idea what to say. Things like this just didn’t happen to me.