She waits for him outside the bar. It feels longer this time, a slow crawl up a steeper slope. Above her, the neon sign glows like a halo she doesn’t deserve—an interrogation lamp under which she omits something, as easily as “Cocktails” flickers on, off, on… It’s a faint buzz trying to be there, but not quite. Another man asks her for a smoke; she shakes her head, because she can hardly see him.
It’s hard to see anything when she waits for him.
The bouncer nods at her, mouths, Coming in? She isn’t ready. Not yet. They’ve been here one thousand times before. Everybody knows them, their laughs together. They talk secrets of the world, and anecdotes from here to the galaxy over so many drinks and smiles. Those smiles she always sees: in her dreams, in the songs she writes. In her heart.
She can’t quite get him out of her heart.
This, she knows, is the problem. It’s the reason she stands here now, though there’s so much more to it—the way he speaks to her, often, or answers the phone to be sure she’s all right. It’s how he looks at her like she’s his comfort and the answer at the end of a hard day. Like she’s the one he’s been waiting for this long.
The air feels colder tonight, but it often does before he comes. It’s not right that he can warm her through with the sound of his laugh, or the bite of his lip while he ponders a response to some moralistic question in the middle of their third round. She thinks of this now, the bite of the lip, how he does it without realizing the catch of her breath, and she crosses her arms over her stomach, waiting. Waiting. Why is nothing more important than him?
He’s behind her, fingers sliding through the strands of her hair in a gentle caress over her neck. She wonders if he sees the flutter of her eyes when his skin meets hers, if he hears her sharp inhalation as he leans into her ear. His is an aura of confidence and love, and that scent he always wears, making her wish she could tilt her nose against his chin to breathe him in, feel the stroke of his fingertips up her thighs or over her naked back like she used to. His body is firm and protective. Close—before he remembers maybe he’s not supposed to touch her like this. His fingers slip from her skin, taking with them everything that makes her heart skip.
The “Cocktails” sign flashes on again. It lights their faces, and the ring on a finger almost tucked in his pocket when he comes around to face her.
“Have you been waiting long?” He gestures toward the door, and she shakes her head.
“Nope. Not long.” She smiles. He smiles.
Bites his lip.
Once they go inside, their bodies are close.
The above flash story was inspired by lovely F. Leonora Solomon’s “Friday Flash—Cocktails” meme. Click on the badge below to read other stories inspired by her fabulous photo!
Photo courtesy of A Dissolute Life Means
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Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor
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My Rope Life Rebooted
I Needed my Fix
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Bukkake, Babe, that’s me! Or is it?
Jun 2014 Session – Mistress Claire & Robynn
Don’t Just Fuck Her!
Mid Week Fantasizing — The 3some
I told him I’m Hy.
Writing About Writing
Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships
Body Talk and Sexual Health
We called her the Panty Princess.
Every party we held, she’d show up with that huge smile on her face, wearing an adorable little frock that skimmed the tops of her thighs. She was a costuming fiend, really, because Laney loved any opportunity to dress up. And whenever she had the chance, she’d flash us the panties she’d made that afternoon, or the weekend before, or any old time—she had a gift with lace and bows, satin and cotton.
I know everyone else loved her attendance at our costume parties for her sweet words and the quick glimpse beneath her skirt, her sex adorned so tastefully by her latest creation. No one noticed the marvelous thighs and hips she had around that panty peek, nor the way she dressed them beneath the black strip of velvet draped over her nakedness, or the pink swatch of silk clothing her mound. But for me, that was the true show. She bundled herself in two layers of tights, the bottom one nude and constricting, and the top a coarse fishnet mesh that hugged her legs. Along the trim of her panties, the tights teased me, taunted me, and every time she’d lift her skirt and show us her ingenuity, I’d feel a rush of arousal claiming my groin.
Laney knew this too, I think, her smile greeting each of our friends at our monthly club gatherings in the woods before she settled her gaze on me.
“Do you like them, Archer?” she’d ask.
Our friends were generally too busy commenting on her masterful use of thread to notice that, or the fact that she always wore her panties on top of her tights to better showcase them.
“You’re such a Panty Princess, Laney!”
“How do you make all of these?”
“Make some for me!”
But her eyes were locked with mine, always, with mine.
“All of it,” I said, my voice a hiss broken by the surge of longing that swarmed my limbs, “is lovely.”
And Jesus, it was. She was.
Tonight’s party had gotten a bit rambunctious—twenty of us frolicking and dancing, drinking like the idiots we were to celebrate nothing in particular except our hedonistic desire to run about the woods. The crisp night air bit at me, urging me, and Laney twirled around with all of our friends, her skirt lifting to show the crescent of an ass cheek.
They loved the panties she flashed, but I couldn’t stop staring at those fishnets.
Eventually, the wind shifted. Laney paused her dancing to grab a beer from one of the coolers, and I spun to watch her go. She didn’t stop at the cooler. Instead, she grinned back at me and lifted the edge of her skirt. She was forever the tease—no one to my knowledge had ever taken her out here, only gossiped like schoolboys and girls over the endless flashes of those panties and how good she would feel beneath one of us some night—so I held firm in my stance.
But then she beckoned me with her finger. Her coquettish grin turned higher, and she lifted her skirt to reveal the top of one round, perfect ass cheek held firm beneath a layer of tights and fucking fishnets.
“Come play,” she mouthed.
There are moments in your life when you’re faced with a split second decision, the outcome of which you may remember forever.
This was mine.
I followed Laney into the woods, leaving the wild calls and frenetic dancing of our group behind. The moonlight was dim enough that I could only make out her shape—the short dress curving along her body, then flapping over her ass. All I really saw were her legs cupped in tights and fishnets. Each time she wore this same combination, the tiniest mesh weave in the darkest nude, kissing every inch of her thighs and knees before disappearing into her knee-high, lace-up boots.
“Hi,” she said. The word was a gasp of air as she fell back against a tree. One single word of invitation, and in the darkness I made out the gleam in her eyes.
She fingered the hem of her skirt. Lifted it. My breath lodged in my throat. I eyed the v that covered her tights before focusing on the stretch of fishnet from her hips down her supple, curvy legs.
“Is this an invitation?” I asked. Two years of watching her, of ogling those fishnets, of seeing the smile on her face when I stuttered.
Laney swayed her knee back and forth. She hooked a thumb under the top of the panties, pulling them down a few inches on the side to reveal she wore nothing but tights beneath. Tights that rested directly against her cunt, which I wanted to bury my fingers in.
She raised her eyes as the panties fell to the ground.
“What do you think?”
The fabric mashed her lips, the tights and fishnets clutching her pussy.
I might have been panting.
I put my hands on her thighs, the rough threads grating like sandpaper. Laney nodded as I ran my palms up to her hip, then back down, over and over again.
“You like the fishnets.”
“They’re so rough.”
“Dancer’s tights,” she said. She closed her eyes as I slid my hand to her crevice. The fabric was soaked there. I followed the curve of her mound, front to back, the pads of my fingertips rolling over the rope-like fishnets and the slick, gritty tights beneath. My cock lurched in my jeans.
I hooked a finger in the netting and yanked, and Laney’s eyes popped open.
“I paid a fortune for these.”
I slipped the fingers of both hands between her thighs, ripping the hole wider. Rubbing against the wet gusset of her under tights. Laney moaned and tilted her head back against the bark. I could have kissed her then, but we both knew what I was after.
I dropped to my knees. I tore a hole in the bottom layer of tights, exposing her to the air. She smelled of roses and musk. I curled my hands around her thighs again, savoring the friction of the tights. I ran my tongue up her left thigh, then her right, and I groaned at the numbing, chafing fabric. Then I stared at the hole I’d made at her crotch. The edges of the fishnets were like a broken grate, no longer shielding her from me. Runs split the tights beneath and stretched down her thighs in long, jagged streaks.
“You owe me twenty-five bucks, Archer,” was the last thing I heard her murmur when I snaked my tongue between her legs to taste her swollen, sweet clit. I kept my hands gripped tight on those fishnets, caressing the fabric while I delved my tongue inside her, then back up to her clit. Soft whimpers spilled from her throat and her torn fishnets grazed my cheeks.
In the distance, our friends danced around the woods, their voices traveling on the breeze while Laney clutched my head and drew me closer. Her moans became cries as I lapped at her, my hands fondling her thighs, numb from the rub of those fishnets. And when Laney came for me, she blinked with the most startled of expressions on her face.
“Holy shit,” she whispered.
She was the Panty Princess no longer.
She was my Fishnet Queen.
Hi everyone! I’m delighted to be hosting the lovely Delilah Night today, whose newest novella, Capturing the Moment, is now available with Totally Bound. And, I’m honored not only to be featuring an excerpt of Delilah’s words—but to be hosting a contest. That’s right…I said contest!
Before it’s time to play, please read on to find out some of Delilah’s inspiration involving the merging of music and story. It’s good stuff!
Take it away, Delilah!
The Marriage of Music and Story
Thank you for the opportunity, Jade. I’ve really enjoyed getting to know you over the past year, and I’m eagerly awaiting your novel! I hope you and your readers enjoy this look at the making of my novella, Capturing the Moment. Please stick around for the giveaway!
Music was one of my earliest loves. I remember the excitement of buying Madonna’s True Blue on cassette at the age of seven in 1986. I’d sing True Blue, Where’s the Party, La Isla Bonita and the rest as I swung back and forth on the swings in my local park. Thirty years later, I still know all the words to every song on that tape.
I joined my school’s chorus in sixth grade, and despite switching schools a number of times, music was the constant in my life. When I started a new school, my first (sometimes only) friends were ones I made in chorus, band, show choir, acapella chorus, or pep band.
Music is such a constant that I almost always write with my earbuds in. Sometimes I have specialized playlists for stories, but for the most part, I shuffle through music from every genre.
Capturing the Moment began with a moment—Meg turning to see that RJ has showed up, unwanted, at the ancient temple of Angkor Wat in Cambodia, and anger flooding her body. Why? What was their history?
I was fumbling my way through variations on the opening chapters of the story when the song Teardrops on My Guitar by Taylor Swift began to play.
That lyric unlocked the story for me.
The story became so much easier to write after that (at least the first draft). I wrote the story of what happens after that moment in Cambodia. As I did, I also wrote the story of what had happened in the years before. I learned that Meg and RJ had been engaged, but that the engagement had been called off, and realized that they’d have to deal with their past if they were to have a chance at a future. However, my realization didn’t mean that my characters wanted to deal with their past.
(Context—RJ has asked Meg to spend the day with him. She’s always been susceptible to his dimples.)
Meg took several deep breaths. “Ground rules.”
“Rule Number One is no sex.”
He smirked. “You’re awfully obsessed by the idea of having sex with me, Megan.”
Her clit swelled in response.
You have no idea.
“No sex,” she repeated.
“I’ll cry manly tears into my pillow tonight, but fine. No sex.” He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. They were big, beautiful hands graced with dexterous fingers. Twelve years of piano lessons had given RJ magic hands. Meg remembered, vividly, what they felt like on her body.
“Secondly, I don’t want to talk about the break-up. This is about not ruining my one day in Siem Reap. Not ‘Let’s talk about our feelings.’”
“At least let me apolo—”
She turned to walk away, but he grabbed her arm.
“You win. I won’t bring it up,” he said, obviously frustrated.
“Third, you carry everything. I might as well get a free pack mule out of this.”
“Sure.” He picked up her equipment and she could read the relief on his face.
“Finally, Rule Number Four is that we follow my agenda. No hijacking my game plan.”
“I’ve been here a few days already. I can indulge you”—his eyes took a long, lingering inventory of her body—“in any manner you see fit.”
You never forget your first love…
Meg and RJ were passionately in love. But that was six years and a broken engagement ago.
Meg has only one day in Siem Reap, Cambodia, before she must leave for her sister’s wedding in Bali. She fulfills her dream of taking a photograph of the sun rising behind Angkor Wat, one of the oldest temples in the world. But her joy is short-lived when she turns around to see RJ standing behind her.
RJ threw himself into work after Meg ended their relationship. He’s built a successful business, but it’s a hollow victory. He’s come to Siem Reap to win back the woman he’s never stopped loving. But first he has to convince her to spend the day with him.
Meg is as physically attracted to RJ as she ever was. Maybe the secret to finally getting over him is a one day only, no strings attached fling.
Can RJ win Meg back, or will she love him and leave him?
Also available for Pre-Order at:
About Delilah Night…
After 30 years of snowy New England winters, Delilah Night moved to steamy southeast Asia. While she doesn’t miss shovelling snow, she does miss shopping for bargains at Target.
In 2014, Delilah visited Cambodia for the first time and fell in love with Siem Reap. Many of her misadventures from that vacation (including the one with the monkey) made their way into this story.
Contest—Win a free copy of Capturing the Moment!
What song has spoken to you when writing a story? Leave a comment and I’ll pick a winner at random on Wednesday, April 13, 2016. Don’t forget to leave your email so I can contact you.
I can remember, sometimes, how we used to kiss. The look in your eyes when you stared down at me, your fingertips sliding around my neck, and up into my hair. Pulling. That I remember well. There was a tension at the base of my skull, almost as hot and heavy as the pound of my heart, the throb of my cunt. Then the way you’d pitch toward me—slow, slow, tiny, quiet ticks of the clock passing by faster than we ever could, because all that mattered to us was this. The weight of the air around us, the press of our lips to come. Sometimes, you whispered my name. Others, you held me, still. But always, I felt it: me, bound to you. Then. Now. Forever.
It felt like this because I loved you.
When we moved together, it was the shock of waves, tectonic plates shifting in violent bursts, ruining the surface of everything around us. We were the only force that mattered. We were the lightning, the storm, the crest of fire blazing across the distant horizon.
We were one.
Mouth to mouth, we lingered. Breathing fast. Bodies close. When our lips parted, I let you in, let your tongue find mine, dance with me. And we swayed like this, hungry and lost, but as easily found in that electricity between us, in the clutch of our bodies, in the gentle hum bursting out to silence anything, everything.
Everything that wasn’t us.
I’d say it was longing, but it wouldn’t be enough. If I called it lust, that wouldn’t be right, either. We were the joining of cells, the collision of atoms, the combustion of two solutions that never quite fit. We were amazing, too. Planets, stars, comets, sun—we were all of it, a galaxy of feeling swirling round us, enveloping us in the way we kissed. In the hold of you to me, and me to you, chests heaving in the blackest night before the rustle of morning wind blew us all apart.
But I know why.
And so do you.
It was all because you loved me, too.