story codes: MF

by Elizabeth Striebel

He grabs the bare of her ass, squeezes, and smiles.  Compliantly,
submissively she smiles and flirts.  She shifts and he grabs – playfully
– a little harder.  Techno music from the bar downstairs thumps the
thin walls of the small partitioned room. Colored lights pulsate under
the cheap door, casting a psychedelic spray onto the floor. Their first
champagne bottle is extinguished.  She seductively pouts for another,
pressing her behind into his hand and caressing his chest, his shirt
slightly unbuttoned.  “Another one?” she whispers eagerly, into his ear,
“I’m thirsty.”  She emphasizes her request with a flirtatious tongue to
his earlobe.   He is reticent to break contact with her just now, being
distracted and aroused by her close body.  His prowess has begun to
gather, his ache consistent, and he is ready to begin with her.  She
presses into him and his head swims, unsure of which desire to give
into first – his or hers.

And seeing his indecision, she teasingly backs away, lifting her
carousing hand from inside his shirt and releasing her behind from his
pleasured grip.  She stands in front of him now, legs apart, hands on
her naked hips.  He reaches out both arms as she vacates his heated
lap, as she moves her sensual weight from his hardened loins – his
hands open to the desire she gives to his body. And that ass!  He had
held it full in his hand, that one cheek. How the round fit perfectly in his
palm, how soft the underside was, how he could almost reach to – or
at least sense the heat from – her utmost gentleness.  He lets her
guide his hands, feather-light, as though in a helpless daze.  She
laces their fingers together and begins to swivel her hips.  She
gathers his gaze.  He holds it there, fixated.  She rolls her naked hips,
around, then slowly stalls.  His mouth agape, his gaze stops too.  She
gently begins to rock in the opposite direction, around, around.  He
wants to untangle his fingers from hers, to grasp at her hips, to let his
hands gently ride this swirl, this undulation.  If only, he thinks.  But any
willful strength he has seems to have gathered exclusively in his lap,
and he cannot redirect or control much else at the moment.  Her
suggestion for another bottle of champagne, and her ability to keep
their heat unreachably apart, suffuses his own quest, and drives him to
break down and buy the next bottle, if only for her and her continued
attention.  He, himself, found that the cheap champagne has already
livened his spirits – bucked his bronco, so to speak – and he is dizzily
on the edge of overdoing it.

But if another bottle can prolong this scene and get her back to work,
then he needs, quickly, to get the thing on its way.  He squeezes her
hands and says “Yes, another bottle,” and she quickly drops his hands
and flits, naked, out of the room, through the cheap door.  Voices mix
with music.  She opens the door and bounces back in.  She suggests
a cigarette, but he waves her off.  He sits up and adjusts himself
slightly on the cushioned couch.  He wants to get out of his shirt, to get
some skin touching.  The ache he has begins to subside slightly, as
the break in the action distracts the mood.  The cheap door swings
open suddenly then, flooding in music and noise and light.  He is
disoriented for a moment, the subdued light in their room now pierced
with flashing colors, and a gentleman crowding the room serving the
ice-bucketed champagne.  Naked, the woman twits about, fervently
smoking a filtered cigarette.  The man serving the liquor keeps to his
task, capturing not more than a glance of the chap sitting, a little
poised, a little high, on the plush couch just waiting to get back to the
naked dancer.  He works efficiently and eventually backs out of the tiny
room, leaving them alone.

Bending at the waist, she serves the champagne. Her rear end faces
him  (she knew how to create endless interest) and she tops off the
two glasses.  Playfully, she feels his hands on her cheeks, and being
pulled onto his lap.  She manages to grab the stemmed glasses
before falling into him, spilling some down her chest in the process.  
She offers a glass up to him, they toast, and she downs the bubbly
liquor.  He lingers with his.  But she wants him to continue, to consume
more champagne, to keep him paying.  She swivels in his lap, offering
up her breast splashed with champagne.  “Here, drink some of this,”
she says. He does so, with no hesitation.  Seeing his delight, she pulls
his glass of champagne up and tilts his hand so a small dribble
washes down the front of her – hopefully to entice him, hopefully to
march through another bottle.

Sticky, fizzy champagne reaches his lips and tongue as he laps at her
chest.  He is glad, finally, to be again working this close to her,
smelling her perfumed breasts. The game with the liquor seems to
amuse her, so he lets her continue on, so long as he can stay here, on
her skin.  The liquor runs down her front, between her thighs (he sees,
now, with pleasure) and onto his trousered lap.  As long as she
continued here, this close, he forgave all of it.  His mouth goes to her
breast. She giggles at this and sets the empty glasses down. She
loosens all the buttons on his shirt.   She works on his bared chest as
he relaxes his head back on the plush couch.  He starts to unwind, to
give over to her.  She grinds into his thigh, briefly, intently, and then
alights.  She pours more champagne into the glasses. She sits
beside him now, shoulder to shoulder, and they drink. She can see he
is willing, pliable, getting antsy. So ripe, she thinks.

She eases away and announces, “I have to use the bathroom,”
adding, “you understand.”  She flits again, naked, out of the room.  His
mouth is dry, and he goes to the table for water, but there is only the
liquor.  He pops an ice cube into his mouth and starts to refill their
glasses.  The bottle only has enough for one glass, however.  So small
the bottle, he notices, and so cheap the contents.  He is high and
stimulated by the entrancing, although ever-disappearing, woman.  
Still standing, he stretches and takes off his shirt.  Almost immediately
she returns.  She reaches for the only full glass of champagne and
drinks it. She slow-dances with him now, arms about his neck, bare
chests together.  She lets him grab her behind and begins to feel his
pressure.  He holds her tight back there, sways, and wants to grind.  
She loosens and spins around, ass to his crotch.  She can hear his
breath quicken as she does this.  She also feels his eager hands
clutch at her hips.  She lets him have the grinding, pressing moment.  
She releases herself and dances apart from him, jiggling and
motioning for him to join.  He steps a bit in rhythm, but only grasps for
her.  She presses him to the couch again.

She straddles him, belly to his mouth, and presses into him.  She
whispers, “Are you thirsty? Can we have another bottle?  Please?”  
His face, mouth, and nose are all engaged.  He is muffled by her skin
and shows no sign of reply.  She squirms to him, heating him.  
“Another cool bubbly?” she pants.  She can submit to him, let him
show who is in charge, draw out his urge, she thinks.  Then pull on the
tease.  He, however, wants to gobble more of her.  He can’t
understand the distraction. Isn’t she high from the liquor? Isn’t she hot
for me, can’t she feel my desire?  he wonders, impatiently, sexually
charged and feeling the pleasure mount and mount.   He buries in
from one breast to the next.  He wonders when she will touch him
directly, when he can release himself from the confines of his trousers,
when her bare ass will sit on his bare member.  All this engulfs him,
heats him, and fixates him to the scents and heartbeat that swirl
around him.  No, no, he says inside his head, please keep going. And
then, out loud, “More champagne - is that what you want?”

Before she answers, the cheap door is swung open.  The server is
there, in full stature, and the girl, who has jumped up again, is cooing
for more. “Another bottle baby?” High and distracted, and his erection
now becoming a confused ache, he stands.  “What is this?” he
demands of the server, “Why do you barge in on me?”  The girl stands
away, lights a cigarette, and defends the server. “He knocked,” she
insists, “just to see if we needed anything.” “But no,” he says, “there
was no knock! Why is there an interruption every ten minutes?”  The
woman only chides for more champagne. “Come on baby,” she says,
“let’s have more fun, pretty please?”  The server, halfway in and
halfway out of the doorway, waits for his answer.

The techno beat floods in, the pulsing lights pound on, and the
cigarette smoke stales the room.  He puts his shirt on and buttons up
the first few buttons.  He steps towards the smoking hooker and grabs
her bare oh-what-a-nice-ass-it-was and says, “I am out of here.”  
Downstairs he quickly tidies up the bill, charging far more to his credit
card than he cares to know.  He leaves business-like, hurriedly.  He
doesn’t need to share salutations with anyone here, amidst his own
chaos.  Out into the night air, past the hulking crew of bouncers
clumped at the door and hovering around the taxis that came and left,
he presses through to the sidewalk.  He finishes buttoning his shirt,
shakes his arms, and takes a deep breath.  He is giddy, stoned from
the drinks, and his head is thick from the smoky atmosphere.

He walks lightly, piecing together the scene he just left, and the longing
that remained - the unsatisfied loining, he muses to himself. He walks.  
Unmotivated to return to his empty house, he strides the late-night
streets.  Taxis flash by, occasional groups of young people press
towards still open nightclubs, a hooker or two click sidewalks in tall
heels.  He presses on, the night air kind, breezing gently.  He passes
the sour remnants of the day’s fruit market, the marble plazas of
government buildings, and walks through hushed and locked barrios,
their denizens sleeping away inside dark clustered dwellings.  He
eventually walks off the tightness in his loins and his thighs.  He
circulates the energy through his walking, allowing the distractions and
tease of the evening to begin to unravel and flow more smoothly
through his veins.  Easing into a sublime rhythm, he swaggers,
collected now, towards home.

The time was right: he hears bells from a distant tower mark the early
hour.  Now is when he would steal home and into bed, covered, with
his lust, waiting.  Waiting. And just as he washes up and settles in
among the deep covers of the large bed, just after he snaps out the
small bedside lamp, he can faintly hear the front door open.  Into the
bedroom she creeps, shedding her clothing as she approaches him.  
She shimmers up to the bedside, skin lit softly by the night’s weak
light.  She forays her hands under the covers and climbs in with him.
He breathes in her scent.  She brings with her the mystery of the night
– smoke in her hair and her heart beating strong as the techno’s
thumping. As he opens to her advances, he revels in her, this, his
wife.  He indulges in the faint scent of perfume across her breasts.  He
savors, too, the sweet sticky aftermath of champagne that sweetens
her belly and beyond.

© 2014 Elizabeth Striebel

Specializing in short fiction, Elizabeth Striebel’s writing is culled from
equatorial and far-east living.  Her writing illuminates images and awaken
physical sensations that stretch the reader’s point of view.  She lives in
Central America.  She received an award for her short-short The Magic from
the Traveler's Tales 2007 SOLAS contest.