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A collection of flash fiction, micro fiction and short stories linked by eroticism.Warning: 14,000 words unsuitable for readers under the age of 18 and containing themes that some readers may find offensive.
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A Collection of Erotic Flashes and Short Stories
When the Moon is Blue
A Collection of Erotic Flashes and Shorts
Copyright, ©, Secret Narrative, 2014
All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. This book is a work of fiction. All characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination, and any similarity to any persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. The opinions expressed are the author’s own and are not representative of the opinions of the publisher or distributors.
Cover Image, ©Julija Sergeeva|Dreamstime.com
Designed by, https://www.fiverr.com/ilgeorgiev
When the Moon is Blue
Rolling in Blue
Ring in the New
Meet the Family
Death in the Afternoon
Check and Mate
Read All About It
Colour Me Beautiful
When the Moon is Blue
Speak of the Future
Oh, Lady, Winter Bright
Puttin’ On The Ritz
Eliza’s Mute Letter
I wonder how much we forget before we remember. It is as if I am a bag of popcorn paused in a microwave; he presses the power button and my dormant core cells are zapped awake, propelled bug-eyed out of hibernation, suddenly mind-zinglingly alert.
Well, now you’ve done it, I’m seriously falling for you. I’m thinking of you all the time. You speak to my heart. I think about the time elapsed since his last flight, time enough for ageing, hours that add lines that drag rather than lift, a weight of sorrow like a sodden cloak which deadens rather than comforts.
His warm messages thaw me, I love your emails. I was in a daze on the train home. Grinning like an eedjut. Dancing? I’m not great but dancing you in high heels would be delightful. I keep seeing you in high heels, a choker, and hair pinned up, Chanel No 5 haunting my senses and nothing else. Delicious. Forgive me.
Shadows flee and day by day, the clinging moisture evaporates and the cloak becomes light enough to shed, and I step aside emerging as a butterfly leaves its chrysalis, fluttering upward.
Skilful wordsmithery enraptures me. I fly haphazardly ever closer to the blue flame of naked invitation, soaring on the radiant energy of pleasure and imagine us a pair as in another lifetime.
I raise the conch of our primacy to my ear and listen. There are many words that describe the colour blue. I often choose cerulean, it’s a favourite; I prefer it to azure, although both work. Cobalt, hard, brittle, metallic cobalt, will not do, atomic number 27, silicates blue, is not the descriptor for his eyes, blazing bright as on a high summer day. Lazuline pools sparkle the ubiquitous black he wears.
I’m not flawless. My precious ruby is a hot, blush of blood, easily overlooked among a cool cache of diamonds, but piercing blue picks me out, nestled, unpolished, uncut among the glittering gems. His fingers approach, select me, lift me to eye level and the metamorphosis created by his touch transforms me. My secondary core colour, purple, reinforcing red, making it richer, darker, wanton, until at last, he clutches the beloved designed by his esteem. I guess you’re too young to remember the summer of ‘76. I still have a million things to share with you. You know I miss you whenever we can’t connect.
She’s wearing high heels, No.5, a choker. She is clothed, but the rest of her garments are irrelevant, he sees only the choker and shoes. His senses spin and swirl engulfed in the feel and scent of her. When alone, he samples her aroma from discarded panties, keeps them with him, in a pocket, a tiny, insignificant scrap, imperceptible in the line of his trousers.
Dutifully dancing at the edge of convention, he waits for the big band to pause, a suitable break in the music and leads her away.
In the car park, he lifts the tiny padlock, a jewel of ownership on the front of the ribbon encircling her neck, and visualises the key, tucked alongside the scrap of lace. The key belongs to him as does she.
Locomote in the car transporting them to another world, no words pass between them. Together they are mute, and the only sound is the whish of the tyres in slush as the purring car swishes them through deserted city streets. She marvels at his capable hands at ten to two on the wheel, the cuffs of his shirt visible for an inch before vanishing into the black sleeve of his dinner jacket. Watching him drive excites her. The movement of his hand from wheel to gearshift and back. The dip of his left leg as he deploys the clutch. She pictures his muscles rippling beneath fabric and skin, the warmth of her arousal trickles, but she doesn’t fidget. She never fidgets, she is given to stillness; no indication of the lust making its way through her veins betrays her. Intensifying, matching the vehicle’s pace as he powers them to his home, a precision agreed rendezvous, like a military exercise.
Uncaring of her updo, she rests her head and closes her eyes. Although she does not need to shut off visionary sense to recall the day she opened the package containing the choker and his note, his words accompanied by his talented doodles.
This is for you. Arrange to be away from home overnight on Friday. Come to me. I want to dance with you. Wear the choker; wear black, high heels, stockings. Do this for me. I want to dance you backwards; I’ve forgotten how to dance. I want you to remind me.
Mystery and magic curl towards her, as if a genie had been called forth from a bottle, and she re-reads the note, arranges compliance. The little, shrivelled creature within her stretches and grows in anticipation.
He cuts the engine. She is already a little in love with his face in profile. His hair tickles the pristine, stiff, restrictive collar of formality, and she wonders if he’ll torture her with hesitation. His hands are steady, unshaken while hers would twitch and twitter if she unlocked them one from the other. She’s quaking. She wants him to take her, hopes that the aroma of her desire has reached him. He’s her addiction; she wants to feed him into her mouth, encircle him, plunge him into the depths of her; deep, deep into the back of her throat and down as far as she can swallow.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, letting himself out and walking around to her side to open the door.
She waits, it’s expected; she expects him. Palm upward, he reaches for her hand, she rests her tingling fingers on his offering and rises, unfolding herself from the low seat in one graceful movement. He closes the door; the sound muffled in the luxurious interior, and they make their way towards the entrance of the imposing building.
“Good evening.” The doorman approaches, umbrella aloft before standing aside, allowing them to enter the revolving doors, which expel them effortlessly on the other side.
She smiles devastation, disarming the man.
Inside the Tardis-like lift, they are mirrored from all angles, reflected. She watches his ghostly doubles pushing against her, haunting in any number of images and feels him, urgent, hard, and needy through the weave of their clothing. The pulse in her neck jumps and he presses warm digits against it.
“Beautiful, the throb of you beneath my fingertips.” He moves his hand to her mouth and opens her lips, briefly she tastes automobile.
Moving towards her, his tongue fills the space, and she greedily sucks it in, drinks his flavour, curling her fingers into his hair, her back forced into the unrelenting glass of the elevator walls.
The lift shivers to a halt and so do they. Alighting, he fishes for the key and opens the door, standing back to allow her in. There are no other apartments on this floor; there is only one door. In a dance step, she lets him pass and sways through the hall behind him, he unknots his tie, drops it to the floor, and she pauses to pick it up, for future use.
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