Stories & Seductions

“We write in order to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection.” Anais Nin

It is that first moment that transcends all speech and thought – the moment our eyes meet.

Shy yet lingering smiles greet our shared gazes. I lower my eyes demurely, flirtatiously—the gesture containing all the expertise of an eighteenth-century courtesan. I purse my lips, as if in thought, absentminded, as if you are the last thing on my mind.

I see you as you see me; both of us with pen in hand, our thoughts and feelings making love to paper. In this, we are kindred spirits, preferring the tactile sensations of the sheet beneath our hands, the smooth flow of ink from our pens, our words transporting us from the mundane here and now to the realms of our wildest imaginings. Though you sit alone in a far corner of the café, separated by tables, chairs and people, we still silently communicate.

Your long dark hair falls enchantingly over your face, and my fingers long to lightly brush it away. You are not necessarily handsome, not in the way society deems such things, yet something about the totality of you compels me, attracts me. A boyishly innocent face with its hawk-like nose and full, soft mouth, your bottom lip poised in a full sensuous pout.

You are a man I can touch and taste.

What do you see when you look my way? A young woman with brown skin and eyes, short haired, daringly androgynous, square-framed glasses perched upon a snub of a nose. My lips poised over the rim of the cup of coffee I sip slowly. You smile again. Are you thinking about what it would be like to kiss me? What would your lips feel like pressed against mine?

What on earth am I thinking? You’ve probably a girlfriend or a wife. The sensitive, creative ones always do.

So—we disengage, go back to our respective worlds, pausing occasionally to see if either of us is leaving. No, that isn’t how it shall be. Neither of us shall leave until we’ve spoken. That was our tacit agreement made in silence.

And I have eyes for none but you.

Interestingly enough, I am writing an erotic tale, and without hesitation, you have become my protagonist. Dare I be so bold as to show it to you?

Probably not. A writer reveals their passions and desires through their art. Yet, I see no sin in allowing thoughts of you to fuel my literary tryst. Inspiration must come from somewhere.

As my torrid tale slowly, achingly unfolds, I allow my mind's eye free reign, studying you from underneath coyly shadowed eyes. Would you be like the man in my story, a handsome, virile lover who ignites the forbidden desires of his chosen paramour? Or would you be some timid vanilla male who finds S/M or dominance games against everything you think sex should be? Or even worse, would you be some know-it-all macho posturing cretin who wouldn’t be able to find my character’s erogenous zones with a road map and compass?

As I continue my stream-of-consciousness scribblings (first draft), I can feel your misty green eyes upon me yet again. Are you perhaps viewing me the same way? Your muse? I don’t even know what you’re writing. Prose? Poetry? A song? A love letter? A term paper? Are you writing down your dreams, hopes, or fears in a journal? Maybe, you’re writing erotica also.

If you are, is it sweet and romantic—all flowing words and silken phrases? Or is it forbidden and naughty, like mine...

"I could spend all evening proving just how badly you want this. Look at you, begging to be hurt. Begging to be fucked like the little pain slut that you have always been. My entire hand was inside your dripping cunt, and you thoroughly enjoyed it." Without warning, his hand penetrated her again, thrusting deep into her womb, heedless of her pain, but very aware of his merciless delight in being its cause. Regine writhed against him, willing to take his entire arm if he so chose…

Hours pass in blissful prose induced reverie. I’m so aware of your presence, like you’re sitting right here in front of me. You have actually walked past me to purchase another coffee. We smile shyly as you pass. You are tall, ascetically thin. I watch, the tight denim of faded blue jeans cradling the nicest male derriere I’ve been blessed to see. A wallet leaves its indentation in your back pocket.

Nice ass, I think to myself, decidedly unladylike. You cock your hip to the side, leaning against the counter with a careless insouciance. Shameless flirt, but hey, I’m enjoying the view.

And they say men don’t preen.

Back to our eagerly awaiting pages. My own words arouse me, the images filling my mind and the lines seducing me. It occurs to me that I may begin to pant aloud. Then what? Will you know then what I’ve been doing, what I’m writing about? Does the look on my face give me away?

Can you tell that you’ve become the star of my sultry little tale?

If you could see what I am writing about, would it shock you, or would you become just as aroused?

Would you take me home tonight?

I cannot continue this way, for my thoughts are becoming entirely too wicked, and I need release desperately. I need the solitude of my apartment to finish my tale.

Pen is capped, notebook neatly put away, leather satchel slung over my shoulders. I rise slowly from my table and notice you starting to do the same. Hmm, fate does indeed smile upon me this night.

You stroll over to where I stand, and for about a minute, we say nothing, our eyes taking each other in like undiscovered territory.

“You’ve been watching me for hours.” Your voice is deep, husky—part poet, part California boy.

“I have, haven’t I,” I reply breezily. “And you’ve been doing the same.”

“A mutual admiration society, hmm?”

“Indeed.”

“Going home?” you ask half-nonchalantly, half eagerly. Are you hoping I’ll ask you to come with me? I just might if you keep looking at me with those beautiful eyes, the color of green beach glass.

I nod slowly. “Yes. I do my best work in solitude”. Well, I think mischievously, not really. Some things are often better enjoyed with another person.

“Mind if I walk with you? We haven’t talked to each other, and I think you’re really beautiful.”

My stomach quivers. “You’re not half bad either,” I answer back teasingly. “In fact, I find you rather sexy.”

You actually begin to blush. That’s it; I can’t resist a man who blushes. “Funny, that’s exactly what I thought of you while I was sitting over there writing. A sexy woman who writes, what else could a man like me ask for?” Your eyes sparkle. It’s your turn to be mischievous.

So we leave the café together, into a night full of possibility, should either of us chose to take advantage of the moment. We walk close enough to touch, lost in rapt attention at each other’s words.

You tell me your story. I’ll tell you mine…