“Get this down you.”
He accepts the glass, knowing full well that this will definitely be the one drink too many, that tomorrow’s hangover – a theoretical possibility at the outset of the evening, a growing probability as things progressed – will now be a dyed in the wool certainty.
“Cheers.” He swallows some of the bourbon, and grimaces.
Roger laughs. “I think you’ve lost the taste, old man. And the touch.”
“Bollocks.”
“Seriously. I think ten years of marriage have finally managed to pull the party animal’s teeth. Face it; you’ve been out of this game too long.” Roger raises his own glass, his smile semi-vicious. “Cheers, mate. You’re past it.”
He nods, smiles non-committally, looks away to the far side of the club. The galling thing is, Roger is probably right. The fucker. Too many years of cosy nights in, sipping bland wines in front of mind-numbing television, his wife curled contentedly against his shoulder, and his vitality pissing out through the soles of his feet. Too many civilised dinner parties, where the talk was all about house prices and school waiting lists and walks in the Welsh hills and late breaks in the Algarve, when what he really wanted was to clear the dining table with a sweep of his arm, and fuck the hostess across the polished oak, tearing her blouse open to bare her succulent breasts as he buried his cock inside her, right in front of her chinless husband and his Country Casuals wife.
And that’s when he sees her.
There are dozens of nubile young women on the dance floor, but she stands out as though she’s being followed by her own private spotlight. She moves with such fluid grace, a writhing, sensual creature lost to the sweep of the music. Roger is talking again, but he can’t hear his friend. All he can hear is the music. All he can see is the girl.
There’s a hard shove at his shoulder.
“What?”
“What’s got your attention all of a sudden?”
He returns his gaze to the dance floor. “Just enjoying the ambience.”
“Ambience, bullshit! You’ve spotted some young fit thing.” Roger shoves him again. “Go on, which one is it?”
He gets to his feet, picking up his drink. “You know something, Roger? You’re definitely not past it. Because in all those ten years, no one has ever been able to piss me off as quickly as you.”
“Aw, c’mon mate. I was only kidding. I thought we were-”
The rest of Roger’s words are drowned by the heavy beat of the music as he walks away.
He finds himself stopping just a few feet shy of the girl, far enough away from the edge of the dance floor to avoid an infraction of the ‘no glass’ rule. Finishing the night being manhandled towards the exit by a pair of gorillas holds no appeal for him. He sips some more bourbon as he watches her.
She’s in her early twenties, young enough to leave him feeling something of a lecher. He suspects that the volume of alcohol he’s consumed is anaesthetising stronger feelings of self-revulsion. It seems his sexual appetite is charting a stereotypical parabola. In his early twenties, he’d had a brief yet passionate affair with a woman twice his age. Now on the cusp of his forties, and the focus of his libido has performed a one-eighty.
Despite all his protestations to the contrary – to others and to himself – it turns out he is little different to the rest of his gender.
So what?
He turns his thoughts back to the girl. It isn’t difficult.
Her black dress clings to her lithe body. As she twirls, the hem flares upwards daringly, giving him a brief yet delicious glimpse of slender thighs clad in sheer nylon. Her brunette hair glows before the nightclub’s myriad lights, the lightly curled tresses cascading down over her shoulders. He finds himself aching to touch them, to run his fingers through them.
She’s dancing with a group of similarly aged women. They don’t appear to be with any men, but they’re being watched from the outside by so many waiting predators, so many greedy eyes, all watching for an opening, a momentary display of desire, or a glimmer of weakness.
And now he’s joined them, the ranks of the predators. He’s outgunned on the age front, possibly the looks as well. Yet even that knowledge cannot prompt him to leave, even though he knows his desire is futile.
The music track ends, and another immediately takes its place. Strict Machine by Goldfrapp. The girl and her friends whoop and clap excitedly. One of them points behind her, to where a gleaming silver pole, three inches thick and stretching from floor to ceiling, is mounted on a raised dais.
“The pole!” she cries.
The others join in. “The pole! The pole!”
The girl covers her slightly embarrassed smile with both hands and shakes her head.
A few of the other nearby clubbers take up the chant. “The pole! The pole! The pole!”
Eventually, the girl holds up her palms in surrender. She steps onto the dais, her dress betraying another tantalising glimpse of stockinged thigh.
She’s not the first to take up the challenge. In just the hour that he’s been inside the club, three other women have dared to step onto the same dais, to writhe around its vertical extent. And while none of them made fools of themselves, their excessively dramatic routines were too forced to truly captivate.
He waits with the rest of the audience.
The girl grips the pole, and begins to dance.
The difference is immediately palpable.
Where the others had strutted and gyrated almost as automatons, she flows and sweeps, effortless as she spins around the support. Her hands caress the gleaming metal as she turns about it, coming to rest with her back against the pole, bending at the knees and sliding down its length until her thighs are parallel to the floor. She runs her fingers along the tops of her thighs, leering wantonly for her hollering companions. With sublime grace, she eases herself upright again, pirouetting around the pole, the hem of her dress riding even higher. He glimpses the thick bands of her stocking tops, and the creamy flesh beyond, and his cock lurches.
The crowd cry out as one. He glances around and sees his fellow predators watching the performance through slitted eyes.
Emboldened by the vociferousness of the crowd’s support, she faces the pole, holds it in both hands, then swings her legs up, gripping the metal between her thighs. Then she releases her hands, extending her arms out behind her so that her entire body is parallel to the floor. The noise of the crowd rises by decibels, while he can only watch and wonder what it would be like to be between her thighs.
The music approaches its crescendo. The girl curls forward at the waist, grabbing the pole in both hands again. Pulling down, pushing up, she forces her body up the pole in reverse, then releases her hold again, hanging dramatically towards the floor. The move leaves little to the imagination, as the sight of her black panties is added to the richness of the spectacle.
The girl’s friends go wild, and those watching in the crowd follow suit. Almost unheard, the track ends, and the girl stands again, a look of vague bewilderment upon her face. At once, she is transformed from wanton diva to embarrassed party girl. She smiles awkwardly, bows part-way to her friends, and hurriedly gets down from the dais. At least half a dozen men are waiting eagerly for her attention, but she manages to brush past them all as she heads towards the bar.
He hesitates, sees that no one is following her, and then takes up the mantle of pursuer. He stands a few feet away from her at the bar, listening as she orders drinks for herself and her friends.
What the hell.
“You were stunning out there,” he says.
She looks at him quizzically, as though trying to decide whether this is a come-on or a piss-take.
He smiles. “I’m not trying to come-on to you,” he says. “I just wanted to tell you how good you looked when you danced. You were so … natural.”
She looks away. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
The barman pours the last of the drinks she’s asked for.
“Can I get these?” he asks. He turns to the barman. “And a double Jack Daniels as well.”
“That’s not necessary, really.”
He smiles again. “Seems like a fair exchange to me. You were the highlight of my evening.” He drops a twenty pound note on the bar, picks up his own drink and nods to her. “Goodnight, then.”
“Goodnight.”
He walks to the opposite side of the dance floor. He can see Roger is still in the same seat. For a few moments, he toys with going over, making amends whilst the wounds are still wet.
Fuck it.
He downs his drink in two swallows, sights the exit and starts forward.
The tug at his elbow comes as a surprise. It’s even more surprising to see the girl standing there. She looks uncomfortable and determined all at once.
“Why wasn’t it a come-on?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You said you weren’t trying to come on to me. Why not?”
“Er…” He grins clumsily, caught out by this sudden change of events, by the resulting loss of his vocabulary.
“Is that the reason?” She points to the gold band on his fourth finger.
“No,” he says without hesitation.
“Then what?”
“Truth? You’re out of my league.”
She smiles back. “Who says?”
The taxi takes fifteen minutes to get them to the hotel his firm booked. They sit on the back seat, a chaste two feet between them. He’s still amazed that she accepted his invitation, simultaneously impressed and disconcerted that she had the presence of mind to ask him for the name of the hotel first and then pass it on to her friends. When they looked over to scrutinise him, he made sure he was standing beneath a strong light.
They hardly speak in the taxi; don’t say a word whilst they stand on opposite sides of the lift to the seventh floor. He unlocks the door to room 707 and she steps inside. She drapes her coat over the back of the high-back chair and then steps over to the floor to ceiling window, drawing the net curtains aside so that she can see the night unencumbered. He closes and locks the door, shrugs off his jacket and hangs it in the wardrobe.
“Would you like a drink?”
“No thanks.”
She turns around. They look at one another across the quiet room.
“This isn’t the sort of thing I do normally,” he says, feeling the moment calls for some sort of explanation, immediately regretting his puerile words.
“How often is ‘not normally’?” she asks with a wry smile.
“Is the first time in ten years rare enough an event to qualify?”
She nods. “I’d say that qualifies as ‘not normally’.”
“And what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Is there a significant other waiting for you somewhere.”
She hesitates. “There’s a significant other. I very much doubt he’s waiting for me though. He’s on his stag night.”
The light bulb in his head glows a little brighter. “Then I should apologise for taking you away from your hen night.”
“You didn’t take me away from anywhere. I came. My choice.”
“So that makes this…” He pauses.
“One last flight of fancy before wedlock?”
He nods.
She smiles again. “Yes, it’s something like that.”
“And your husband to be?”
She smiles warmly. “Doing the very same thing if he has any sense.”
She walks towards him.
“Why me?” he asks. “They were queuing up just for the chance of a few seconds of your attention back there.”
She shrugs. “Instinct?”
“And that’s it?”
She smiles knowingly, a smile beyond her years. “I liked that you didn’t wait in the queue.”
Her lips are so soft, so sweet. It reminds him of his very first kiss: hesitant, a little clumsy, tender. Back then there was the heady confusion over what was meant to happen next. Now there is the darkly delicious certainty of all that is to come before the dawn brings reality back into both their lives.
She undresses him first. He watches her eyes nervously, fearfully, for any flicker of distaste at the sight of his naked body; but either she approves of what she sees, or she’s too good an actress to let it show. His shorts find the floor, and she licks her lips wantonly at the sight of his rapidly stiffening cock.
“Yummy,” she says. “Looks good enough to eat.” And with that, she takes him into her mouth.
He sits then sags against the bed as her lips peel him open, as her tongue laps over him in exquisite waves. The pleasure is immense. He knows that he’s going to come, so damned quickly, and that it’s exactly what she wants. He doesn’t fight the delight, doesn’t even try to. He can’t speak, not even when he erupts, his come cascading over her waiting tongue as she swallows every last drop.
Spent, he watches her through slitted eyes as she unzips her dress, admiring the grace of her movements, the smoothness of her lightly tanned body. She removes everything, except for the sheer hold-ups.
“Why leave those?” he whispers as she eases herself onto the bed.
“Because you wanted me to.”
“Am I so easily read?”
She kisses him passionately. Her mouth tastes of her excitement and his lust. “You ask a lot of questions,” she pronounces.
“Too many?”
“Definitely,” she says, kissing him again.
Her hand finds his damp, lifeless cock and she squeezes lightly as she begins to stroke him. Despairingly, he wishes for the stamina of two decades ago, even one decade, and then smiles as the softness of her mouth, the warmth of her nakedness and the beguiling rhythm of her hand coax him swiftly back to life.
He turns her body, guiding her through one hundred and eighty degrees, and his stiffening cock slips back into her mouth as his tongue finds the moist valley inside her smooth labia. He licks slowly, drawing the tip of his tongue from the swollen nub of her clitoris to the portal of her sex. When he presses it deep inside her, she shudders, and her lips tighten around his shaft. She moans against his flesh when he lightly touches the pad of a finger against her roseate anus. He eases her up so that he can concentrate his lascivious assault upon her clitoris, finding an easy rhythm that matches the writhing of the body above him. The more she tenses, the quicker his tongue becomes, until suddenly she becomes rigid, trembling, gasping as she wrenches his cock from her mouth, the succulent juices of her sex bathing his mouth and his chin.
“I need you inside me,” she gasps as she shuffles along the bed, until she’s kneeling on either side of his thighs. She lowers herself onto his cock as she holds it vertical. The first touch of her against his glans is scalding. He grips her wonderfully rounded ass as she descends, watching raptly as his shaft disappears effortlessly inside the scorching epicentre of her desire. She barely utters a sound until his full length is within her.
“Oh that’s lovely,” she whispers.
She rides him with the same grace with which she danced around the pole. Cowgirl in reverse, she loses herself to the rhythm of music only she can hear. He cocks his head, listening hard, even though he knows that anything he hears will be an entirely different tune.
He strokes her back, traces random patterns across her shoulder blades, runs a single fingertip along the line of her spine and down between the cheeks of her arse. She shivers again, cups his heavy balls, cradles them against her clitoris.
“I want you to come inside me. I want you to soak me.”
Faster, faster, she rises up and descends again over his length. There’s a mirror on the far wall, and he watches her reflection as she cups her full breasts and closes her eyes in ecstasy. She reaches back down her body with one hand, her fingers soon becoming a blur as she rubs her clitoris feverishly.
“Oh fuck, yes!”
She leans back, grinding herself down onto him, her hips flicking spasmodically as she comes. He’s already close, and the intensity of her orgasm drags him over the edge too. He closes his eyes and cries out as he empties himself into her.
They lie side by side, looking up at the ceiling in silence. The stillness gives the inevitable guilt the chance to wash over him. He forces it to the back of his mind. Nothing to be gained from reproach now. He checks his watch. The dawn is still a few hours away. He turns his head to look at her profile, wonders what she is feeling. Satisfaction? Disappointment? Guilt? Is she thinking about her fiancé, wondering what he’s doing, who he’s with? Would her progressive attitude stand up if confronted by the certainty of her husband-to-be’s infidelity?
She glances over, catches his scrutiny.
“What’s wrong?”
He shakes his head. “I was just wondering what you were thinking about.”
“Nothing. Everything.” She smiles tiredly, contentedly. “What were you thinking about?”
He looks slowly down the line of her naked body and back to her face. “I was thinking that I don’t even know your name.”
“I don’t know yours either.”
“No.” He chuckles. “I was also thinking how deliciously fuckable you look.”
Her tired, contented smile becomes wanton. “Show me.”
He wakes with a start. Bright daylight streams in through the redrawn net curtains, making him wince. His watch tells him that he’s already late. From the adjacent room, there’s the sound of a racking cough. Roger’s evidently late too.
The other side of the bed is empty. He stretches out an arm, but the sheet is cold. He listens, but hears no sounds emanating from the en-suite.
“Hello?”
The silence mocks his effort.
He gets up, stretches, pads over to the desk where an unopened bottle of mineral water waits. As he breaks the seal, he sees the brief note written in a flowing hand on a sheet of the hotel’s complimentary paper.
Thank you for the wonderful send-off.
Good luck with your life.
Elizabeth x
He holds the paper to his face to see if it holds any trace of her perfume. It doesn’t. He smiles, drops the note onto the desk and then walks slowly to the waiting shower.
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"...happens to be the best erotic blog out there, you will not find a higher quality erotic sex blog."Uncool
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"...if you’re looking for something to distract you from the monotony of real life and hope it involves spanking, the ripping of various items of clothing, hot lesbian sex, hot hetero sex, naughty wives, naughty husbands, and the occasional pair of thigh highs, then I sincerely suggest you check out his exceptionally well written blog..."
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"Read this girls, that is all I'm saying."
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"There are so many wonderful things to say about this blog that I don't know where to begin...Maybe the best way to say it is..He makes me want to have sex with him over and over and over again."
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"EA has a wonderfully sensual quality in his writings (the sexy beast of a man, grrr!) totally unique in that he somehow balances the sexually provocative flavour of his writing style, fluid and deliciously exploratory, with intelligent phrasing, selective word choice, even his pacing is remarkably concise. Rather well done we think."
We Were Wolf
My, how wonderful to have you back.
I’m not altogether sure that I am back yet, Lina. This was something I wrote while I was lazing on a beach, and wanted to share sooner rather than later. The hiatus might last a while yet. But thank you for the welcome all the same…
~EA
Wow. If that’s what you come up with on holiday, you should take them more often!
I adored it.
Thank you, Sexpot. I’ll block-book next year from May to September…
~EA
I’m delighted to see you’re back EA… and with such a delicious post.
Thank you kindly, BN - but as I mentioned to Lina…
~EA
I have no words, just the biggest smile!
Delighted you’re smiling, Princess…
~EA
I’ve been taken with a mad hot desire to make out like we’re teenagers.
That sounds rather breathless, Leslie. Good job all the snorkelling has gotten my lungs in shape…
~EA
Dear EA
I’ve felt moved, many times, to write to you, but most usually I’ve been busily employed in some other activity thanks to your beautiful and effective prose.
I’m sorry, therefore to write to you only now with a complaint. Middle aged men lusting after nubile pole dancing girls? coommeone…I thought you were the last man on earth sensible to female erotic sensibilities. I’ve allowed your lesbiana principally because it is so finely tuned to arouse me too, but the pole dancing girls gotta go…purrrrlease…
Much affection,
Convent girl
Thank you for your thoughtful comment, Convent Girl. I must admit, there was something of a wry smile playing across my lips at the fact that you’d finally broken your silence in order to complain. Ah well. Quite some time ago I came to the same conclusion that John Lydgate did (before he was adapted by President Lincoln, that is) about being able to please all of the people some of the time, and some of the people all of the time, but never being able to get the two ‘alls’ to marry up… C’est la vie.
I’m extremely flattered that you think I’m so well attuned to female erotic sensibilities. But that is something of a fortunate coincidence. This ‘blog’ started out as a means for me to express my thoughts on sex, and my own sense of sexual self. Its tone was much more factual at the outset, but even though that’s changed dramatically during the course of the last two-and-a-half years, the core at the heart of my writing remains the same. Of course, I want to excite the minds of my readers - particularly the female ones - in the process, but I have to write from my own perceptions and sense of self (hence my not infrequent dalliances with lesbiana). What would be the point of a blog subtitled “the indecent reflections of an oversexed Englishman” otherwise?
The idea for a story featuring a young woman who pole dances - not for a living, but for her own pleasure - was suggested to me (requested of me?) by a female reader. I embraced the idea in part because I wanted to satisfy the challenge of her expectations, and because - given that I’m ‘knock, knock, knockin’ on Forty’s door myself - I wanted to explore a few of my own thoughts on the subject of men of that age who look lustfully at women in their twenties, and to do that within a piece of literature still capable of arousing its readers. Hopefully, I’ve achieved that. I’m an erotica writer, but I hope that I’m capable of writing material that appeals to the intellectual mind as well as the erotic one.
Anyway, I hope that’s answered some if not all of the issues you raised in your comment, and that you’ll continue to read most of my work with a sense of pleasure…
~EA
I really liked this, gave me a lot to think about. The nights watching television, the stuffy dinner parties, getting older, last chances…….accept it or take the chance?
Decisions, decisions. I know exactly what you mean, N…
~EA
Love it. Absolutely love it.
I’m pleased you enjoyed it so much, Misty…
~EA
I’ve no complaints.
None.
Yes, a pole dancing nubile young thing is a predictable desire (and you say it is yourself! before rightfully concluding “So what?”). But when you write about it, EA, I have a brief glimpse into that closed vault of the male psyche: an opportunity to understand that desire and the way it might present itself in even the most extraordinary of men.
In this case, a much needed understanding of the witless numbness that can come from complacency in any form (though, let’s face it, marriage is one of the most prevalent).
Here is something spooky: that dinner table fantasy sneaks up on us all. I imagine I’ll be entertaining it myself, more often, since my husband’s last Christmas gift to me included a Country Casuals sweater.
Change is due, evidently.
I’m really pleased that you took so much from this story, aurumgirl. I hope that it helps, in whatever minor way that it can…
~EA
Are you sure you are English? How can it be that I have lived in England all my life and have never met a man like you! I guess I am looking in the wrong places…..
Completely sure, EJ. And I’m certain that I’m not the only like example on this island of ours. You’ll bump into one of us eventually…
~EA
Sometimes I wonder how comes that so many of your stories strikes in still vivid souvenir… or something I’m living. Your wonderful and powerfully erotic prose, EA, is an inspiration to both my love(r) and me, often just as an appetizer, or even a starter, but a couple of time the *feasting* goes up to the dessert… Hmmmmmmm.
I’m delighted to be an inspiration for you and your lover, AM…
~EA
i have never written to you either, wanted to many times, but i am not complaining. the way you write could never be complained about, its so seductive, you make us feel we are that person in your story. the first one i read , La Chasse, i was captivated and look forward to more, after your well deserved break.
Lovely of you to say so, Kimmie, thank you…
~EA
So, I ask myself for the thousandth time, why in hell do we all marry anyway? And that’s a deadly serious question.
Deadly serious question alert. My answer is … I have no idea, Giovanna. There are probably as many reasons as there are people. Perhaps at heart we’re all hopeless romantics, hoping that we’ve found the person who will meet all of our needs, and for whom we can return that favour…
~EA
On or off holiday.. what a treat!
Thanks so much for remembering us back here, going about our lives , wondering when you will come home and tease us with such delightful words!
Enjoy the rest of your holiday.. and do come home soon!
Thank you, Lea…
~EA
Yes, it was a “deadly serious” question! LOL. And, true there are as many reasons as there are people. Yet, is it really a romantic ideal that drives us? Not sure. All I know is that nearly everyone seems to wake up from that & feel trapped or dead or…something. And it leaves behind so many hurtin’ people on both sides of the equation.
Maybe we should go back to the way marriages were set up in Other Times - you marry for very practical reasons and find love & sexual variety outside of marriage. Then, perhaps, there would be fewer discontented people.
You might well be on to something there, Giovanna. Watch your back though: the divorce lawyers will be out to get you…
~EA
Thank you for your considered reply. I did feel rather bad ( as convent girls are prone to) after writing my comments, This makes me think of Henry Miller and Anais Nin. I’ve always craved writing that combines the essence of both, and your writing comes close to satisfying that craving ..
Awaiting a spanking (By a Nun in black stockings)
Repentant Convent Girl
No need to feel bad for being honest, Conventgirl. And it’s a simply enormous compliment to learn that your writing comes close to satisfying the twin craving induced by the writings of Nin and Miller.
And now that I know about your secret desire…
~EA
Only you can make a woman’s evening complete, dear EA. Perhaps some day I will dance with the pole, just for you…
Then I look forward to that, Stephanie…
~EA