Erotic Fiction Heterosexual Scavenger
| Scavenger |
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| Erotic Fiction - Heterosexual | ||||
| Written by F.R.R. Mallory | ||||
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Her girlfriends strained against the uneven barroom tabletop, their eyes shiny with alcohol and the subtle tension of their game. Nicole glanced away from them and squeezed her left hand tight, feeling the large diamond pressing into her flesh. She knew the rules; she’d written some of them in her arrogant and stupid twenties. Now it was her turn for humiliation to masquerade as courage as her friends pretended to celebrate her successful engagement by twisting her promises into thinly disguised parodies of betrayal. The names of the bars they’d already visited marched through her mind, each with its special acquisition: she’d Frenched a CEO, got a lesbian to suck her right nipple in a dirty bathroom hallway, and she’d allowed a pool-room hustler to lick expensive dessert liqueur out of her pierced belly-button, on a pool-table, in front of his buddies. At every bar another round of Kamikaze drinks to blur the edges, up the danger and hide the stink of pending bridesmaids’ rage. She returned her attention to the hard, speculative gaze of her latest target. He was clean, close-shaven, wearing clothes too expensive for the low rent booze joint they stood in yet she would never mistake him for an uptown executive – his kind of business slid past the polished edges of society. She felt heat warming her cheekbones as attraction began its distinct crawl up her spine. What did it matter? She thought, anger tenderly close to the surface. It’s a game, see? Guys get lucky when pre-brides rage against their pending life sentence of monogamous imprisonment for one last grab at the dirty brass ring. Grope a debutante from the Upper East Side, and be rewarded by a kiss. She was placing herself on the sexual roulette wheel, her legs metaphorically spread for a man with the balls to take a spin. Her face tightened until she felt her smile was more teeth than flesh. She shrugged. She played it off casual, her attention flicking back to the tenuous safety of the girls, all watching her, heads together gossiping. She knew they were debating her odds. Each time she couldn’t find the next object on their list they got to select a new test plus she was fined a grand. They were up eight grand on the evening and she was desperate to finish the game – just one last task and she could retreat into the artifice of her carefully manufactured present. His hand stopped her when she tried to rise, “I can manage the piercing.” He continued to hold her arm, pulling her close enough that her mini-skirted thighs were brought up between his legs. “What’s your offer?” Nicole blanked. What did he mean – her offer? Wasn’t that obvious? A quick play-around where she could check him out, get a digital of him on her cell. Maybe it would cost her a hand job. Her mind veered sideways at the thought. Nothing more - no way. She wouldn’t look down. She resurrected an image of Donald, pending husband perfect. Handsome Donald with his plump trust fund and high-powered connections, who allowed her to believe it was a privilege to date her. She had the right body, the right look, the right lineage and schools. Donald, who would never wear black Armani open at the throat showing dark hairs curling up like whispers of exposed sexuality, casual, damning, certain. Donald, standing at the end of the aisle under the giant arches of the church as the organ cloyed the air with its ritual ode to eternity, compliance and erotic deprivation. Her Donald. The safety of their future well planned. No way. Her eyes flickered back up to the shadowed edges of the stranger’s face. She wanted to pull away, tell him to fuck off and die. She wanted the image of Donald to vanquish the hollow ache spreading down the core of her lower abdomen. Instead her lips plumped with increased blood flow and she heard her voice, slow and thick, asking, “What?” “Right here.” He leaned forward until his lips brushed hers. “Right here. You, on your knees. You, begging. You, kiss my cock and I reward you with pearls. You, thank me.” One of his hands had migrated to her chin, forcing her paralyzed gaze up to his. “Fair enough?” She blinked, refusal impossible to summon. Then her knees collapsed under her, the taut grip on her chin keeping her from running away from his eyes, his knowing, and her wedding march oozed into a country-western ballad about trailer-park whores, the flickering neon of parrots and beer bottles replaced stained glass windows and vows stopped questioning “Do you?” becoming, “Take it, baby!” as her lips opened in lipstick-smeared worship of the chrome barbell of his Prince Albert. She didn’t notice when her diamond ring fell off. © 2008 F R R Mallory F.R.R. Mallory lives in Northern California, U.S.A. and is currently working toward an upper degree in Neuro-Psychology. She writes nonfiction articles/essays as well as literary, speculative fiction and erotica. She is the author of Extreme Space, (nonfiction), and the erotica books: 18, Rhapsody, and Not Quite Forbidden, and the gothic romance, Gornoston. Recent published short fiction and article selections can be found in On The Premises: Boneshaper, 2007, Freya’s Bower: of Lilies, 2007, and Freya’s Bower: Cherie, 2007, Fishnet Magazine, Folsom, 2007, FATE Magazine, Let’s Get Psychic, 2006, Wild Child Publishing, When The Swords Fell, 2006 as well as others. Her author web site can be found at: http://www.mallorywrites.com. Add your comment
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