Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica

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Whispering Galley

All I knew about the city was that it was loud, overcrowded, and distant to those who chose not to frolic amongst the skyscrapers. I was on my first year of law school attending a prominent college in the upper west section of the overcrowded island of Manhattan. I hated every second of it. It was a daily reminder of the world passing me by. Each night the laughter of residents returning to the dorms spoke of times I wasn’t to have. I chose to study, to push immediate gratification aside because I believed that hard work now flourished in the future. So when winter break reached campus, I chose to leave behind the reminding agony that was being in New York City. I grabbed my few belongings, said “hasta luego” to the empty dorm room, and rushed out in desperation to Grand Central Terminal.

It was impossible to feel more desire about leaving Manhattan than I felt during that taxicab ride to the terminal. Paradise simply awaited me at the other side of that metro ride. I did not even wait for the cab to come to a full stop; I opened the door, jumped out and ran to the ticket window to purchase a train ticket back home. The next departing train wasn’t for another hour: enough time to cry, to leave behind my sadness before boarding the metro.

Opposite the ticket window was a ramp that lead to a small foyer. The perfect place to go release my frustrations, I thought to myself. I put my head down, reached the foyer, looked around, didn’t see anyone; I leaned against one of the four corners damming my life, eventually began to cry. Call me ignorant, if you will, but when I heard a voice coming in my direction from the corner itself, I thought that I had died and met God. He had a soothing voice, understanding, seemed to know my desperate plea for schooling to end and the good times begin. I looked around, yet there wasn’t anyone in sight… except for that fellow at that other corner diagonally from me. He seemed to be in the same mood as I. I ignored him, and leaned towards the corner again to verify if the voice was still speaking.

The voice asked that I not become startled but, that I should know that he’s been standing at the diagonal corner for as long as I have been weeping, listening to my sorrows. That the sound of my voice carried by some form of architectural marvel caught his attention while walking by. I came to weep at Grand Central Terminal’s “Whispering Gallery”. This square foyer actually carries voices from and to diagonal corners. I turned around to see him waving at me. I returned to the corner embarrassed, still talking out loud to myself; which my voice again carried up the corner, to the ceiling, diagonally across it to the other corner, down to his ears where he again heard me.

He introduced himself, expressing that he was willing to carry out a conversation with me through the corner, but would prefer if it could happen face to face. I gathered myself, agreed, then greeted him at the center of the foyer. I had already been laughing in nervousness. I apologized even for things that weren’t my fault; such as his horrid shoes. He laughed… just laughed looking at me as if I were a lost Middle America girl in too big a pond. He was on his way to a dance audition right there in Grand Central.

Within minutes of meeting him, he had convinced me to attend the audition with him for moral support. We walked upstairs where a big “echoey” room opened up. The music was already playing. A female dancer in the center of the dance floor moved in manners that would make the math infinity symbol proud; I gawked. We watched her dance for the duration of the song, about 4 minutes. When the song ended, the girl called out his name: Andre. He looked at me, asked to wish him luck, took his overcoat off, and by God, I wasn’t dead. This was the first time I had been alive while in Manhattan. He was the typical Latino that we in the Midwest hear about yet, never meet. He was nothing short of a man. The music resumed, and they commenced this terrifyingly harmonious seduction of one another. I had never witnessed anyone make love, let alone with clothes on while dancing.

Visions of John Travolta in the movie “Saturday Night Fever”, when he became angered over the theft of first prize from the couple which he deemed most deserving despite he, himself having won the competition, floated all around me. I felt like John Travolta did. Mad that although I was leaving with the price, I knew that I could never do what she just did to him. The music ended, he kissed the girl on both cheeks, bowed, and approached me. I stupidly jumped on him, climbed off, pushed him, and pushed him again… I cannot believe you dance like that, I said. “My shoes don’t seem that horrid any longer, do they?” was his reply.

I came to learn that he was a non-practicing lawyer. He rejected an awaiting position before the offer was even made, that he graduated top of his class from the very same school I attended. It wasn’t what he wanted to do, what he wanted to be. Instead he became a software architect… and self-taught Latin Dancer. The audition he just had was his foot into a Latin dance traveling company. I shouldn’t mention it, because it’s obvious but, he became a member of that dance company.

My life was never the same from then on. I never did make it home that winter, either. I spent it with Andre. Amongst the many things he taught me during that first winter together, dancing was the absolute best. During that cold December to January school intermission I stayed in bed every day waiting for him to come dance with me after work; and, did we dance. He didn’t give up his day job despite being part of the traveling dance company. He was able to work remotely when on the road; never missing a beat. However, I did miss him the chunks of time he was gone. Not only did I miss his body pressing against mine, but missed him as my study partner. The man remembered college courses as if he were attending classes. He made the next few years of Law School possible to bear.

I graduated near the top of my class. I missed the top by a few grades because I chose to repeatedly give my body to him that last semester instead of studying during midterms. He was in town for a brief period before departing yet again. I don’t regret it! I felt blessed… naturally. The perfect man I had stumbled upon during a depressive episode of my life; there was nothing I wouldn’t have relinquished for him. I, as you know, went on to work at a relatively successful firm, married him and have enjoyed each day as if the very first day we met.

I’m sorry it has taken this long for you two to meet, but you being gone overseas for so long has its drawbacks; as not knowing where you have been for a decade. You should have known my story years ago. Let’s have one more cocktail while you tell me your story, then we can go to my house to wait for his arrival so that you can meet and see what he’s done every Monday night since he and I met. I’ll tell you what he does, then you can tell me your story that you seem eager to reveal.

Every Monday after work, after dance night, he arrives with a bouquet of roses, and a garbage bag filled with fresh rose petals. God knows where he finds them. The bouquet he hands me after we are finished being intimate, along with an apology for his transgression of staying out later than he should have. The rose petals he tosses around me on the bed, on me while I’m asleep. I am awakened by the feeling of running lips through my bare backside. I’m already moist before fully comprehending what’s happening. He devours me without mercy or care. He turns the lights on, opens the blinds covering the ceiling-to-floor windows for the world outside to see inside, then returns to bed and intoxicates my body with his lust. He becomes what he isn’t at any other time. I am tossed about like a doll, pierced through every orifice given to me. When done, I’m covered in him as if he hadn’t climaxed in years and it all came out at once. I’m dripping out of my mouth, my face is a mess, my chest displaying it as if a custom crafted necklace. I throb from both the front and the back. Sometimes it takes up to a week for me to stop feeling the discomfort not felt during the entire event. And… the smell of our copulation coupled to smashed rose petals… is a thing of fairytale.

Don’t be embarrassed tonight. I am loud, very! Especially during Mondays when he misbehaves. You will hear me. I will climax multiple times, and most of the time he’s being rather lewd in vocabulary. It enhances it all… so I believe, for me at least. If you happen to hear me asking for help, don’t. Sometimes the thrust hurts so good that I find “help” to be a suitable exclamation.
I’m sorry, I know you want to tell me something. I’ll cease about Andre.

Well, Jess. You and Andre have found something… I wish I had. But, after tonight, I think I have found someone that might make moving back stateside, here to New York City, worthwhile.

I met up with you late because on the way here the cab stopped in front of this little place called Flamingo’s. There was enough time to wait before we were to meet, so I decided to go inside for a quick drink. It’s been opened not 3 weeks. It’s got live music, people dancing, affordable cover-charge and drinks. I met this gentleman that can lure Satan out of decadence and into the grace of God. I don’t give myself to anyone I don’t know. No I don’t. You know that. Even as a kid in undergrad I didn’t commit such a crime. But tonight, I tell you, I’m freshly arrived from a night of debauchery. My undergarment is thoroughly saturated. And, wait until I reveal why and how. You’ll be wet as well.

I went in, this man saw me, approached me; I liked him instantly, the type of connection that is found once in a lifetime greeted me hello. The world around us was pushed aside by the tunnel vision that connected us. We spoke for no longer than an hour before I found myself on the second floor of the venue listening to foreign music and being seduced by that man; out in plain sight! I didn’t care if we were caught. All I cared was to feel that connection while intertwining myself onto him. Whatever I knew about lust, intercourse, plain old adults at play got erased tonight.
Listen carefully because I think I’ve come up with a life altering fact. The difference between love making and sex is connection. Regardless of what is done during the act, be it rough or not, bound or unbound, it is about a connection that makes impossibilities possible, makes it all shared.

Don’t interfere, Jess. Let me finish. It’s still fresh on my mind and I want to relive it by telling you the story. Live it with me! He grabbed my hand and brought it to his crotch to feel him aroused. He was thoroughly engorged. Filled all the way to the very top. Part of it stood outside erect, touching all the way to his belly button displaying a glistening head. He didn’t have to pull me down to meet him because upon sight I dropped to my knees, unbuckled his loosely tied belt, unbuttoned his pants and attempted to swallow all and everything I could.

I would have won an Oscar for that performance; two even. One for best female actress, and the other for best supporting actress. I led, controlled him, and took my turn being controlled and directed. I wasted little time trying to engulf him with my mouth. I couldn’t take it all in, but the part I could, caused me to gag. I have never felt girth that far deep in my mouth. I enjoyed it. It felt natural and I wish I could have been able to consume it all. But I wasn’t, so I tried to be as brutal, loving, playful, hurtful as I could. I wanted to give him any and all reasons that he had ever desired to burst in my mouth.

I crafted my lips onto the head making him believe that my mouth was forged just for him. My tongue massaging the shaft… that were I Swede it would have been considered their trademark massage. I traveled his crotch as if an explorer in the new world searching for riches. I gave and gave with the sole intention of forcing bliss out of him and directly into my mouth so that if I left never meeting him again, I would leave with parts of him inside of me.

As it worked out, he forced his pelvis away from my facial thrusts, grabbed me, the devil knows how he pulled one of my legs out of the slacks, tossed me atop one of the tables face down — Look, I’m not lying, only one button, the top one that was already unbuttoned survived his pulling apart of the blouse. When I landed chest first on the table with head looking towards the left, his hands reached to the top of the blouse in the front, with a swift pull to the sides my breast came face to face with the table. Shirt completely opened, breasts exposed. I get tickles thinking about it.

He could have easily penetrated my desire apart without little effort… he could have. But, instead of thrusting his pelvis separating my anatomical muscles aside, he pulled my undergarment together from the outside-in right down the middle of my buttocks. I welcomed an assault of his tongue, lips, and teeth on each cheek making other more sensual body parts jealous of the attack not being experienced by them. I would have climaxed had he remained exercising his will upon my butt cheeks longer. The stimulation ran through me fast, hard and for long enough to feel it in my G-Spot. Then, then… he pushed the panties to one side to place his tongue directly on my delight crafting each letter of the alphabet, in both lower and upper case, teaching me the grammar from which I spelled out “TAKE ME, ABUSE ME, I THROB”.

I enunciated the phonetic sound of each letter of that alphabet clear and loud enough to create the language of sheer longing. I told him I secreted only to feel him inside of me. “Don’t be timid, don’t be timid”, I said in a low voice with my face still looking to the left side, cheek flat on the table. Timid was the last thing he was; he turned me around and situated me with my back flat against the table. Grabbed both my legs, put one each on each of his shoulders and climbed upon me. My pelvis was raised away from the table. My undies were still on, his member pressed against my underwear moving about… teasing me.

He reached over with his left hand, slid my undergarment to the side, and with a single precise forward shove of his pelvis, pushed aside all my longing to have him inside of me. My expectations of being unable to fit all of him were true. Yet, the repeated piercings into my body forced me to give way to all of him. I felt his pelvis meet my crotch, feeling his sack smack against my rear. It soaking more and more each time it collided against me. I was a wet mess; still I’m, a little. Because of the volume level of the music, the collision of his body against my saturated being wasn’t heard across the venue as it should have; as I wish it did. I wanted everyone in the hall to know that man had weakened every muscle throughout my body.

He looked me straight in the eyes, returning that tunnel vision upon us once again. The room went silent, I forgot we were on the second level of a music hall laying flat on a table with my legs spread apart, and a man shoving his whim like no one ever has. He didn’t give me time to respond, not that I would have declined anything, regardless of what it could have been, from him but… his voice was orgasmic. I came, Jess, I came.

He told me that he would pull out. That he wanted me to hold my undies to the side, to keep it in place while he finished dispersing through me all. I held it in place as he asked, and I washed him stroke. His strong hand moving up and down with surgical precision until he spilled out and onto me. He used his member to smear it around. He smacked me with it, which raised a chuckle out of me. He lowered my legs, climbed forward on me, and had me lick him clean. He tasted like a fantasy come true; tasted like a meal I hadn’t been served in a lifetime. He kissed me, softly, very softly while still touching the result of me and him over my undergarment.

He stood up, smelled his hand, and left me his card to contact him next time I’m in town — I think I shall stay in town!

He left before I did. I remained on top of the table for a few minutes collecting thoughts about the event. My chest was still exposed, as was my lower body. I sat up, looked down at my saturated-with-his-residue panties, touched them, pushed them to the side, touched myself, and brought the finger into my mouth. I wanted to savor him and I together as one.
I got dressed… slowly. If no one had walked up there during our interactions, no one was going to come now. I walked downstairs; the bouncer looked at me when I got down to the bottom step, and said: “Honey, you’ve lost all the buttons of your blouse.” I acknowledged him, thought to myself “Well worth it”, then said goodbye.
So, Jess, that’s why I was late.

Shut up! Stacey! What? Stop, stop! You didn’t!

We are late, Andre is about to reach the house. Finish the story in route.

Yes, Stacey. We also have an expensive car along with a few other commodities. All resulting from that initial encounter at “Whispering Gallery”. I’ll bring you there in the morning.

Get in; let me see the card he gave you.

Jess, I left it! I left on the table at the venue! We have to return to Flamingo’s to get the card. It’s on 21st street and 11th avenue.

I know just where it is. It’s not two avenues from here. We’ll get there quickly. I drive slow and reckless so brace for a joyride.

It wasn’t there, Jess. It wasn’t there… The bouncer was still at the bottom of the staircase where I last saw him. The card wasn’t where I left it. No one has gone up there. I must have dropped it on the way here. I’m depressed.
We’ll have a few drinks at my house. You can tell me the story again. I enjoyed it.
Stacey, wake up. We’ve arrived.

Lovely home, Jess. Money has granted you much to be happy about.

Sit, I’ll prepare you a cocktail. Rye or wine?

Jess, apparently you still are naive; my panties are covered in a man’s residue, and you are asking me to choose between wine and rye? Wine is for pretty girls who want to feel sophisticated. Open the rye, I want to feel my throat burn.

I’ll pour three glasses. The extra glass is for Andre who should be walking in any second. You need to wash up. Go walk around the house you’ll stumble upon one of the eight bathrooms in it. I’ll wait for you at the dining table. I want to hear more about this fellow, what he looked like, what did you guys speak about. Everything I want to know.
Your home is fantastic, dark too. What’s with all the boxes?

I don’t know. They are Andre’s. I don’t really ask. Anyway, tell me more about the Flamingo’s man.
He’s tall, but not too tall. Maybe because I’m short he seems tall. Sort of modern male business attire; no tie, dark pants coupled to a vibrant button down shirt. The type of shirt that when the cuffs are pulled back they are a different print than the rest of the shirt. He was slim, not skinny, but slim. Oh, and a great ass. I grabbed his ass when he was in my mouth, and the hardness and plumpness gave me goose bumps. You know that back home males have very little back there. The ones I’ve been with… at least. His was also very thick!

Jess. Really! Now, please. As if every male in Manhattan walks in full bloom for the benefit of horny women. You can keep the details to his other physical appearance to yourself.

He had a full set of hair: jet black, shiny and slicked back. It was sort of long. When he was leaning over me it fell down over his face. I enjoyed watching it bounce around. It gave me a running description of how hard he was thrusting into me. By-the-way, just when I was washing in the bathroom, there were globs of it still all over. I tasted it again. A bit darker complexion than you and I. Still a white male, but not snow white type of a man. Lush eyebrows with a beard, not a thickset beard, nor scruff. Somewhere in the middle. The hairs from his moustache irritated my skin down there, around my inner thighs. I can’t see my buttocks, but I suspect it did there, too. My skin is so sensitive. Did I tell you he bit my left cheek? He did!

Andre’s here, Stacey. I think I heard the garage door close. I’m asleep by this time any other day. He’ll be surprised to see me, to see us. Finish your drink; we’ll go greet him by the front door. I’m going to turn all of the lights off. Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Sh, sh, he’s going to open the door and turn the lights on. Wait until he sees us.

That night Jess’ life fractured. Upon Andre’s entrance to the house wearing sort of modern male business attire; no tie, dark pants coupled to a vibrant button down shirt. The type of shirt that when the cuffs are pulled back they are a different print than the rest of the shirt, hair glistening and slicked back, holding a bouquet of roses and a bag filled with rose petals, she realized that Andre was the man who saturated Stacey’s inhibitions. Jess drank the rye she had poured for Andre, and proceeded to toss it in his direction. It shattered against the wall, part of it flying towards Andre, cutting him across his right eyebrow.

Andre had never expected that during his Monday night rendezvous he would run into another Middle American girl who as life had it, was to be found in his house hours later. There was little chance for explanations. Stacey’s reaction fully revealed that the man who can lure Satan out of decadence was standing before them; a married man, husband to her childhood friend.

Of that night much isn’t said, remembered, other than the image of the once flawless bouquet of roses, now withered lying on the floor, accompanied by a bag of dried rose petals that the wind had scattered about.