Tracy Daniels resides in the ghetto of Bridgeport, Connecticut. He was inspired to record memories of his lover. He used to work second shift jobs just so he could meet her while her husband worked during the day. They rendezvoused in The Village frequently, and she loved to read erotica to him as they lay naked at Saint Marks. Mind Caviar is pleased to publish Mr. Daniels' work for the second time.
The eyes of a woman reveal her secrets, revelations her lips dare not utter. The eyes of a woman are easy prey for her captor, her lover!
I stood at the far end of the subway station platform downwind from the women passengers whose perfumes intermingled, swirling in the warm evening air, creating a new scent. Somewhere within this alluring aroma, Destiny promised me a lover.
She accepted my offer of a cigarette. A flaring match exposed wedding bands reflecting ancient, vulnerable vows, vows eroded by Passion's taunting, vows lured by Fate's temptations.
We boarded the train, sat together as intimately close as strangers are allowed, shared urgent whisperings, touched in ways that can only be deciphered by the restlessness of longing. Resistance no longer possible, we surrendered.
"Come with me."
Nodding, she agreed.
We ascended the vacant hotel staircase leading to the hourly room. She turned, facing me, with one foot a stair above the other, baring thighs that demanded attention. The cool, taut touch of her excited my senses. Mesmerized by the sultry scent of an aroused woman, I groped at the elastic of her panties impatiently in a frenzy of fumbling fingers. I found paradise.
+ + +
When my lover says, "I want you," I want tangible proof. I want validity. The weeping tears between her legs told the verdict clearly. We did not share names. Identities were of no importance. We dared not tarnish the moment with trivialities.Years of marriage spared us both the embarrassment or shame of disrobing. There were no misunderstandings of what we each expected. We understood clearly the call of passion, the needs of lust and of romance. She was the reflection of who I was.
The soft incandescence of the diffused nightstand lamp accented her magnificence-- such grace-- such charm. Every motion seemed choreographed by sensuality. And eyes! Oh, those eyes. Those were eyes that could have toppled empires at the flutter of an eyelash, eyes that poets sung fragrant phrases of, eyes that wreaked havoc within the hearts of good men. I stood in awe at the sight of her nakedness. Only one word described this masterpiece: innocence. All of this had been embodied in one being. She was that mystery called "woman". She was the very essence of what I desired. There was a woman of fire encased in a shroud of girlish charms, a woman-child. The true stuff of my fantasies.
She sat on the edge of the bed so prim and delicately proper. Plump plum breasts with tiny nipples that resembled little feminine cocks begged for suckle. Cream-colored flesh forced my lips, tongue, and hands to compete in the battle that lovers knew so well-- a war reserved for clashing bodies, where the soldiers of both sides won. Ever-so-slowly her legs parted to reveal colors of pink, gaping lips, and iridescent, rainbowed juices slick with anticipation. I likened them to a peach slice ripe with want.
fondled in the sweet heat of silence. Our bodies entwined the way climbing
vines cling, search, and reach: grasping the forbidden, swaying recklessly
in a tornado of desire. Then there was nothing but pleasure. We acknowledged
everything in the reflection of our revealing eyes. No monuments would
be erected for our clandestine needs. Two bodies riveted together, throbbed
as one, while spent oozings wrote our epitaph on strange sheets.
2004 Tracy Daniels. All Rights Reserved. Do not copy or post.
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