Mind Caviar

P.J. Nights lives in coastal New England with her husband, two young children and various pound pets. She teaches astronomy and physics. Her stories and poetry have been published in the Erotica Readers Association, Mind Caviar, Amoret Online, the Emerald Collect, Mi Poesias and Adult Story Corner. Her poetry may also be found in this issue of Mind Caviar. Click here to read more of Night's work.

E-mail P.J. Nights.

Inside Myself

I strolled around the hotel room placing props appropriated from my suitcase, from my afternoon shopping foray, setting my stage with clutter. The discarded old shirt sprawled across the bed, one arm twisted in a rakish salute, my still-life on the table of Jose Cuervo, baby oil, and joint, the fossil of wax-white quartz in ebony shale and transparent thigh highs peeping from the pink-striped paper bag -- all of these pleased me in an odd way. My things, my arrangement, my space.

I'd spent the early November afternoon in total, cathartic anonymity, in an Indian summer day among city people who didnít know my name, didnít call me "mommy". I moved in time with them to the songs of street musicians. I crossed streets in a throng of strangers to the beckon of traffic signals. I ate my brie and tomato lunch amidst painters, chess players and iced-tea sippers. Alone in crowds, I had fed on the energy of humanity. 

Now, waiting for the iron to heat, I slid on my new stockings, holding my breath until they were on without a run. They were an extravagance, but when I'd fingered them in the store, their softness had begged to be bought and worn. They didnít disappoint me. Intricate lace tops gently pinched my thighs; lycra cupped calves. I hummed while pressing my black evening attire, short skirt and glossy blouse.

I caught a glimpse in the full-length mirror at the end of the bed and stopped short. Dark slip slimmed then flared over hips, hair tangled in wild curls from a breezy day outside, and legs stretched long. I slipped a spaghetti strap from my shoulder, letting soft cloth cascade down, exposing one breast. The woman in the glass did the same.

I slowly sank to sit on the bed. I wanted to inspect her, that woman, me, backlit in amber. I inched the slip up slowly, legs spread, watching the shadows recede. My palm skimmed over nipples comparing the feel of skin on one to the brush of silk across the other. I reached for the baby oil on the table, and held it above my pussy, letting a cool stream drop and then drift between warm lips. In that moment, I was totally desirable.

Petting, tweaking, pulling, several times I neared orgasm and stopped, pulsing, letting sensations ebb. Now I was vibrating, alive. I stood and dressed, forgoing climax and panties, wanting the cold fall night on lubricious, aroused cunt. Time to go out.

The stairs led me to the raw bar below street level. Perching on a stool, I ordered oysters on the half shell, admired my stocking tops through skirt slit. Icy vodka and club, salty-wet slipperiness, heat of Tabasco, tang of lemon, musky baby oil, sensations heightened. I felt ageless, powerful, sexy. Sealed inside myself, I let the low hum of bar conversation, and the muffled sounds of the city through as a backdrop to my daydreams. I didnít need any more than possibilities that night. 

Possibilities for an evening, and then I could go home. 

Copyright © 2001 P.J. Nights. All rights reserved. Do not copy or post.

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