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Sexy Short Stories

Sexy Short Stories



He was Italian. He had eyes the color of rich dark chocolate and full sensual lips that ignited a hunger in her that had nothing to do with food. And she was famished. She was wearing her V-neck wrap dress with the black and nude lace push-up bra underneath, and a small silver locket that dangled between her breasts. He leaned over and said, Scusi, pointing to the hot pepper flakes. She passed them. He said Grazie. His warm breath caressed her bare neck as he took the pepper. Her heart fluttered.

Italian?, she asked.

Si, he said.

Rome, she guessed?

Jersey City, he said, scooping pepper onto his pizza. He looked at her and smiled. Some like it hot, he added.

She blushed.

My parents were from Rome. Near Rome, he clarified. You have good taste.

Oh, she said, feeling the heat rise in her face. It’s just a Marguerita.

I mean your necklace, he said. And your dress. I like a woman who looks like you.

How do I look?, she asked. She was alone. He was with a couple. Their heads were touching. Each fed the other their pizza.

That’s my brother, he said. And his fiancée. His name’s Tony. It’s a cliche, right?

It’s not his fault, she said. He laughed.

What’s yours?, he asked. If you don’t mind my asking.

My what?

Your name.

Margaret, she said. Like the pizza.

I’m Chris. Christopher. Like the Saint.

He held out his hand. It was broad with strong, well-formed fingers. He wore a college ring. I’m an investment banker, he said. They’re better than lawyers but worse than firemen.

I’m a graphic artist she said. The place was full, noisy. The air smelled like pizza dough, fennel, and beer. A hot fire flickered against the walls of the brick oven. Your hand is strong, for a banker, she said. He laughed.

She felt like herself, yet not herself. Bold. Surprised.


He turned his hand palm up, on the wooden table. She looked at his long fingers and wanted to take each of his fingers into her mouth, one at a time, and pull them out. Slowly. It made her breath come fast.

Want to read my fortune?, he said. Or maybe you see something already?. His eyes glittered and laughed. But his face looked serious.

She took his hand. It was solid and heavy. And strong. She touched the skin of his palm, traced a line. His brother glanced over and smiled. She was oblivious. Her body felt on fire. A waiter passed, carrying a huge pizza. He smiled at her too.

You like danger, she said. You court it. You like to see…how far you can go.

He looked up, surprised. For a moment, then his eyes narrowed. And held her gaze.

How far can I go, Margaret?, he asked.

She kept her gaze on his hand as his dropped to her breasts. He didn’t hide it. Every nerve in her body was burning. She felt transparent, and she wanted to be. She wanted him to see her, see right through her. She felt her defenses falling away, as though they belonged to someone else. His hand in her hand felt solid and intimate — at the same time, like a dream.

She saw he was looking at her, quizzically, and she realized he was waiting for answer.

He said, Forget I said that. But she was now aflame. Every nerve in her body was burning. And she said, I can’t…


Sexy Short Stories

Sexy Short Stories: Wake Up


Wake up. Another day in Paris, but I want to sleep. Oh, well. Out of the covers, into the glassed-in shower stall, hot water pouring over my body. What will the day bring?

Off to Jeu de Paume, or maybe the Louvre…Or maybe I’ll just walk, letting the breeze blow through my hair, and teasing up the hem of my skirt as I cross the Seine, then take a different bridge back.  I drift off into thoughts of a warm windy day and a handsome Frenchman catching a glimpse of my curvy thighs and sexy lace lingerie underneath. I look through my panty drawer, picturing the scenario on the bridge. It could happen. Here in Paris, the men love my curves.

Outside its warmer than I thought. Street life bustling past, such elegant people, all going somewhere. A man carrying a briefcase and wearing an expensive suit smiles at me slyly and I smile back.  The sun on my face, the breeze teasing my legs under my skirt. The lacy thong was the right choice.

Needing caffeine, I stop at the first café I see. I want a thick, hot latte with a double shot. None of that non-fat, decaf you’d get at home. A line of people in front of me, mostly women, order in rapid French. I catch pieces of what they’re saying, but don’t really care. I feel like a cat, warm but hungry, ready to curl up with my coffee and croissant and wish they’d move faster.

The aroma comes off the coffee in waves. I take a sip, a bite of buttery croissant, and feel something at my back, turn, see an elegant man in a charcoal grey suit staring at me. Caught, he smiles. What is it about men in suits? I suppress a shiver, smile demurely, look down and away.  Chicken!

I take another bite, feel a bit of croissant crumb on my lips. I go to wipe it away when a shadow crosses my table. The man sits without asking, and he looks at me, frankly curious. Oh, God.  He asks me if I mind his sitting here. He’s speaking in French, so I’m not sure if that was it. In English I say No, I don’t mind.

He laughs. He has beautiful teeth…and a one-day beard…and hair just graying at the temples. Close up, his suit is as beautiful as he is. And his hands. Dear God help me, I say to myself as he asks me my name in English.

I stare in return, and he says, Yes, it’s awkward, but I wanted to talk to you. Actually, that’s not entirely true. I wanted to touch you. I’m not normally like this. I don’t usually feel these things.

What? I say, and feel myself go red. He leans over and dusts the piece of croissant off my lips. I feel his touch ricochet through me, all the way down to the tiny, wisp of lace I’m wearing under my skirt. And further.

I have no idea why, but I trust him.  I don’t know where this is going, but I trust it. I nod as he takes the bit of croissant and places it between my lips. Our eyes are locked.  I taste his finger and shudder. He asks where I plan to go this morning. I tell him the first thing that comes into my head. He asks if I want company. He may be able to show me things tourists normally never see. And I say, yes. I would very much like to see these things. Very very much.

My heart is beating like mad.



Sexy Short Stories



I needed to wear my torn jeans that day. Even though the day was all about errands, even though they were skin tight, even though it was Saturday and I had nowhere special to go. I needed to see the look of guy sitting next to me at the carwash, how his eyes kept darting to my thighs, while we sat side by side in those plastic chairs, waiting for our cars and I played with the holes of my  jeans, pulling a stray thread and twisting it with my fingers. I needed to feel the stares at my back as I bent over to pump my gas and the back of my thong peeked out above my jeans, a beautiful strip of black lace. I needed to wear my black strappy bra under by thinning white t-shirt, even though I was just going to the grocery store. I wanted to feel eyes glancing my way as I walked through the aisles; to feel the hungry look of the man in the produce department as I leaned over, reaching for that perfect red apple in the very last row.

But it was when I headed towards the ladies room, in the back of the grocery store, that I saw something I needed even more.  I bumped head and torso first into him.  I started to apologize and ask if he was okay, then I looked up and froze. He was tall and lean, with strong, dark features and the most gorgeous, unruly black hair. I’m a sucker for unruly black hair and I heard myself mumbling incoherent apologies and darted past him. There, in the ladies room I rested my back against the wall until I caught my breath. He’d said something as he steadied me after our “bump” and I tried to remember what it was, but I couldn’t. I pulled myself together, ran a comb through my hair, and lip gloss - quickly – and walked out of the ladies room all casual in my shredded jeans and white tee, to see if he was still there. The air felt cool on the naked skin where the jeans were torn but everything else, my arms, my face, my breasts, my skin felt hot.

But he was gone.

I strode into the parking lot and looked around telling myself not to be disappointed if he wasn’t there. My heart sank. I got into the car and was pulling out of the parking lot when I heard a horn beep. A black BMW had pulled up alongside. He was driving it and indicated I should pull over. Should I?, I asked myself, trembling.

He told me his name was Roberto and he was from Verona. Here on business for a week. He began to touch me almost the moment we introduced ourselves, gently and politely, but possessively. He spoke with the most charming and delectable accent and I could feel myself melting. I have no idea what we talked about that first time. I remember he touched my arm, brushed a lock of hair off my face and he laughed so easily. At that point, I would have done anything he asked. He asked, would I have coffee?

He loved the way I looked, my fullness, my carriage, my bosom…that’s what he called it…my bosom and my thighs. I tried to say he couldn’t talk to me that way, not right off the bat. But why not? he said, in all innocence. You’re beautiful. How am I supposed to talk? He touched the threadbare fabric over my thighs, and when I felt his touch on my skin, I moaned, out loud, then blushed furiously. You’re beautiful he said, and not afraid to be sexy. I was going to say That’s none of your business! but I stopped myself. Maybe it was.

As it turned out, it certainly was. And it all started with…what?  Torn jeans? Black lingerie? My mood?