Toxic Heart E-Book

Secret Narrative

• Herausgeber: Boruma Publishing
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

Another pair of short stories in Secret Narrative’s Short, Provocative Erotica series. Do not read if you're just after some hot sex action. This is erotica of a different order. Previously published separately as ‘Nerium Oleander: Toxic Heart’ and ‘The Decision Tree,’ please check the sample before purchase. Warning: A pair of short stories unsuitable for readers under the age of 18.

Leseprobe

Toxic Heart

by

Secret Narrative

Toxic Heart

Short Provocative Erotica #5

Copyright, Secret Narrative, 2014

All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination, and any similarity to any persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. The opinions expressed are the author’s own and are not representative of the opinions of the publisher or distributors.

www.secretnarrative.com

Cover image, ©Marc Mauro|Dreamstime.com

Designed by, https://www.fiverr.com/ilgeorgiev

Warning

This book contains strong language and sexually explicit content that some readers may find offensive and which is unsuitable for persons under the age of 18.

12.10.14: 4603

Contents

Nerium Oleander

The Decision Tree

Nerium Oleander: Toxic Heart

We spend the evening cocooned in my flat, feasting on one another. The tip of your tongue trailing my nakedness. It leaves a wake of cooling moisture, making a circuit of my navel, moving downward until the searching tip arrives at the crux of my clitoris, where your fingers meet your mouth. You move the hood of my cloak and parting the flesh as if exposing ripe fruit for heavenly consumption. You devour me in a consummation of cunnilingus, the wet purplish pink of my silken skin moist; burning under your exploration.

I arch up a little to meet your mouth, fondling my own breasts, tweaking my nipples between forefinger and thumb. I pebble them, intensifying the sensations pulsing rhythmically just beneath my skin in ripples of exquisite sensation. Your cock is hard and oozing essence, poised for entry into my tight, willing sheath. I move, urging you upward, until the length of your body matches mine, you take your weight and I move my legs around your waist, assisting your entry.

You’re home, the flawless velvet of your skin within the sleek folds of mine, and you move in and out, increasing pace as I hold you tight. I hang onto you limpet-like as you push home with a final ecstatic rush of release. Your seed floods as I embrace you and wait for my breathing to calm, my heartbeat to settle. We kiss your lips on mine, my tongue invades you, greedy for my aftertaste, prolonging the moment that I know you will exit… my sheath… my bed… my home.

And I wait for your text to say, see you soon, thank you for a wonderful time. Anything but nothing.

oOo

I leave a suitable lapse, not wishing to inconvenience or chase you, not wanting to be a nuisance or to arouse suspicion. I wait for almost a week, and yet you do not get in touch. The day of our regular rendezvous arrives, and I ready myself as usual, go through the ritual, choosing adored scents. Your favourite lingerie, sheer stockings, rolled slowly up my legs one at a time. I fasten the tiny buttons of my suspender belt, slipping nylon-clad feet into killer heels, smoothing down my tight black dress, which accentuates my liberal curves.

I pour a large vodka over ice, top it up with slimline tonic, retrieve the jar of ready-cut lemon slices from the fridge. I inhale the pungent fragrance; allow it to zing on my taste buds before I take a sip. Drop a slice into the glass with a small splash and neck a few desperate, greedy sips before positioning myself on the window seat, glass in hand to watch and wait.

You do not show.

Nothing.

The approach to the house is illuminated by a single street light, and not a soul passes by. Nobody to cause my heartbeat to quicken in anticipation, thinking it may be you. I do not even have the luxury of a short, sweet thrill of spying an approaching figure. The street remains silent and empty all through my vigil. Seated there, at the window the entire night, only moving to top up my drink or go to the bathroom.

He’s not coming back, says the mirror, lurching in and out of focus.

Finally, I admit defeat as the early slivers of watery, first light turn the inky sky grey and I abandon my shoes and fall into bed utterly pissed and fully clothed.

I sleep fitfully.

In my head, you have had an accident.

I think you dead.

Must be dead.

No word, nothing. You must be dead.

Nobody would tell me.

I am a nonperson in your real life.

oOo

Pull yourself together, says my mirror.

I phone in sick at eight-o-clock, leave a message on the answerphone. I know I sound pissed.

After that, I call you.

Your answerphone cuts in quickly, your voice jolts my reality.

“Thanks for calling, I’m sorry I’m not available at the moment, leave a message, I’ll call you back.”

I dial again. I listen. Something crawls inside me; a worm of dread is making a home, burrowing into my gut.

I hang up and run to the bathroom to vomit. I retch until there is nothing left to spew, my stomach, ribs and throat on fire, my eyes and nose stream miserably.

You’re a wreck. The mirror reflects despair and stale makeup, mascara smudges under bloodshot eyes. A mess of misery stares back.

I crawl to bed, and incredibly, sleep the day away. I get up when night falls, and fetch another bottle, take it to bed and drink myself sober. Talking to myself, making deals, making pacts, I talk aloud like a mad woman. My voice deep, gravel from tears and alcohol.

I ring again. This time a long, intermittent tone, instead of the typical shorter bursts, announce that you are in a different country.

“It’s Leander, I’m worried. Call me. Please.”

oOo

Previously, shining with joy in the afterglow. I had made a vow never to call you at home, but that was before the rules changed and now a relentless pulse beats exquisite pain from the miasma of my memory.

I talk myself into waiting.