Erotica (the collected works of Amelie) Read online

  Erotica (the collected works of Amelie)

  by Amelie

  Published by e-ROTICA, 2013.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  EROTICA (THE COLLECTED WORKS OF AMELIE)

  First edition. June 21, 2013.

  Copyright © 2013 Amelie.

  ISBN: 978-1310913174

  Written by Amelie.

  Table of Contents

  Erotica

  Candy Skin | for my man

  Love Games | for the way things have been

  Hen Nights | for the men and women in my life

  for Pleasure

  Erotica

  for Fabienne

  and Guy De Maupassant

  Twelve months we’d been trying and no luck.

  Mike came back from the garage at lunchtime as promised. He hadn’t cleaned up and I could see there was still oil under his fingernails. Not that it mattered. Foreplay was something he left for the golf course when he went out with his mates for the Sunday escape.

  I was already in bed waiting.

  Everything was right. My temperature was up and it fitted in with the chart the doctor had given us.

  I had the pillow under my hips and the electric blanket was keeping me warm.

  Mike didn’t say a word when he undressed. He hated it when I was ovulating. The pressure was getting to him, I knew that.

  First of all he couldn’t get it up. It was always like that these days.

  I had to give his cock a suck to see if I could bring out the giant I knew was lurking there, but there was nothing.

  Mike blew air from his nostrils like a dragon unable to produce flames. He pushed my head away and picked up the book from his bedside table.

  ‘Erotica’ it was called. There was a picture of a woman’s mouth on the front with a cherry teasing her lips.

  It’s what he had to do to get a hard on.

  He read holding the book with one hand and rubbing himself with the other until the job was done.

  When he was ready he put the book down and thrust inside me.

  I’ve never lost the pleasure of feeling him there. It’s like he’s reaching into my stomach he’s so huge. But it’s not the same. Not like it used to be. He grunts, moves back and forwards and never bothers to kiss me. He pushes harder and faster and just before he comes he gives out a moan like he’s in pain. He squirts and rolls off me then lies back like a beached whale.

  So his job's done.

  He lit up a cigarette and stared at the ceiling.

  With the pillow under my hips, I sank down into the mattress and let gravity take his sperm down to meet my egg. That’s if there was any sperm.

  Mike looked at me and seemed to read my doubts.

  We’d talked about it. About him going to the doctor. It just made him cross.

  I reached over and touched his hand.

  “It’ll be all right this time, you’ll see.”

  “Yeah,right.” He pushed my hand away and threw the duvet to my side. “You know, it would be easier if you were more like Crystal.” He reached over and lifted his book, then held it up to me like it was the bible and he was some kind of preacher. “Crystal likes sex. Delights in it. She’s a real woman. Why the hell didn’t I marry a real woman.” There was so much bitterness in the way he said it that the tears were rolling down my cheeks before his words were finished.

  I watched him as he picked up his overalls and left the bedroom slamming the door shut.

  It took me a few hours to pull myself back together.

  I’d stayed in bed to help that sperm. There was no point standing and letting all that work go to waste.

  Some women, mothers, say that they can tell the moment of conception as if there’s been a tiny kick inside them or something. I couldn’t feel a thing.

  I cried some more and fell asleep.

  When I woke up, the light was already fading outside.

  I switched on the lamp and looked at the book Mike had unceremoniously dumped on his side of the bed.

  Erotica.

  I wasn’t even sure what that meant.

  Maybe, I thought, if I read a little and became a little more like this Crystal character...

  page 53

  EROTICA - Paris: Day 3

  Paris is all I thought it would be and more.

  Today I wandered through the streets soaking it all in.

  Everyone’s so beautiful.

  The men come in all shapes and sizes, but no matter what they’re either handsome or rugged. Each one of them looks like they know how to treat a lady.

  The women are beautiful. All of them. Even the old dears who wander with their tiny dogs for company.

  It’s the younger ones I love. They’re so elegant. Their summer dresses flow off their bodies and suggest untold treasures lying beneath. Their skirts flow like silk as they walk. And it’s not like home. Nobody under the age of forty is fat. Not even plump. I’m going on a diet soon as my feet hit American soil. But not yet.

  By the time I’d got to the top of the steps of the Sacre Coeur I didn’t feel like going inside the church. Instead I just looked at the city unfolding below. I imagined all the heated conversations going on behind closed doors and all the love making that was taking place below. A little electric shock flickered through my stomach as I imagined that, followed by pangs of hunger.

  The smells of aromatic tobacco smoke, frying butter, musty wine and seafood teased my appetite.

  I wandered through the square with my mouth watering.

  The place was packed with easels and artists and tourists just like me.

  Everyone was taking their time, no matter what they were doing.

  The cafes were filling up for service and I checked them all out until I found a price to fit my budget.

  As soon as I sat, the waiter arrived.

  He had on a maroon waistcoat with an old, leather money belt around his hips.

  “Madame?”

  The way the word rolled from his tongue made me want to join the lovers of the city. I squeezed my knees together and ordered a glass of Sancerre.

  When he turned to go to get the order, I must have dropped my bag because there was a man looking up at me holding it out to me.

  “Maybe I think this is yours.”

  Oh my God.

  He was gorgeous.

  His hair was long and midnight black. It was pulled tight to his head and was tied back into a ponytail.

  His brown eyes shone like pebbles against his perfectly tanned skin and the open buttons of his shirt revealed a chest that was covered in rugged curls of hair.

  I can’t have said anything because he was talking again.

  “I think you may have dropped your bag.” The lilt of a soft French accent softened the deep tones of his voice.

  “Yes. Yes it’s mine.”

  He handed the bag over and I took it, then he pulled back the chair opposite me and gestured towards it. “Would you mind if I joined you?”

  Mind? A sexy Frenchman in Montmartre wanting to sit with me? Hell no.

  And that was the beginning of the most wonderful holiday of my life. The most wonderful week I’m ever likely to live.

  We shared a dinner of mussels cooked. Nibbled our way through cheeses. Sipped through two bottles of the crisp, cool Sancerre until the world seemed to roll back in time.

  As the waiter went to pick up our bill, the man reached out to me.

  I felt his strong, warm fingers at my throat as he lifted the necklace from my skin.

  “Your jewellery is wonderful. Are they real?”

  I hadn’t worn my pearl
necklace for a long time. Not since Errol died. I don’t know why I’d even put it in the suitcase, but there I was in Paris with a man admiring them from across a table.

  “Do you know, I’m not actually sure.” Of course they probably were. Errol wasn’t in the habit of buying anything but the best.

  “There’s an easy way to tell. May I?” He lifted my hair and reached behind me with both hands. If I hadn’t known better, I might have been worried that he was going to strangle me. Or steal my jewels.

  As he unclasped the necklace his chest came close to mine. I wanted to bury my face in that forest of hair. Wanted to keep that raw, masculine scent of his in my nostrils for as long as I could manage. The moment was over far too quickly and he had the necklace in his hand.

  “If you rub the pearls against your teeth, you can tell. Like this.” He opened his mouth and I could see the perfect softness of his moist tongue hiding. I wanted it on me. Imagined it caressing me. Crossed my legs tight to stop the buzz between my legs.

  He rubbed the pearls on the top of his slightly crooked teeth.

  “See. It’s easy. You try.”

  He gestured and I leaned forward.

  He held out the necklace and I parted my lips. The moment was tender and I was worried he might notice me trembling.

  He placed his left hand on my thigh to steady himself and rubbed the pearls against my teeth. I thought I might faint right there and then.

  “You see, fake pearls are smooth. Can you feel the roughness of them as I rub them against you? No? These are as natural as fucking and eating.”

  And he was right. I could feel the roughness of their texture and knew I had the real deal.

  When that waiter returned with the bill, he looked twice as handsome as the first time I’d seen him. God, he was hot. And so was I!

  My new friend nonchalantly passed over some money to the waiter as the two passed some pleasantries that could easily have been mistaken for birdsong.

  “Exquisite.” I was referring to what had just been. To his hands. To the bulge in his trousers. I don’t think he guessed.

  “For us in France, a pearl necklace can mean many things,” he said.

  “And to us in the States, too,” I told him and wondered if he felt like giving me a pearl necklace, preferably within the following half an hour.

  From then on, the day was perfect.

  As we wandered between the artists on the square, he grabbed my wrist. Firmly.

  Sat me down in front on an easel and asked the man to sketch. The artist looked old, as if he’d been there since the days of Toulouse-Lautrec himself. The cigarette stayed at his lips as he talked and the beret on his head was tilted at such an angle that it looked like it was trying to escape without being noticed.

  As I feigned protest, he reached down to the neckline of my dress. Undid the top two buttons between my breasts to reveal a little more that I would normally show in public. I almost wished I’d worn a bra, but the wine meant I didn’t care as much as I should have.

  While the artist sketched with his pastels, my friend stood and watched. He’d look at me, then the picture and then back at me. I imagined him undressing me with his eyes, not that there was much undressing left to be done.

  As the pastels brushed the paper, I imagined my new friend stroking my hair, caressing my neck and letting his fingers snake down my body until it reached my pussy. The heat I felt down there owed nothing to the strong sun that was beating down on us from above.

  When the old man had finished, he turned the picture towards me.

  I could have fallen off my chair.

  I looked stunning. Like I was ten years younger and ready to start college or something.

  The way he’d seen me as was with a pink flush to my cheeks.

  I felt a real flush glow at my face when I looked down the picture. My dress was hanging open and he’d captured the shape of my breast and the space beneath like he was Henry Moore. There, just underneath the orange fabric of my dress, was the crescent moon of the side of my nipple. I wanted that nipple to be kissed.

  The men chatted, their babble like the music of a stream. The artist seemed to be giving the picture to my friend for nothing. My friend accepted with a regal grace, bowing his head modestly and bringing the picture back to me.

  The artist moved forward and kissed me on the left cheek, then the right, and backed away smiling.

  “Pour tu,” my friend said.

  “Mercie bien,” I replied. Those years of studying had clearly not been entirely wasted. “He gave that to you, didn’t he?”

  “Yes he did.” It was as if such things were a regular occurrence the way he took it into his ample stride. “These things happen.”

  “Not to me they don’t.”

  “It has something to do with working for the magazines.”

  “You’re famous?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Not exactly famous for what?”

  He slid his hands into his pockets. I looked down and them and then at the shapely hill between them.

  “Photography. I take photographs.”

  Maybe it was the heat or the wine or a combination of the two, but my mouth spoke before I’d had a chance to think. “Would you photograph me?”

  He smiled and stopped there on the pavement. A man carrying a rolled up carpet on his shoulder swerved by him and gave him a hard stare along with an explosion of colourful language.

  “It would be my pleasure.” And I was sure it was going to be mine, too.

  His flat was cool and dry. The rooms were small and were filled with antique furniture. Books were neatly arranged on tables, ornaments decorated shelves and impressionist paintings hung from the walls.

  The smell was of lavender mixed with the scents of Galoises and garlic mingling within.

  The slats of the wooden shutters let in a steady stream of light. Behind them window boxes full of herbs.

  As he walked me through to the bedroom, I admired the photographs on the walls of the hallway. There were all of women, beautiful shots of bodies and curves, of breast and buttocks clad in the finest of lingerie. Some of the faces I recognised. Film stars, I guess.

  When I got to the bed, I sat back.

  The mattress was firm underneath the soft give of the quilt.

  My friend turned his back on me as I kicked of my shoes. When he turned around again, he had a camera in his hand.

  He lifted it to his face, looked through the lens and pointed it at me.

  While he clicked, I performed like a girl down at the Moulin Rouge.

  First I undid the buttons on my dress until my breasts were almost completely exposed.

  Next, I raised the hem of my skirt, little by little until it had slipped up from my knees to reveal the lace edging of my panties.

  I wondered what I was doing. He hadn’t even asked me to pose. I guess it was what they call an organic moment.

  That was when he put the camera down.

  He came over and pushed me back on the bed.

  Without saying a word, he reached up to my neck and unclasped my necklace for the second time that day.

  He pulled it off slowly so that I could feel the tiny bumps of each pearl against my skin.

  He pulled it down to my cleavage and stroked the pearls over my breasts, rounding my nipples at first in a way that drove me wild, and then hitting the tiny, pink mountains so that they sent waves of pleasure through my system.

  Still he hadn’t touched me with his hands.

  As the necklace travelled over my stomach, I reached down to the hem of my dress and pulled the whole thing over my head in one.

  I noticed the goose-bumps all over my body. I wanted him to lick them.

  He ignored my wish.

  Instead he brushed the pearls over my arms, rubbing the inside of my elbows and my armpits as if knowing the sensitivity of these hollows.

  He threaded the necklace through my fingers then moved quickly over my panties and down
to my toes.

  My toes tingled with pleasure at the contact, as did the soles of my feet when he got there.

  That’s when I realised my eyes were closed.

  I opened them again when my lips parted to gasp.

  On the wall to my right, a huge black and white photograph mounted in a thin, wooden frame. In the centre was a woman’s cunt, the light catching in a drop of moisture which glistened at the top of her slit. Above her pubic line, her fingers were laced together with those of a man. I wondered who she was and whether the fingers were his. I wanted him to make me glisten in that way.

  As the pearls travelled up the inside of my thighs, I felt my panties being pulled from me. Once they were past my ankles and off, I parted my legs and invited him there.

  The pearls seemed to notice the invitation.

  They headed straight for me.

  They bobbled between my labia and up to my clit, bouncing over them and bringing every nerve ending to life.

  A vibrator couldn’t have done a better job.

  Up and down the pearls went, gentle then hard and everything in between.

  I wanted him inside me, and then forgot the urge as my thighs and stomach went into spasm.

  I forgot who I was. Where I came from. My name.

  All I knew was that this was bliss. The perfect moment in time.

  The warm tingles spread through my body again and again, throwing my body into the air and giving me the endless pleasure of the perfect sex.

  I felt my cunt’s heat radiate inside my thighs, felt the honey dew drip down onto my delicate skin.

  When it was over I shouted out. “Ooh la fucking la.” It was all I could think of.

  The camera was in his hands again.

  He took pictures of my pussy.

  I imagined myself glistening in the light that came across my body in straight lines through the blinds. Looked at the picture again and touched myself, wanting to be mounted on the wall.

  When the camera was down again, his hands moved to his belt and slipped the leather from its buckle.

  His trousers were off in one practised movement.

  I noticed his boxer shorts straining to hold him in.